Apocalypse Island (29 page)

“Sure,” Wolf said standing. Actually he was major psyched. His weekend was free. He wouldn’t have to hear any more accusations until Monday.

Chapter 66

Laura scanned the alley behind Wolf’s apartment building. There wasn’t much to see. Dirty brick walls, fire escapes, soiled windows, barred doors. It occurred to her that alleys were lonely places, dingy ecosystems, the forgotten territories of modern cities. A trash dumpster squatted beneath Wolf’s fire escape landing like a hulking green monster. Nervous, she went over and checked behind it. There was nothing there, of course. Just the same, she didn’t like how its close proximity made her feel.
You’re just spooked, girl,
she told herself.
You’re about to break into someone’s apartment. This is uncharted territory for you.
Moving away from the dumpster she felt better almost immediately. Her gaze trailed up to the second floor and fixed on the window at the top of the landing. Everything looked surprisingly normal.

Her heart still hadn’t settled down following her conversation with Rick Jennings. She’d learned something startling today, something she’d never bargained on when Rick had requested her presence here on this case. Her father’s death ten years ago was in some way connected to this present case. She didn’t know how yet, and she was nearly certain that Jennings didn’t have a clue, but Laura’s instincts told her that it was so, and she would get to the bottom of it, somehow, before it was over.

And Cavanaugh, the very detective that was assigned to Wolf, the very same detective that had been involved in Wolf’s life for more than five years had been her father’s partner. Coincidence? She didn’t think so. She knew in her heart that he was connected in some way to her father’s death. She’d like to walk right up to the bastard and confront him with it, scream in his face and demand that he tell her about the night her father died. But no way could she let her emotions get in the way of her common sense. She needed a tactful way to do it. She’d think of something.

She stood in the alley for a long time doing deep breathing exercises, listening and watching. Although there was the usual noise of the bustling city beyond, it was muted now, and the alley was quiet, insulated, like a secret chamber at the center of a vast, pumping heart.

Not wishing to raise suspicions, she’d left her car in an abandoned lot several blocks from Wolf’s apartment building on Sparrow Street. She’d surveyed the front of the building first before walking around and entering the back alley.

She went to the stairs, stopped on the first step gazing down. She saw the soiled footprints almost immediately, right where Wolf had said they’d be. She got down and inspected them thoroughly, each one individually, as if they were fossil imprints from some long forgotten race of humanoids, and she was the paleontologist responsible for deciphering their ambiguities. Their maker had not been wearing shoes and the feet were quite large, true, definitely not Wolf’s, but to Laura they certainly looked human. At least their shape was human. No animal she had ever seen, short of possibly a gorilla, had footprints this close to human. But there hadn’t been any gorilla sightings in Portland recently, had there? Laura refused to entertain the only other possibility that came to mind. It was crazy, unthinkable. Even so, she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her coat and began snapping shots of the prints.

At the top of the stairs she tested the window. It lifted easily. Evidently Wolf had not thought to lock it before going out. There was soil on the sill but no identifiable prints. She threw one leg into the bedroom, shifted her body weight and ducked under the sash and into the apartment. She stood very still as she inspected the room, wary, listening. “Danny?” she called out. “Are you here?” She had no idea what she’d do or say if he answered her.

Satisfied that she was alone, Laura moved into the room. She saw that the sheets had been stripped from the bed and lay in a ball in the corner. She picked them up and inspected them. They were covered in soil, and streaked with what could only be blood.
Wolf’s blood,
her rational mind told her, even as she entertained other unpleasant possibilities. Before putting the sheets back down she snapped several shots of the blood. She thought of taking a sample, but then dismissed it. The evidence would not be admissible in a court of law. She was here illegally. But it was enough to get a warrant. When she left here she’d have to contact Jennings about that. Her heart sank at the thought of it.

She saw the handcuffs hanging from the bedpost with the wrist end open and shook her head in amazement. The key lay on the bedside stand. She began looking around the room for something, anything. Clothes were scattered. Wolf wasn’t the neatest person in the world. The place wasn’t filthy but it certainly wasn’t the tidiest place she’d seen. There was an electric guitar and a practice amp in the corner along with a music stand and several notebooks. She picked up one of the notebooks, opened it and began to read. It appeared to be lyrics to a song, which immediately captured her heart with its poignancy. She read the next one and her eyes filled with tears. Its simple beauty made her ache. Wolf had the heart of a poet. His writings were like open wounds in his soul. Feeling self conscious she put the notebook back down, careful to make sure everything looked as it had when she’d entered the room.

Next she searched the small combination living room and kitchen. Nothing jumped out at her that would prove Wolf a monster. Everything seemed surprisingly normal. There was a small television in the corner, an easy chair with a stand that contained a bottle of booze and an empty glass; a stack of daily newspapers beside the chair; a small bookcase against one wall with volumes of classic fiction, books on music and the music business, a well thumbed dictionary, a bible.

Laura moved through the small apartment taking in everything with a trained eye. The kitchen counter was cluttered with dirty glasses and a few plates. Silverware lay in a dishpan half full of cold water. The drawers contained nothing unusual. The bathroom was clean. He might not have been the neatest guy in the world, but he wasn’t a complete slob. The medicine cabinet contained nothing out of the ordinary. No heavy drugs or medications. One thing was clear; this wasn’t the home of a demented serial killer.

Back in the bedroom she opened the closet door. It contained shirts and trousers on hangers, a few jackets. Shoes and sneakers on the floor. Painfully normal stuff. There was no incriminating evidence hidden here.

She went to the bed and put her hand between the mattress and box spring, feeling around, not sure what she was searching for. Illegal drugs perhaps. What she found surprised her. Cold metal. She gripped it and extracted the nine millimeter. Staring at the weapon she noticed that her hands were shaking. The safety was off. She partially pulled back the bolt and saw a live round in the firing chamber. She let the bolt slide back into position, laid it on the bed and took a snapshot of it. The weapon did not contain a serial number. She put the gun back under the mattress. Christ, what was he doing with an illegal weapon? He was a convicted felon. Possession would land him immediately back in prison. Then it struck her like cold water in the face. He didn’t care. The little bastard was contemplating suicide. No fucking way was she going to allow him to do it. But how the hell was she going to approach him about it without him knowing she’d been in his apartment? Ah well, she guessed he’d know soon enough anyway.

She moved away from the bed and guiltily went through the drawers of the single bureau, found a stash of money and some keepsakes, a stack of letters held together with a rubber band. Laura carefully removed the rubber band and leafed through them. They were all addressed to Daniel Wolf, 22 Sparrow Street, Portland, Maine. Several had Warren State Prison return addresses and they all appeared to be written in the same hand. One letter was from a Kaleigh Jarvis of Rockport, Maine. It was dated two weeks earlier and there was no doubt that it was written by the same hand as the prison letters. Laura carefully removed the rubber band and opened the envelope.

How’s it going, Danny boy?
The letter began.
It’s your friendly prison guard, Kaleigh Jarvis again. I hope everything is going well for you and I doubly hope I’m not bothering you. I just wanted to let you know that I’m planning on being in Portland on Thursday the twenty-eighth and thought I’d stop by the Cavern Club to check out your new band. Read about you guys in one of the local music rags and heard your new single on the radio. I was quite impressed. You haven’t answered any of my other letters so I hope I got the address right. Checked the directory and couldn’t find a phone listed for you. Guess you don’t have one. And I suppose you’re not yet in the computer age. No Facebook for Danny boy. Got this address from old man Starkey. God, that man is a total asshole. Hope you don’t mind me getting in touch with you. I’ll be there on Thursday the twenty-eighth so hope to see you then. Can’t wait to hear the band.

I really miss you, Danny.

Best,

Kaleigh

P.S.

Heard something interesting about your shrink Hardwick, the other day. It seems he no longer has a relationship with the prison. Too many inmates claim he was fucking with their heads. Anyway, just thought you might like to know that. Hope to see you on the twenty-eighth.

Laura felt a sharp stab of jealousy at the prospect of a female prison guard, someone who’d obviously taken a liking to Wolf, maybe someone who’d had a relationship with Wolf, coming to see him perform. What was it about the little bastard that made women wet? His sad, beautiful eyes? His complex mind? She thought of a phrase from a Sarah McLachlan song,
“Beautiful fucked up man,”
and it made her ache inside.

But Thursday the twenty-eighth had come and gone. Actually it had been last night. Laura had been at the club and she’d watched Danny all night long and hadn’t seen him speaking to another woman. Actually he’d been distant and edgy, and if she herself hadn’t bullied him into it he wouldn’t have talked to her. She wondered if Kaleigh Jarvis had actually shown up. Wolf hadn’t mentioned anything about it. But why would he have? She’d only known him less than a day and she was already acting like a jealous bitch. She knew nothing about him or his life. Christ, what a sap. Laura folded the letter back up and put it in the envelope, meaning to look at some of the other letters. But a sound at the front door made her pulse quicken. She looked at her watch and realized that she’d lost track of the time. She’d been here for more than half an hour. Another sound, metal on metal, like a key in a lock, moved her into action. The apartment had been strangely silent and these noises in amongst the silence were almost deafening. She quickly replaced the elastic band and put the stack of letters back where she’d found them, closed the drawer and moved stealthily toward the window. She put one leg through and shifted her body out onto the landing. From within she heard the clatter of the lock and the squeak of old hinges, wondering if the noises were actually coming from Wolf’s front door or a neighboring apartment. No matter, she couldn’t be seen here. She closed the window as silently as possible and moved quickly down the fire escape.

As she was exiting the alley, the killer moved out from behind the dumpster and followed her. 

Chapter 67

Within an hour of Laura leaving Jennings’s office a patrol located the building Wolf had claimed to see in his dream. They were ordered to stand down and wait for backup. Twenty minutes later Jennings arrived at the site. Several patrols were already in place, waiting at a distance.

He instructed four of the officers to approach the building from the back, two from the left flank, while he and Patrolman Myers took the right flank, taking care to use the cover of the woods at the edge of the open field. They approached the building, weapons drawn. October had been brutal and the forest was bare, overcast low, the color of gunmetal, and everything had a bleakness to it, as though the world was being shot through a black & white camera lens.
Fucking depressing,
Jennings thought as he pulled his trench coat around him and shivered. He could see that the house was uninhabitable. Most of the front section was missing and the interior was strewn with rubble. He carefully stepped over the rubble and made his way toward the interior of the building. Myers followed. The other six officers had been strategically placed around the outside of the building.

Immediately Jennings knew something was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew it, he just did. His skin began to crawl.

“Over here,” he whispered. He’d located the staircase that led to the basement. Weapons drawn, he and Patrolman Myers made their way down the creaking stairs. At the bottom they located a door in the floor, pulled it up and saw the ladder leading down into darkness. Although the air outside was cold, warm air, mixed with the stench of old dirt, came rushing up out of the bowels of the earth like a tide, dizzying in its intensity. And there was something else beneath all that, some underlying pall, nearly crushing in its intensity. Jennings felt its weight, and he briefly wondered if Myers did. There was no time to ponder any of this, however. Myers produced a flashlight and was preparing to climb onto the ladder.

“Wait a minute!” Jennings whispered, not entirely certain why he was hesitating.

“What?” Myers’s eyes were as big as saucers.

“I don’t know. Just a feeling.”

Myers looked down into the dark and licked his lips. “What do you want me to do?”

Jennings was a little surprised at Myers’s eagerness to go rushing blindly into harm’s way after his display of emotion at the city landfill two weeks ago. Maybe he was trying to prove something to Jennings or to himself. Jennings knew there was a fine line between a courageous police officer and a foolish one. Myers was relatively new to the force. Jennings guessed he’d find out soon enough which category Myers fit into.