Bones (19 page)

"You think Parrish was bringing these women to this place alive?" Dalton was asking.

"Yes," Frank said. "He told us he flew Julia Sayre to the airstrip, made her hike for about a day, forced her dig her own grave, then tortured and killed her. Everything about it was planned. He had chosen her long before he made the kill. He isn't disorganized or opportunistic. You listen to him talk, it's all under control." He frowned. "Except . . ."

"Except this victim you caught him on."

"I wasn't the one who caught him. Not my case, but--"

"Was it difficult, catching him on that one?"

"No," Frank said, already seeing where this was going. "It wasn't as difficult as it should have been."

"Broke a pattern?"

"Stinger, with only one body and nothing more than Parrish's own version of the Sayre case," Jack said scornfully, "how the hell could the cops tell which of two cases set the pattern?"

But Frank was not so quick to answer, because he knew--he knew there had been other victims. He had said as much to his bosses when news of the deal with Parrish came down. Every other detective in the department had said as much. They had all known that the D.A. had made a wrong call.

"Mr. Dalton's right," Frank said. "Parrish broke a pattern." He drew a steadying breath. "He wanted us to catch him."

"Because--?" Dalton asked.

"Because he knows that he'll escape."

"He might want to," Jack said, watching Frank begin to pace, "but he couldn't know who would be going up into the mountains, or how heavily guarded he'd be."

Frank didn't answer. He was thinking of Parrish's two known victims. Dark hair, blue eyes. Near Irene's age.

"Never mind polishing that strip of floor, Frank," Dalton said. "Get over here and take a look at these maps. Mother Nature has given us a little time to figure out where our man made himself a couple of cemeteries. According to what this ranger and botanist said, we're looking for two meadows divided by a ridge. That could be several places, but not as many places as you'd think."

"No," Frank agreed. "Those two made it in less than a day, carrying a body and hiking in the rain."

"Julia Sayre a big woman?"

"No. And the remains might be nothing more than a skeleton or a partial skeleton after this much time."

"Right. So let's see what this ground looks like and start making circles. Come up with some likely places, then as soon as the weather clears, we'll take a pass over them. Save some time if we do a little thinking before we go."

After the first hour of looking at the maps, Frank felt less optimistic. There were so many places the group could have reached within the time allotted, and the likelihood of finding the right one seemed small. But as Dalton continued to study them, he found reasons to eliminate one or another, narrowing the field. "I'm not saying cross them off the list altogether," he said, standing up and stretching, "but they aren't where I'd look first."

When he walked away from the table, Frank said, "You aren't stopping now, are you?"

Dalton opened his mouth to make a rude reply, then closed it. He studied Frank for a moment, then said, "Do you some good to take a break from it, too. I figure I'll enjoy a little dog time. You all do what you want. I'm going to attend to my guests."

He moved to the floor and began to wrestle with Deke and Dunk, who entered into the spirit of the game immediately, complete with loud and dramatic barks and growls.

Jack gave an apologetic look to Frank and Travis. "Stinger has to do things in his own way," he said, trying to keep his voice low and yet still be heard over the ruckus. "No use trying to push him. But I'll go with you if you want to leave . . ."

Frank's need to reassure himself that Irene was safe tempted him to leave--tempted him until it was almost irresistible. Staying still was maddening. The urge to move, to act, to get as close to the mountains as possible nearly drove him to set aside all other considerations. But as he smoothed the uppermost topo map beneath his hands, spreading his fingers in an effort to release a fraction of the tension that invaded every muscle in his body, he saw circle after circle on the map, and realized that trying to find her without the help of the helicopter pilot would be all but impossible. There was simply too much ground to cover. And the storm would only make things worse.

"The weather is what's holding us up, not your friend," he said. "Stinger's not the problem."

"I like him," Travis said. "Did he fly helicopters in Vietnam?"

"Never heard of the place," Dalton said from the floor.

"He might be gray haired," Jack said, "but the crazy-assed wild man's ears are still sharp."

So is his mind, Frank thought, studying the map as Dalton's laughter mixed in with the barks and growls of the dogs. So is the crazy-assed wild man's mind.

** CHAPTER 20

THURSDAY EVENING, MAY 18

A Cave in the Southern

Sierra Nevada Mountains

His lair, as he thought of it, was warm and dry. He wouldn't have minded being out in the rain. He had many times suffered deprivations in pursuit of his goals; more than once, the mere observation of one of the objects of his affection had required a night spent in some inconvenient place during inclement weather. But at present, it was far more entertaining to be comfortable when she was not.

She would be alone in the dark, surrounded by death. She would have made the best of what was left of the camp, but there would be no food. This wouldn't really harm her--water was readily available--but psychologically, her hunger would be to his advantage.

She wouldn't know if he had made good his escape, or if he would return for her. He thought she probably knew of this cave. He had seen footprints and thought they were most likely hers--she had wandered off in this direction yesterday. But she would not know if he had stayed or fled.

At this stage of the game, hope would counteract some of her fears. She would think of the promised helicopter, coming to the meadow. While it was in some ways a nuisance, he was grateful that it tethered her to one location. She would not, in hysteria, go wandering off into the forest, simply trying to run from him or the scattered remains of her former protectors--he would have found her anyway, of course, but this made it so much easier.

He pictured her, huddled in her own tent--he knew that she would choose her own tent. The rain would drum loudly against it. She would be tired, but unable to sleep. Cold, hungry, afraid, alone.

Oh, she had the dog. But the dog would not be of much help to her. This dog was a spoiled and pampered dog, a dog whose master had been a silly man who sang songs and made up tricks for the dog. He had seen the attachment dog and master had to each other, the man's constant displays of affection--really, it was almost obscene! The man had spoken to the dog nearly incessantly. Where was the dog's dignity in that? And as for letting the beast slather his tongue all over his owner's face--he was disgusted by the mere thought of it. He was glad to have put an end to it.

With his master dead, the dog would become depressed. Dogs did become depressed, he knew. Even Julia Sayre's little dog had mourned her. He sighed, remembering how much he had enjoyed watching the little Pekingese staring from the second-story window, looking as if it would jump to its death, if it could only find a way to open the latch. He might have helped it, too, had he not been so entertained by its sorrow.

This German shepherd--though not a purebred shepherd, surely--would be no better off. No, this dog--he couldn't bring himself to say its ridiculous name!--would only make the night seem gloomier to a woman of her sympathetic nature.

He had so many plans for her. He was torn between considering these, and considering the successes of the day. He knew how to build his own anticipation, though, and so for the moment, the latter won out.

Things had indeed gone well today. Here he was, barely a scratch on him. He preferred to slowly savor murder, and was surprised that he could kill so efficiently and yet feel the sort of triumphant satisfaction that he had felt then. He had outsmarted them, of course, but it was so enjoyable to have such tangible proof of his abilities available to the world!

It was satisfying, but held none of the pleasures that previous killings had given him. It had all gone by a little too quickly. Especially Merrick and Manton--that really was a shame. Manton, standing closer to the explosion, had been stunned by it, but Merrick, although unable to comprehend what had happened at the grave, had reacted rather speedily to having his weapon taken. That was nearly admirable. He had been forced to kill him immediately.

Ah well, life would always have its minor disappointments. He would counter this with the knowledge that their bullet-riddled faces would shock and anger their comrades. And with the knowledge that Irene had been there to see it all, including his display of marksmanship in the killing of that pompous ass, Sheridan.

Sheridan, who had stared at his coyotes, who had presumed to know something about him. Sheridan, who had touched Julia!

He remembered that the man had actually had the nerve to go to Irene's tent late one night. He had heard their voices, but could not make out their conversation. He only knew that she had refused Sheridan, for he had walked away. She must have told him that she would rather sleep with the dog, because it was the dog who kept her company that night. Just as somewhere, out in those rainy woods, the dog was with her tonight.

It was at this point that he decided he had put off his treat long enough. He carefully withdrew them from his breast pocket. They weren't the lacy, frilly type. Nothing like that for her. Even before he had seen them, he knew that she would wear simple cotton briefs. He found them charmingly innocent, almost like a little girl's panties. Slowly, reverently, he brought them to his face.

Had he been a weaker man, he would have wept.

** CHAPTER 21

THURSDAY EVENING, MAY 18

U.S. Forest Service Ranger Station and Helitack Unit

Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

The saboteur who watched the rangers' helicopters had never had such an important role to play. This provided a certain level of excitement, but not anxiety. Nicky's instructions had been explicit, the hours of training had been rigorous, and every contingency except failure had been considered. There was no thought of failure.

Nicky Parrish would not, the saboteur knew, consider for a moment that his trust--never given to anyone else before--was misplaced. Nor would Nicky be thinking of his helper--Nicky must concentrate on other matters. Nicky would simply know that his orders were being carried out--he would know. The way he always knew things. He would know that his little Moth had obeyed.

The intruder loved this nickname--this Nick name. The first time they had met, Nicky had said, "You are drawn to my light, aren't you, little moth? That's what I shall call you. From now on, you are my Moth."

No one who had met the Moth at work or socially would have ever said, "Here is a servant." That was one part of the delight the Moth took in serving Nicky. Nicky had immediately discerned the Moth's desire to serve. The Moth was, in fact, the perfect servant, and to be the perfect servant, one must serve the perfect master.

And together, they were making history. Nicky, who had always acted alone, had deemed his servant worthy of this honor.

Just thinking of this heightened the Moth's sense of anticipation. Perhaps later, during one of their dormant times, the Moth would write a poem about it. But for now, there was work to do--and unmindful of the darkness and the danger, of the rain and the cold--the Moth waited and watched, and eventually saw that the perfect moment for action had arrived.

It was not difficult to cause problems, little hitches in other people's plans, if you knew what you were doing.

The Moth knew.

The people in the ranger station were careful with the forest, where they expected trouble, but not with the helicopters. Not on rainy nights, when the clouds were covering the mountains--nights when there was little to do. They did not look at these machines, nor walk out into the cold rain. All but one of them watched television--an old movie, made long before there were computers, served up by the ranger station's satellite dish.

Perhaps the world outdoors was no longer exciting to the helicopter crews and forest workers--perhaps the sky and the forest were their offices, and the television and all things interior were more interesting to them.