The Body in the Woods (15 page)

The inside of her head felt bruised and slushy, like someone had stuck a spoon in there and stirred. He had made her some Kahlua and cream earlier. She must have drunk more than she remembered. She made herself get out of bed. The world canted, and Tiffany had to brace herself against the bedpost until the dizziness passed. Then she ran her hands over the wall—as smooth and cool as the sheets—until she located the light switch. She flipped it up and stood blinking in the light.

Even the cheapest hotel rooms usually had bad framed prints on the wall. Here there was nothing. Just ivory-colored walls, tan-colored flat carpeting, and a big white bed, now smudged in places from her clothes. This guest room was more sterile than a hotel room. So sterile that she could smell herself.

She got down on her knees, ignoring how it made her head spin, and looked under the bed. Nothing. She pulled aside the small table that held only a lamp. Her phone was definitely gone. Still, she checked the pockets of her jeans and hoodie one more time.

Tiffany didn't know what time it was. Late. Maybe three in the morning. Finally she turned off the light and prepared to tiptoe down the hall. Had he taken it? But why would he want it? It was at least three generations behind, awkward and heavy compared to the phones rich people had. And he was rich. He threw away food without thinking about it, had big piles of new hardcover books, and kept the house as warm as if was spring outside, not closing in on winter.

Two days ago, three of her brother's friends had caught her digging in the big Dumpster outside Safeway, looking for food. It had been one of the lowest moments of the last few months, and there were many to choose from. But Tiffany could tell by the expression in their eyes that they thought this was absolutely the worst thing she had ever done. They didn't know she broke into cars, sometimes just to sleep, sometimes to steal iPods, laptops, or GPS units she could sell. They didn't know she couldn't shoplift from stores anymore—she stank so bad, everyone knew she was homeless. They didn't know she was on heroin and any Xanax or Valium she could steal. They didn't know that she had once found a gun in a shopping cart under the freeway and thought about killing herself, before hiding it in some bushes and making herself walk away.

Her brother's friends were good boys, though. One of them pressed three limp dollars bills into her hand and told her to buy herself something to eat at Mickey D's. She hadn't even had to ask for money, although she was getting pretty good at it by now. The combination of her baby face and a sign that read
TRYING TO GET HOME
usually worked, bringing her pity and a few bucks.

Sometimes people just gave her food, like they were doing her a favor, but what she really needed was money. For drugs, sure, but for other stuff, too. Could she trade a hamburger for tampons? Or credit on her cell phone? Tri-met bus fare? You couldn't buy toothpaste or socks or a comb with a hamburger. All you could do was eat it. You couldn't even save it for later.

Tiffany crept down the hall. Had she left her phone in the bathroom?

When she got to the end, her eyes caught a faint glow downstairs.

It was the man. He had told her to call him Mr. Smith. He was sitting at the dining room table. In front of him was her phone. He was bent over it, occasionally tapping his index finger.

Her phone was personal. More personal than Tiffany's body, which hardly felt like it belonged to her anymore. But her texts, her emails, her photos, her contacts, her notes—those were hers, and hers alone.

“What are you doing with my phone?” She had meant to say it in a voice that would echo through the whole house, but instead it came out little more than a whisper. “Give it back.”

He barely turned to glance up at her, then went back to looking at her phone. She made it down the stairs—holding tight to the handrail for balance—and went up to him with her hand outstretched.

With a swipe of his finger, he made whatever he had been looking at disappear.

“What was that? What's on my phone that I don't know about?”

“Nothing that hurt you.” His expression was pleasant. Benign. “Just a little tracker, that's all.”

It took Tiffany a moment to figure out what he meant. Why were her thoughts so muddy? So muddled?

“Wait … you've been tracking me?”

“I'm interested in homeless girls. Where they go during the day, where they congregate, where they sleep.”

“I'm not ‘girls.' I'm me.”

“Yes, but you're still part of a larger class.”

“You could just ask, you know?” Tiffany tried to look haughty, but her face didn't feel like it was entirely within her control.

He tilted his head, regarding her calmly. “But would you tell me the truth? Always?”

“No. Because it's none of your business.” Tiffany refused to let another person own her. She chose what she let other people see, other people know, other people touch.

“Right. Which is why I slipped a little piece of software into your phone. So I could see where you go, where you sleep. Your habits, diurnal and nocturnal. And don't worry, it's gone. I just deleted it.”

“Okay,” Tiffany said, not sure if it was. Not sure what to say. She held out her hand again.

He stood up and gave her the phone with one hand. With the other, he slipped a cord around her neck and stepped behind her.

Tiffany didn't even have time to be surprised.

CHAPTER 29

SUNDAY

HIS NEXT VICTIM

Ruby's parents thought she was spending the night with Alexis. It was even sort of true.

“I'm glad you guys can still be friends,” her mom had said.

Ruby hadn't met her eyes, but then again, Ruby hardly looked anyone straight in the eye. She was playing the role of Good Daughter, obedient, dutiful, grateful.

Now it was 6:47
A.M.
, and after hiking all night, nearly everyone in the SAR van was asleep. Even Jon was out, slumped against the front passenger side window. From the back seat where she sat between Alexis and Nick, Ruby was keeping an eye on Chris's driving. He seemed to still have appropriate reflexes. But at sixty-five miles an hour, things could go south very fast. To soothe herself, she ran her finger up and down the seam of her Gore-Tex hiking pants.

She had thought Alexis was asleep too, but then the other girl spoke in a whisper. “I saw that they arrested that guy. The one we identified.”

“And they had our pictures in the paper,” Nick whispered from the other side of Ruby.

Their three heads were now so close together that Ruby could smell their breaths. She was chewing Japanese sour-melon-flavored gum, so she hoped hers smelled better than theirs did.

“What if it wasn't him?” she asked.

“Who else would it be?” Alexis screwed up her face. “We know he was there, and we know he had a reason to kill her.”

“And remember how nervous he seemed?” Nick added.

“I'm not saying he wasn't growing pot,” Ruby whispered. “That could explain the nervousness. But killing a girl, that's a very different kind of crime.”

She had tried to picture it. Miranda hiking up the trail, somehow finding the marijuana plants. Maybe she had heard Adams talking to someone and followed the sound of his voice. And then at some point, something had gone terribly wrong, and he had slipped the cord of that duffel bag around her neck, pulling it tighter and tighter while she dug her fingers into her own flesh, trying to escape.

“I did find out something weird about Miranda today.” Alexis looked at the time on her phone and let out a little bark of a laugh. “I guess I mean yesterday.”

“What?” Ruby's heartbeat quickened.

“I heard that she was an oogle.”

“What's an oogle?” Nick whispered.

“Kids who like to pretend they're homeless.”

“
Homeless?
” Ruby forgot to keep her voice down. Alexis frowned, but no one else in the van stirred. Only Chris glanced in the rearview mirror and then back at the freeway.

“Then that makes two.” She straightened up. “Just like the girl in Washington Park I told you about. Detective Harriman said she didn't have anything in common with Miranda Wyatt. But if you're right, that means there are two dead homeless girls.”

“But she only
pretended
she was homeless,” Alexis said.

Ruby's mind was whirling with possibilities. In her gut, she knew this was more than a coincidence. “A killer might not be able to tell the difference between a real homeless girl and one who's pretending.”

“Wait a second. Can we go back to the beginning?” Nick asked. “What was that word you said again? And why would anyone want to pretend to be homeless?”

“I guess real homeless people call kids who pretend they're homeless oogles.” Alexis shrugged. “As for why, I don't really get it. Maybe she was bored. Maybe she thought it was cool. Or maybe she was just trying to make some money panhandling. Have you guys seen her Facebook page?”

“I tried,” Ruby said, remembering her frustration, “but I couldn't see more than that she had a Facebook account.”

“Me too,” Nick agreed.

“I could see more because a couple of kids who go to my school used to go to hers, so we have some mutual ‘friends.'” Alexis made air quotes. “Alder Grove is basically a school for rich kids who aren't doing that well. They don't give grades, and it's pretty much impossible to get kicked out, because then they would lose your tuition payments. So Miranda might have been able to hang out downtown in the middle of the day, pretending to be homeless, and the school might not even have told her parents she wasn't in class.”

“So what
was
on her Facebook page?” Ruby asked, her pulse quickening.

“My phone can't go on Facebook.” Alexis held out her hand. “Give me your phone and I'll show you.”

Ruby dug it out of her pocket and handed it over. Alexis typed and clicked and finally handed it back. Nick looked over Ruby's shoulder. He sucked in his breath when she clicked on the photo of the dead girl in black bra and panties, her hands raised in what might be a gang signal. The next picture showed Miranda standing in an abandoned house, garbage on the floor, tags on the wall, a brown bottle of some sort of liquor tilted to her lips. At least in this photo she had all her clothes on. Ruby scrolled through photo after photo, but like Nick, she couldn't understand why it would appeal to anyone. It all looked dirty and stupid and pointless.

“But why would she be in Forest Park?” Ruby focused on Miranda's slack face. She remembered the wind rustling through the leaves, the birds calling, the light slanting between the trunks. “A girl like Miranda Wyatt would never go to Forest Park on her own.”

Nick shook his head. “She might not have been the kind of girl to go on hikes, but she so looks like the kind of girl who might be interested in scoring some free weed.”

“And be willing to walk three or four miles to steal it?” Alexis countered. “When it's sold all over downtown and probably at her school?”

“And if she stole the pot, wouldn't the newspaper have said so?” Ruby asked, remembering the article. “All it said was that they thought she must have stumbled over the marijuana grow. But it has to have been pretty well hidden, since it sounds like it's been there a long time and no one else has found it.”

“Maybe somebody showed her the way?” Nick said.

“But who would do that except that Jay Adams guy?” Ruby said. “And why would he show it to her and then strangle her? It doesn't make sense. And if he really killed her because she stumbled over it, it seems like he would have done it right at the grow. Why do it by the trail where her body was more likely to be found? And just think, there were no drag marks, no signs of a struggle. Nothing but that one footprint by her.” Ruby bit her lip, resisting the urge to complain again.

“Maybe Adams carried her,” Nick said. “He's a big guy, remember?”

Alexis had fallen silent, had not even seemed to be following their last few exchanges. Now she sat forward, her voice suddenly urgent. “So, Ruby, do you really think there's someone out there killing homeless girls? Someone else?”

“It's certainly indicative of a pattern.” And serial killers were all about patterns.

“Because you know that guy we saw with the two dogs? The one who was running?”

Nick smiled at the mention of the dogs, but Ruby grew more alert. “Yes?”

“I saw him yesterday, downtown at the bus mall. And he was arguing with this one girl with black hair and tattoos on her face. I don't know for sure, but she looked homeless.”

Ruby went absolutely still, remembering the leash in the runner's pocket. Remembering the red furrow around the dead girl's neck.

“Whoa,” Nick said. “We should talk to Harriman.”

Ruby shook her head. “I've tried talking to him. As far as he's concerned, he's got the right guy. And just because Alexis saw the runner arguing with some homeless girl downtown, that's not going to be enough to change his mind. We're going to have to bring him proof.”

“And how exactly are we going to do that?” Nick asked.

The answer had already popped into Ruby's head. “My dad's a runner. He runs the same route at the same time every night. From what I've seen, a lot of runners are that way. And those two dogs must need to be exercised every day. If we went back to the same spot at the same time on the same day of the week as when we first met him, I think there's a good chance we would see him again.”

Nick nodded. “And then we could ask him a few questions.”

“And how's that going to work?” Alexis said in a tone even Ruby could tell was sarcastic. “You're going to say, ‘Are you the serial killer?' and he's going to say, ‘Why, yes, I am!' I don't think so.”