Say Goodbye (23 page)

“So he carries it away from the road,” Sal stated.

“Body’s heavy,” Kimberly supplied. “A grown woman is a good hundred-plus pounds of deadweight. Even in a fireman’s hold, that’s tough.”

“He walks downhill?” Sal guessed.

Again Quincy shook his head. “Anything disposed of below can be seen from above, especially in the winter when the leaves are off the trees. This is a popular destination for hunting, hiking, camping, fishing. That’s lots of people trampling through these woods, even in supposedly remote locations. Safest choice is high ground. Above the trails, where others don’t tread.”

Sal looked at the three of them. “I don’t get it.”

“He has help,” Kimberly said softly. “The older boy would be my guess. Whether he’s involved in the killing or not, I’m not sure. We didn’t hear anyone else on the tape. But at the very least, the teenager helps dispose of the bodies. One man walking alone on the trails late at night is suspicious. A father and son on the other hand…”

“They’re out camping,” Sal filled in.

“Explains the large pack they’re carrying, or perhaps pulling on a trundle behind them.”

“Shit,” Sal said tiredly and put his hand over his eyes.

“It would take them hours,” Rainie spoke up, peering into the woods with a keen look on her face. “They’d need tools—rope, burlap, shovel, pick. Then food, water, first-aid kit, compass, the basics. Kimberly’s right; to do what they need to do, Dinchara’s well stocked. Meaning if he’s not buying locally, he has a place all set up.”

“The younger boy,” Kimberly murmured.

“Exactly,” Rainie said, following her train of thought. “The waitress at the Smith House hadn’t seen him, which implies he’s left behind. Maybe he’s too young yet, would slow them down. So they leave the younger boy someplace, then Dinchara and the older boy head off to complete their nightly chores.”

“He’s gotta have a home nearby. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Maybe the girls are even alive when they’re brought up here. Imagine one of those little cabins we drove by, all alone in the woods. Even if a girl screamed all night, or happened to get away, who would hear her, where would she go? A cabin solves so many problems.”

“We can check tax records,” Sal spoke up. “Anyone who purchased homes around Dahlonega or Suches in the past five years. Cross-reference those names with the receipts from the Smith House for Columbus Day weekend.”

“And chase employment,” Quincy prodded. “If they’re up here enough, Dinchara’s going to need money. At least in my day, fifty percent of a single prostitute’s earnings wasn’t that much. So he either has a string of girls you haven’t learned about yet, or another source of income. Given what we know about him, he would make an excellent wilderness guide or—”

They all got it at the same time, “Forestry Service employee!”

“Would give him all the knowledge and access he needs of the back roads of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Even a built-in excuse if he ever did get caught. Not to mention he’d know when others were due to conduct surveys in areas where he’d disposed of bodies, allowing him to either move the corpse or perhaps redirect the survey.”

“Ah crap, I am never going hiking again,” Sal said tiredly.

“We should visit the fish hatchery tomorrow,” Kimberly said.

“Yeah, got that.”

“Get some property records from the town, find out who we can meet from the Chattahoochee National Forest.”

“Yep, yep, yep.”

Rainie was still walking around the muddy turnoff point. “You know what I find surprising?” she asked now.

They all turned toward her.

“It’s February. The leaves are off the trees and you still can’t see more than three feet ahead. I mean, look at these mountain laurels—they’re the size of small homes. Then there’s the grasses, the downed logs, the copses of white pine. In any other woods, you’d be able to peer through the trees for twenty, thirty yards. But not here. Hell, I grew up in the woods and even I’m creeped out.”

“On that note,” Sal muttered, yanking at his rain-soaked collar, “can we please get back in the car?”

“Okay,” Kimberly agreed, “but next stop is Wal-Mart. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re all soaked to the bone. What are we supposed to wear tomorrow to the fish hatchery?”

“We’re spending another night?” Sal grumbled.

“You got anyplace better to be?”

They went to Wal-Mart.

THIRTY-THREE

“To compensate for their weaknesses, spiders have evolved an array of weapons, tactics, and freakish mutations that bring to mind a tiny band of supervillains.”

FROM “SPIDER WOMAN,”
BY BURKHARD BILGER,
New Yorker,
MARCH
5, 2007

MAC CALLED HER SHORTLY AFTER DINNER. KIMBERLY had just returned to her room at the Smith House, thinking for once that elastic waistbands were the best invention of the modern world. She had devoured nearly an entire fried chicken, a pound of okra, and two servings of cheesecake and yet her pants felt expansive, even roomy, as Baby McCormack engaged in her nightly game of kick Mommy’s spleen.

Rainie and Quincy had already retired for the night, but Kimberly was keyed up, agitated in the way that came right before a case blew open and she could finally see the answer that had been waiting for her all along. Her hotel room was good-sized, tucked under the eaves of the old building to form a long L, perfect for restless pacing. She went from the king-size bed to the desk to the bed and back again, her hands rubbing the sides of her swollen belly, her thoughts churning over and over. If Sandy Springs was Dinchara’s hunting grounds, then Dahlonega was his lair. Any day now, they would search the right records, interview the right person, and the last piece of the puzzle would click into place. They would find Ginny Jones, the missing girls, Dinchara himself. They would—

Cell phone rang, displaying Mac’s number. Immediately, she stopped pacing, her stomach cramping nervously. That pissed her off enough to swipe up the phone and declare loudly, “Kimberly.”

Static, three clicks, an echoey buzz. “It’s…me.”

“Hi, honey,” she said with more force than was necessary.

“Where…are you?”

“Dahlonega still. Have a few last visits to make first thing in the morning.”

“…weather?”

“Raining cats and dogs. You?”

“…gotta go out…special assignment…back…tomorrow morning.”

“What’s that? Reception sucks. Can you try a different spot?”

She thought she heard crunching feet. More sounds in the background, like men shouting orders. Then she put it together. The late hours, his special assignment. Mac and the narcotics squad were about to deploy, most likely to raid a suspected drug house or meth lab. And he was calling now because that’s what spouses did right before donning their flak vests and heading out. They made that last call home, buttoning up their personal life. Just in case.

The baby fluttered against the palm of her hand, and Kimberly sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Where?” she whispered.

“Can’t…talk. Later…in the morning.”

“Is SWAT coming?”

“Full…deployment.”

“Mac…” She should say something. Anything. But for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what. And all at once, she was aware of the distance that still loomed between them. The unanswered questions, the unbroken silences.

She wished she were home. It didn’t seem right to do this over the phone. They should be in their house, where she could hold him tight enough that he could feel the baby kick. Where he could whisper in her ear that he loved her and she could feel the tickle of his breath upon her skin as she spread her fingers over the beating of his heart. Life can change in an instant. A loved one could walk out the door and never come home again. She knew these things. She visited the tombstones twice a year to make sure she never forgot.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

“Al…ays.”

“You’ll call?”

“Try…to…home?”

“Tomorrow afternoon maybe. We need to visit the fish hatchery, trace some records.”

“…feeling?”

“Baby’s happy. I can feel her stronger now, moving around more. Oh, she’s a carnivore. I’m finally allowed to eat meat.”

His chuckle faded in and out over the spotty connection. It brought him closer to her, so that she could picture the crinkles that appeared at the corner of his eyes, the half curve of his smile.

“I love you,” she said.

“…love you, too.”

Then the phone beeped and the call was dropped. She didn’t try to reconnect. Mac needed to do what he needed to do. And she…

She sat alone in her hotel room, wondering why, if she loved her husband so much, he felt so far away. At what point did distance go from being a marital phase to a new state of the universe? And what was a stubborn, hardheaded person like herself supposed to do about it?

Baby McCormack quivered. Kimberly rubbed her belly, listening to the wind outside howl across the parking lot, rattle the windows.

She put on her coat and headed out.

She found Sal sitting on the covered porch, tucked away from the wind, watching the wind swirl sheets of rain around the streetlights. Kimberly took a seat without asking, telling herself she had not sought out Sal on purpose. That was not why she left her room. This was not what it was about.

For his part, Sal didn’t seem to be in the mood for talking. He simply watched the storm, his face set in the dark, brooding look she recognized from before. His thoughts had taken him to an unhappy place. She wondered how long he’d been there.

“You ate chicken,” he said presently. “Thought the baby didn’t like meat.”

Kimberly shrugged. “Baby changed her mind. More evidence it’s a female.”

He finally turned to look at her, his gaze dropping to her rounded belly.

“Are you nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“Gonna work after the baby’s born?”

“That’s the plan.”

He regarded her more curiously. “Do you think it will change you? I mean, first time you’re called out for a homicide involving children, or a child abduction case, or the sex slave rings, or arson, or any of the other shit out there in the world that touches young lives and breaks them. Won’t that be tough?”

“There, but for the grace of God, go I,” she murmured.

“Not good enough,” he said flatly. “You’re ERT, right? You get to recover the body. Then what, go home to little Janey and pretend you can wash the smell off your hands, let alone erase the image from your mind?”

“It’s what I do now.”

“No little Janey.”

“Theoretically, little Janey is a bundle of joy. Why should a good thing make the rest of the world harder to bear?”

He scowled at her, clearly not expecting that argument. After a moment, when he couldn’t come up with a retort, he went back to watching it storm. And after another moment, she reached over, picked up his hand, and placed it on her stomach just in time for Baby McCormack to give a little
thump
.

Sal jerked back his hand, sat up straight. “Holy crap!”

“Pretty strong, huh?” Kimberly said.

“What is she, Mia Hamm?”

“Maybe.” Kimberly shrugged. “Dunno. She can be anything she wants. I think that’s the point. You ever hear of the banality of evil, Sal?”

“Banality of evil?”

“Yeah. A psychologist did an experiment once. Took a group of clean-cut young men, all known for their high moral standards, and had them form a mock prison. Some became inmates, some became prison guards. They tried to make it as lifelike as possible, had the ‘guards’ arrest the ‘prisoners’ during class, that sort of thing. The experiment was supposed to last a few weeks. If memory serves, the professor had to pull the plug after just three days because the pseudo inmates started suffering nervous breakdowns due to the very real abuse they were experiencing at the hands of the pseudo guards, including being stripped, debased, and sexually abused. All this by young men who’d never done so much as shoplift. Basically, even good people do really bad things if they think no one cares. The banality of evil.”

Sal grunted. “You’re talking about the Nazis.”

“I’m talking about human nature. That everyone has inside him-or herself the capacity for evil. Some people will never act on it, others will definitely act on it, and still others will act on it only if the right circumstances present themselves. They’ll make it twenty, thirty, forty years being a fine, upstanding citizen. But then the forty-first year…”

“How is that an encouraging thought?”

She shrugged. “Who said I was being encouraging? It’s a fact of life. And just because I’m about to become a mother, doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to stick my head in the sand. The world is a hard place. People suck. Monsters do live under the bed—or, frankly, in Daddy’s room down the hall. But you know what?”

“If I kill myself now, it won’t hurt as much later?”

“There’s a corollary to the banality of evil, and that’s the banality of heroism.”

Sal groaned. “Please tell me you’re not talking Superman.”

“Actually, I’m talking the opposite of Superman. I’m talking about the Everyday Average Joe that one day, when the right circumstances present themselves, suddenly saves the day. The stranger on the subway platform who jumps down to assist the fallen commuter. The woman shopping in the store who not only notices the sad little girl, but calls the police. For every act of cruelty, there is an equal and opposing act of courage. That’s human nature, too.”

“Your mother and sister are murdered,” Sal said softly, “so you save the rest of the world?”

“I don’t need you to tell me my story, Sal. I know who I am.”

Sal flushed. His gaze returned to the storm, but his hands were fidgeting on his lap.

“I’m not quitting, Mac. It’s not what I do.”

“You just called me Mac.”

“I did not—” But then she caught herself, realized she had, and it was her turn to flush. She didn’t know what she was doing anymore. She should return to her room. She should do something.

But she remained where she was, sitting next to Sal, watching his hands fidget, feeling the darkness wash off him in waves.

And it occurred to her for the first time—the banality of evil. Was that what she was doing here? Waiting for the right circumstances to present themselves so she could do what she knew she shouldn’t do? Touch Sal’s face? Turn him toward her? Find his lips with her own because something in him called out to something in her? The hurt, or maybe it was the rage. The need, the deep, endless need because something had gone wrong long ago and there was nothing that could be done about it now but nurse the wound.

She wanted him. Or at least was drawn to him. It startled her. Scared her. She thought of another psychology paper she had analyzed in college. That most people didn’t require the cruelty of strangers to screw up their lives; most people were perfectly capable of doing it themselves.

Sal had turned. He was studying her, his eyes unreadable in the dark. She could feel his hunger, taut, restrained.

And then the lightning cracked, illuminating the small alcove with a flashing wink before casting them back into shadow. She saw his face, stark with physical need. And she heard her husband’s voice, telling her he would be home in the morning. The thunder boomed. Sal leaned forward. She tilted her head up.

“I’m sorry,” Kimberly whispered.

She got up, clenched her hands into fists, and quickly walked away.

Her room was dark when she opened the door. She fumbled for the light switch, flipped it, but nothing happened. She entered, closing the door behind her, starting to tremble now with the aftermath of what she’d nearly done, feeling supremely rattled. She was not that kind of woman. She did not do those kinds of things.

Goddammit, when had she become such a basket case?

She made her way to the bed, reaching for the bedside lamp when she suddenly heard a warning hiss and realized she was no longer alone.

Something significant, black, skittered across her bed. She reached instinctively for her shoulder holster, then remembered that she’d disarmed for dinner. She grabbed the lamp, throwing it at the racing form as she fell back, hitting the wall. She slid along its length until she banged into the desk at the opposite end of the room. Her fingers found the desk light, scrambling for the switch, while across the room, she once again heard the primitive hiss.

She snapped on the lamp in time to register two things at once: The world’s largest, scariest damn spider was reared back on its hind legs on her bedside pillow, waving its fangs. And a teenage boy sat calmly beside it, holding a gun.

“Who the fuck are you?” Kimberly exploded. Belatedly, she glanced at her field kit where she’d stashed her Glock .40. Eight steps away max. But she’d lose another minute unzipping the bag, reaching in, retrieving her semiautomatic…

Her gaze ping-ponged to the door instead. Ten steps away max, but then twisting the knob, yanking it open, getting all the way clear…

She returned her attention to the boy. He sat calmly, gun level, hands steady, still not saying a word.

She tried an experimental step forward. Moment she moved, the oversize tarantula reared back and hissed again. She stopped; it dropped back on all eight legs, waiting.

“Who are you?” she tried again, eyes on the spider, but head angled toward the boy. “What do you want?”

“His name is Diablo,” the boy supplied conversationally. “He’s a
Theraphosa blondi
—a species of tarantula from South America. Most tarantulas don’t have enough venom to harm humans. Their bites feel like nothing more than a bee sting. Not Diablo. He’s capable of ripping off your fingers, tearing the flesh from your hands. He hasn’t had dinner yet, and as you can tell, he’s a little pissed off about it.”

Kimberly’s hands dropped in front of her rounded belly. Field kit, she thought again. Quick dash, unzip the bag, reach inside for her weapon…No dice. Kid could pull the trigger of his gun in a split second. And the spider…She didn’t want to think about it.

“You’re the caller,” she ventured. “The one who had me listen to Veronica Jones’s tape.”

“I tried,” the boy said flatly. “I gave you a chance. You failed.”

“I’m here now. We can talk.”

The boy merely waved his gun. “I didn’t come to talk, lady. I came to graduate.”

Kimberly contemplated the door this time. If she could just inch to the side, get close enough…

“Does Dinchara know you’ve escaped?”