Black Lightning (39 page)

“That’s it,” the psychiatrist said. “And you didn’t feel a thing, did you?”

Glen shook his head, his eyes fixed on the sheet of paper that had fed out of the machine. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Jacobson replied, tearing off the sheet. “Let’s have a look.” He studied the paper for a moment, then showed it to Glen.

All Glen could see were three lines, rising and falling in three distinct, different patterns. “Well?” he asked. “What does it mean?”

Jake Jacobson smiled at him reassuringly. “It means that so far your brain looks very normal. You’re not showing any major abnormalities, and unless the MRI turns up something different, I suspect you’re mostly simply suffering from stress. Which shouldn’t come as a shock, given the severity of your heart attack. Your whole life’s changed, and that is traumatic. But it’s not fatal.” He scribbled on a prescription form, tore the sheet off the pad, and handed it to Glen. “You can get this on your way home. It’s a tranquilizer you can use if you need it.” He led Glen back into his office. “The main thing is to just try to take it easy,” he said. “Tell you what—you dreamed about fishing, so
go
fishing! Then on Monday, we’ll take a look at the MRI, and I suspect we’ll have all the answers. All right?”

A sense of relief flooded over Glen. “Great.” He grinned weakly. “I was afraid you were going to want to put me back in the hospital.”

“Not likely,” Jacobson replied. “Whatever you may think, I don’t see you as a danger to yourself or anyone else. Just go home, relax, and have a good weekend. See you on Monday.”

Glen Jeffers left Jake Jacobson’s office intending to go directly to the pharmacy to fill the prescription.

Instead he started homeward, the very existence of the prescription obliterated from his memory.

Obliterated as completely as the memory of that terrible scream of agony he’d heard inside his skull when the electrodes attached to his scalp had been activated.…

CHAPTER 56

A
nne came home to an empty house, and searched in vain for a note telling her where Glen might have gone. There was nothing: no Post-it on the refrigerator, no message on the answering machine. So she was pretty sure he hadn’t gone too far, especially since his Saab was parked in its usual spot. At least the damn motor home hadn’t been able to displace
both
their cars! Then the front door slammed, and a moment later Kevin came through the dining room into the kitchen. Alone.

“Isn’t Heather with you?” Anne asked.

Kevin shook his head. “She’s over on Broadway, hangin’ with Rayette.”

Anne felt a stab of the same fear that had made her call the school that afternoon. She’d distinctly told Heather not to let Kevin walk home alone. Had Heather assumed she’d only meant yesterday? “Why didn’t you go with her?” she asked, trying not to let Kevin see how upset she was.

Her son, who was now poking around in the refrigerator, shrugged. “I did, but they weren’t doing anything, so I came home.” Then, with far more aplomb than Anne would have expected, he added, “That guy that killed Mrs. Cottrell is dead, isn’t he? So what’s the big deal if I was walking by myself?”

For a moment Anne wasn’t sure what to say. But then she wondered why she was surprised at Kevin’s composure—after all, for years her children had been dealing with kids who brought knives and guns to school, and she probably knew even better than most parents just how much violence and crime city kids were exposed to every day of their lives. “I think you and I better have a little talk,” she said.

Kevin rolled his eyes, but gave up his search for something to eat, and perched on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs.

“Just because the man who killed Mrs. Cottrell is dead doesn’t mean it’s safe for you to be wandering around by yourself. Until they find out who killed him—”

“Aw, Mom, come on,” Kevin groaned. “What are you gonna do, lock me up? What about that kid that got shot down by Garfield? You didn’t make me start hangin’ with Heather all the time then!”

Anne shuddered as she remembered the girl who’d been killed on the sidewalk in front of Garfield High. She had covered the case—a teenage hazing that up until a few years ago would never have resulted in anything more serious than hurt feelings.

Now kids got killed.

No one could even guarantee Kevin’s safety at school anymore—how could she expect to keep him safe simply by making him walk home with his sister every day? The ugly reality was that if someone was truly determined to kill—whether the intended victim was a total stranger, one of her kids, or even herself—there was virtually nothing she could do about it. Furthermore, Kevin was right—she certainly couldn’t just lock him up until whoever had killed Rory Kraven was caught. And if, through some bizarre circumstances she couldn’t even begin to understand, it turned out that Rory Kraven’s killer had actually committed all the crimes Richard Kraven had been accused of, then he’d already eluded identification for years; what made her think he wouldn’t be able to keep on doing it? She thought about the five transcripts of interviews she’d read that afternoon. Five out of 127. And she didn’t even know what she was looking for.

The sound of the front door opening and closing interrupted her thoughts, then Glen appeared in the kitchen doorway. The second she saw him, Anne felt her anger rising. Her anger, and her defenses, too. He’d known how frightened she was, how worried, since Kumquat had been found dead in the alley, but he’d just taken off somewhere without so much as a note or a message on the answering machine. She found herself looking at him in a way she never had before—searching his face for some clue as to what had gone wrong, what had changed him.

And whether he’d killed Kumquat?

The thought flashed unbidden into her mind; she banished it instantly, furious at herself for allowing Mark Blakemoor to have planted the seed of such an idea. And Glen looked all right—he was smiling; smiling the way he used to, before his heart attack. As he leaned over to kiss her, she felt her guard lowering a little.

“Hey, guy,” he said, straightening up from the kiss and rumpling Kevin’s hair. “Why the long faces? You two having a fight?”

“Mom thinks I should have to come home with Heather every day,” Kevin grumbled.

“I didn’t say that,” Anne began, then realized it was almost exactly what she had said, or at least implied. “All right, maybe I did. But just promise me you’ll be careful, okay? Stay away from strangers, and if you see anyone even looking at you, just walk away. Promise?” Kevin’s eyes rolled heavenward once more. “Promise?” Anne repeated.

“Do what your mom says, and I’ll take you fishing on Saturday.”

Instantly Kevin’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Really. I promise, if you promise.”

“I promise!” Kevin sang out. “Where?” he demanded. “Are we going to be gone all night? Can Justin go, too?”

“No, Justin can’t go.” Glen laughed. “It’s gonna be just you and me. And I don’t know where we’ll go. And maybe we’ll spend the night somewhere, and maybe we won’t, depending on what your mom thinks.”

As Kevin dashed out of the room to call Justin Reynolds and tell him how he was going to spend the weekend, Anne tamped down her irritation with her husband. What was going on? When had he decided to take Kevin fishing for the weekend? He certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about it to her, and until now they’d always discussed everything concerning the kids. Even before Heather was born, they’d resolved to make all the decisions together. “Don’t I have anything to say about this fishing trip?” she asked, abandoning the attempt to conceal her feelings. “And while you’re at it, you might tell me why you didn’t bother to leave me a note. After what’s been happening—”

“Hey,” Glen broke in, holding up his hands as if to fend off an attack of swarming bees. “Look, I’m really sorry I didn’t leave a note. I went down to see Gordy Farber, and it took a little longer than I thought it would.”

Anne’s anger instantly dissolved into concern. “What did he say?” she asked, hoping the doctor hadn’t told Glen he’d called him at her own urging.

“He said I’m doing just fine,” Glen replied, seeing no reason to worry her. Besides, both Farber and Jake Jacobson had told him to stop worrying, hadn’t they? “If I’d gotten home five minutes earlier, you wouldn’t even have known I’d been gone, would you?” He moved closer to her and drew her to her feet. “Come on, it wasn’t more than five minutes, was it?”

His arms drew her close to his chest, and Anne’s determination wavered. “It was closer to ten minutes,” she said, struggling to keep some kind of control over the situation. “And you still haven’t answered my question about this little trip with Kevin. We always talk about these things, remember?”

“How could I remember?” Glen asked. “I’ve never even considered taking Kevin fishing before.”

Now his lips were nuzzling at her neck, and part of Anne wanted to push him away, while the other part wanted to snuggle closer. “Glen, wait,” she protested, but his embrace only tightened. “Oh, God, what am I going to do with you?” she sighed, her anger collapsing under a wave of affection for the man she’d married.

Anne was still in Glen’s arms when Boots trotted into the room. The little dog started toward Glen but stopped abruptly, one foreleg hovering off the floor. A tiny growl emerged from his throat and his hackles rose.

Then, his eyes still fixed on Glen, he slowly backed away.

CHAPTER 57

R
olph Gustafson and Lars Gunderson had been fishing buddies for more than seven decades, ever since they’d grown up next door to each other in Ballard, where they’d thrown their first lines into the ship canal that separated their neighborhood from the main part of Seattle just to the south. Back then they’d dreamed about all the places they would go to when they grew up, but it turned out that they both still lived in Ballard—a block apart now, but not more than two blocks from the houses in which they’d grown up. They were both widowers, both still talked about going to Norway to look up cousins they’d never met, and both still loved to fish. The main thing that had changed over the seven decades was that they now preferred to cast their lines in the mountain streams to the east of the city rather than in the canal that bisected it. This morning—as on practically every Saturday morning since Lars’s wife had died three years earlier—they set out before dawn, their fishing gear stowed in the backseat of Rolph’s old Dodge, coffee and doughnuts balanced on Lars’s knees. By the time they had crossed the I-90 bridge and began the climb up toward Snoqualmie Pass, they were already arguing about where to try their luck today.

As on every other Saturday morning, Rolph turned off at the Snoqualmie exit while Lars grumbled that they really ought to go farther on, and then as they made their way through the town, past the power plant and falls, and started down the road that wound along the river, they launched into their discussion of the merits of trying out a few of the holes they’d heard of over the years but never quite gotten around to fishing. The debate was still going strong as Rolf pulled into the same campground they’d been fishing out of for years, parked the car, and got out. He began extracting fishing equipment from the tangle of possessions that had been filling the backseat since his own wife had died, only two months before Lars’s Greta had gone to her reward. “Hildie’d kill me if she saw this,” Rolf sighed, eying the accumulation of junk that now completely filled the floor of the backseat.

“Yeah, sure,” Lars replied. “But that don’t mean you wouldn’t want her back, huh?”

Grunting under the weight of their equipment, the two old men started along the trail that wound down from the picnic area where they’d parked Rolf’s Dodge to the edge of the river. There was a wide bend at the foot of the trail, and even at the peak of the spring floods there was still a narrow rocky beach. The snow-pack had been light this year, though, and the thaw early, so today the beach would be wide.

They were halfway down when Lars stopped short, his eyes fixing on something that lay half concealed in the thick underbrush. “Oh, boy,” he said, whistling softly. “Would you look at that. Don’t think there’s going to be much fishing today.”

He moved off to the right as Rolf edged up next to him. For a long moment the two old men stared at the nude body that lay sprawled in the bushes, arms akimbo, empty eye sockets gaping grotesquely.

The body was still recognizable as that of a woman, but already it appeared to have provided meals for several kinds of wildlife. The chest had been torn open, and it looked as though something had been gnawing at one of the arms and the legs. Insects were swarming over the corpse, and even as they watched, something skittered out from under the body and disappeared into the underbrush. As Lars took a step toward the body, Rolf’s gnarled hand closed on his friend’s elbow. “Don’t think we ought to be touchin’ nothin’,” he said. “Seems to me like we ought to just be calling the police.”

Lars, who had enough experience with dead bodies back in World War II to last him whatever years he had left, nodded his agreement. The two men returned to the campground, found a phone, and dialed 911. Then they sat in the front seat of the Dodge to wait for the sheriff to arrive. Lars uncapped the thermos and split the last of the coffee between them.

Sipping their coffee, the two old men quietly reflected on the impermanence of life and the myriad ways there were to die. It was Rolf who finally broke the silence. “When my time comes,” he said, “I think I’d just as soon drown in the river with a big fish on my line.”

“Yeah, sure,” Lars agreed. “You bet’cha!”

By the time the first police car pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later, neither Lars nor Rolf had been able to think of much else to say.

For the next few hours cars continued to stream into the campground, first from the local sheriff’s office in Snoqualmie, then from the State Patrol, finally from the Homicide Department of the Seattle Police Department. Neither Mark Blakemoor nor Lois Ackerly were in the best of moods. Blakemoor had been up most of the night—and the night before—combing through the police records in exactly the same kind of search Anne Jeffers was conducting through her files at the
Herald
. Lois Ackerly, on the other hand, had been getting ready for her son’s soccer game when she’d gotten the message that a body had been found in one of the campgrounds along the Snoqualmie River.

“Well, we’ve been here before,” Blakemoor observed darkly as they started down the trail toward the site Lars Gunderson and Rolf Gustafson had stumbled upon as the sun was rising that morning.

“And the locals are doing their usual terrific job of securing the site,” Ackerly agreed. “Do you suppose anyone thought of looking for footprints before they started tramping up and down the path?”

Blakemoor shrugged. “If it’s what we both think it is, there aren’t going to be any footprints anyway. Or anything else.”

As the two detectives drew closer, they could see that the area had been marked off with yellow plastic crime scene tape. One of the State Patrol officers glanced over, recognized them, and nodded a terse greeting. “I thought we were done with this stuff,” he said, tilting his head toward the body. Blakemoor followed his gaze and noted with relief that it did not appear to have been moved yet.

“We all did,” Blakemoor replied. He moved closer to the body, squatting down to get a clear look at it. “Anyone have any idea how long it’s been here?” he asked of no one in particular.

“Offhand, it looks like a day or two. Maybe since yesterday morning, or the day before. It’s not too badly decomposed yet, but it’s been getting chewed on. Fulla bugs, too.”

Mark Blakemoor’s gaze was instantly drawn to the mutilation done to the corpse’s chest. There were the familiar cuts, the skin having been laid neatly back after being incised by a scalpel or something equally as sharp.

The sternum cut with a saw.

The rib cage spread wide to expose the lungs and heart.

The heart torn away, as always, and, in this case, missing entirely. Kept by the killer as a souvenir? Or taken by some foraging animal? More likely the latter—if this fit what had been called the Kraven pattern up until now, the killer wasn’t interested in souvenirs.

He was, however, interested in leaving signatures.

“Photo guys through?” he asked.

“They burned enough film to make a movie,” someone said.

Carefully, Blakemoor moved one of the lungs enough to get a look at the interior of the dorsal surface of the thoracic cavity.

The moment he saw the familiar form of the lightning bolts that had been etched into the pleura, he glanced up at Lois Ackerly and nodded almost imperceptibly. Easing the lung back into the position in which he’d found it, he forced himself to look at the victim’s face.

A woman; at least in her sixties, maybe older. In death her skin, already sagging, had gone slack, and the thick layer of makeup she’d worn when she died had been reduced by the elements to dark streaks of mascara under her empty eye sockets; a stain of rouge still clung to one of her cheeks.

Her hair, the too-dark black of someone desperately pretending that the date on her birth certificate was a grotesque error, had broken out of its prison of hairpins and holding spray and was spread around her face in a mud-and-blood-spattered halo. But despite the depredations of the elements, the animals, and time, Mark Blakemoor recognized her almost immediately.

Getting to his feet, he turned to Lois Ackerly. “This is getting weirder and weirder. First he kills Richard Kraven’s brother, now he kills his mother. What the hell is going on?”

Lois Ackerly gazed expressionlessly at the body. “I don’t get it—first he sets up Richard Kraven, then waits until he’s executed, and goes after the brother and the mother. How come?”

Mark Blakemoor’s lips curved into a dark smile. “I don’t know, either, but at least he’s giving us a pattern this time,” he said. “And with a pattern, we can find him. Let’s get to work.” He began issuing orders, organizing a systematic search of the entire area, although he was pretty sure that, as ever, the killer had cleaned up after himself, leaving nothing in the area that would lead anyone back to him. Still, the search had to be made. Sooner or later even this killer would make a mistake.

And when he did, Mark Blakemoor intended to be the one to find it.