Boneyard (27 page)

Gino paused for a beat, and she held her breath, wondering if she should have brought backup. He wasn’t a big guy but he was thick, probably strong under all that fat. Reluctantly he shuffled past her. She followed him down the cracked-concrete path to the street, helped him into the back seat. Slamming the door shut, she heaved a sigh of relief. Gino settled into the back seat, arms crossed defensively over his chest, glaring at the grill in front of him. Clearly not his first time in a police car, she thought as she slid into the driver’s seat. But his record was for minor stuff, check kiting, skipping court appearances, nothing that even qualified as a felony.

The number he’d been given probably matched a disposable phone. She’d run it anyway, but chances were it was already dead. She’d put Gino’s photo in a lineup, see if Jordan could ID him as the guy who ran him off the property. Monica suspected it had been someone else, because Gino definitely didn’t fit the description “good-looking.” If she was right, they could sit Jordan down with a sketch artist, and with any luck might finally get a portrait of one of the killers.

Someone had rented that house from Gino every summer for the past decade. It might as well have been a holding pen at a slaughterhouse, she thought with a shudder as she pulled away from the curb.

Twenty-Six

She yelped in pain, fouling herself again, and the man turned his head away with distaste. It had been difficult rigging up the Algerian hook. Back home, he had an eyelet specially mounted in the ceiling for just such a purpose. Here, he’d had to rig a line from the shower pipe behind her. Instead of dangling them above, chains ran around the pipe and linked to the hook in her back. In order to apply the necessary pressure he’d wrapped a rope under her arms, and he intermittently gave it a tug, yanking forward so that her flesh strained against the hook. The stream of blood flowing from the wound gushed out when he applied pressure to the rope, slowing to a rivulet in between. He’d have to be careful, if she lost too much blood he’d have to give her a transfusion to keep her alive, always a tricky matter. At least inserting the hook so that it didn’t penetrate any organs had been easier than with the boys; her skin was loose and flabby, and he’d pierced a roll of it no problem.

Initially she’d screamed and babbled, begging him to stop, saying all the usual things. He’d ignored her; it seemed to distress them more when he did that. Speaking to them just reinforced false hopes for their survival. Better that he seem less human, that way they gave up far more quickly.

He had to admit, though, he wasn’t enjoying this one at all. Perhaps he should’ve just started with Dwight. He could have dragged out the punishment for weeks, possibly even months with transfusions and antibiotics. He found torturing this old woman unsettling, even if she was partly responsible for the actions of her son. He took a deep breath and reminded himself of his objective: psychological punishment first, then physical pain. The wrenching guilt that Dwight was experiencing right now had to be intolerable. For most people, feeling responsible for injury to a loved one was far worse than getting hurt themselves.

In spite of that, looking at her now, face red, swollen, and tear-streaked, naked flesh blue and mottled with goose bumps, he was almost moved to pity. He eased up on the rope and she collapsed backward, groping until she reached the wall, trying to grab hold of something. She was gasping slightly, panting like a dog. She made no other noise. Her head hung forward in utter defeat. Looking at her, huddled and cowering like an animal, he decided to break his own rule.

“It’s your son’s fault, you know,” he said in a low voice, conversational. “This wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for him.”

“What?” she gasped, after a moment. He saw a semblance of conscious thought return to her eyes.

“Your son, Dwight. He was very stupid, acting against me. He did some very bad things.” He leaned forward so that she could see his eyes in the sparse light. “He killed those boys.”

“You’re crazy,” she said after a moment, her breath evening out. “My boy never killed anyone.”

“You don’t believe me.” He leaned in closer, speaking soothingly, as if to a child. “But you knew he was sick. It was you that sent him to the hospital the first time, wasn’t it? You know what Freud said, blame the mother. Did you touch Dwight in bad places when he was a little boy? Maybe gave him long baths, had him share your bed after your husband abandoned you?”

“Fuck you.” She spit with sudden and surprising vehemence. “You call yourself a man, beating up on an old woman. You’re a disgrace.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Thank you. You’ve made this much easier.”

With a vicious tug he jerked the rope again. Caught by surprise, she lost her grip on the pipes behind her and flew forward until the hook caught with a ripping sound and she shrieked.

Kelly walked into the office holding up a file triumphantly. “DNA came back on another John Doe.”

Lieutenant Peters glanced up. He had set the rickety table on its side against a wall, clearing a space in the center of the room. Now he sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by stacks of files, regarding her blearily. “Which one?”

“One of the victims from the original boneyard, the one Dr. Stuart figured was between a year and two years old.” She opened the file and held up a rap sheet with a mug shot. “Meet Richard Waters, aka Little Ricky. Couple of arrests in Massachusetts for solicitation and possession. He fits the profile of the other victims we’ve ID’d so far. Last arrest was two years ago, maybe that’ll help us narrow down when he disappeared…” She glanced up to find Colin’s face had gone ashen. “What’s wrong?”

He held out a shaky hand for the file. “Could I see that, please?” he said unsteadily.

She watched as he opened it and scanned the page. Unless she was mistaken there was a tear in the corner of his eye. “Colin, did you know this kid?”

He nodded slowly. “He was my cousin. We grew up together.”

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. If I’d known…” She squatted next to him and awkwardly extended a hand to pat his shoulder. “Um, can I get you a glass of water or something?”

“No, I’m fine.” He inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. “I kind of knew this was coming, but part of me hoped…”

Kelly cocked her head to the side. “Is that why you got assigned to this case?”

Colin nodded. “My captain didn’t know about Ricky, he just figured I wanted to check out the task force.”

Kelly thought for a moment. By getting involved with the case when he knew there might be a personal link, Colin had defied basic police protocol. But she couldn’t really bring herself to chastise him, not when she understood exactly what he was going through. “Is there a missing persons file for him?” She asked.

Colin nodded. “Not here, though. It’s in New York. “

“Okay.” She rubbed her eyes with one hand. “Why don’t I give you a minute to collect yourself. I’ll call and get a copy faxed over.”

Kelly straightened and looked down at him. He was examining the floor, looking completely bereft. She turned and left the room, easing the door shut behind her. She paused for a second with her hand on the knob, a rush of emotion causing her heart to thump uncomfortably against her rib cage. She felt that same horrible pit in her stomach, the ball of emotion that formed when she had found out her brother had been brutally murdered. She had wanted to scream and thrash but for some reason couldn’t, despite the overwhelming emotions trapped inside her raging to be set free. Kelly swallowed hard and went to make that phone call.

Dwight squinted down from his perch in the crux of a tree. He was about fifty feet away from the Captain’s backyard, observing it through swaying branches. In his full camouflage suit, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be noticed.

The Captain was running around, playing with his little girls like he didn’t have a care in the world. Dwight’s knuckles went white as he tightened his grip on the binoculars, jaw rigid with rage. Bastard had his mother tucked away in his dark hidey-hole, and was up here enjoying the late-afternoon sunshine. He shifted the focus to one of the little girls, the youngest. She looked about eight years old, blond like her daddy, hair set in pigtails and missing her two front teeth. He watched as she executed a clumsy somersault and came up laughing, tendrils of newly mown grass jutting out from her hair. He’d love to get his hands on them, he thought with a grimace. Show the Captain a little payback, make those little mouths scream and beg for mercy, maybe call their daddy to listen in while he worked on them. At the thought Dwight’s mouth curled up at the corners. Not yet, though; first he had to get Ma out of there.

Over the past few hours he’d formulated a decent plan. An hour earlier the wife had driven away in her fancy Beemer, gym bag and racket in the back seat. Off to play tennis. He knew from previous months of surveillance that she’d be gone at least three or four hours. The Captain, on the other hand, was more unpredictable. Even if he did leave, taking the girls with him, it was hard to say whether they’d run out for a quick ice cream or go to the movies. Either way, once they left the house he’d have to chance it. No telling how long the sick bastard would keep his mother alive.

Dwight settled back and waited. The shadows started to lengthen across the lawn, the ghost of a wind whispered through the branches above him, cooling the air a few degrees. The Captain turned on the sprinkler and the girls dashed into the house, emerging a few minutes later in bathing suits. Dwight watched as they splashed each other, giggling. Another half hour passed. The Captain wrapped the girls in towels and helped dry them off, then ushered them inside. Fifteen minutes passed, then a door slammed. Dwight heard chatter from the front of the house. They rounded the corner. If Dwight twisted in his perch and craned his head to the side, he could just glimpse them strolling down the driveway. They vanished, blocked by interceding branches, and he waited, listening. A car door closed, then another, followed by the sound of an engine turning over and the crunch of gravel under tires. He peered intently through the foliage, waiting, marking the time on his watch. While he waited, Dwight knocked his knuckle against the tree trunk in time to the deafening roar of the song blaring in his skull. Five minutes passed with no sign of the car.

Carefully, he shimmied down the trunk and pulled off the tree branches hiding his pack. Slinging it over one shoulder he kept low, sticking to the tree line skirting the property as he came toward the house, headed for the garage. It was set a hundred yards back from the house, far enough away that even if they were home the wife and kids never heard the screams. Perfect planning, Dwight thought. No one ever said the Captain wasn’t a smart so-and-so. Before the incident he’d actually admired him, tried to model himself after the guy. That was before he knew he was a full-fledged sicko, of course.

Like the house, the two-car garage was new but made to look old, gray shingles covering the exterior. The inside was spotless. One wall was lined with storage shelves and a workbench, everything labeled and organized. A ride-along mower was parked against the back wall next to a row of hanging garden implements. The floor was covered in black industrial matting, a nice touch, Dwight thought, since it both covered the trapdoor leading to the hatch and protected the floor from any spills.

Motorcycle parts were strewn across one corner of the garage. Dwight frowned. Crossing the room, he kicked a few pieces aside, then dropped to one knee and grabbed one after another, grunting as he shifted the larger parts behind himself. He dropped the pack on the floor and dug a screwdriver out of it, inserting it into a crack between two of the mats to peel up a corner. Grabbing the edge, he hauled it the rest of the way up and tossed it aside. The door to the hatch was there, just a break in the concrete with a round handle set into it. Hurrying, he inserted his fingers into the ring and pulled until it opened.

It was dark down there. Dwight pulled the flashlight from his tool belt and flicked it on, tucking it into his mouth as he scrambled down the ladder. He paused at the bottom, groping around with one hand until he found the light switch tucked to the right. He flicked it, and an incandescent bulb cast the room in stark hyperrelief. Dwight clicked off the flashlight and turned, then frowned.

He’d only been in the room once before, but it had been dramatically different, like something out of a horror movie. Now it looked like your standard-issue emergency shelter, a locker against one wall, a cot on the other side stacked with old blankets and pillows. He crossed the room in two steps and threw open the locker: nothing inside but rows of canned food and bottled water. He grumbled something under his breath, then threw open the door at the end of the room. A smaller space, the size of a large closet, held a marine toilet and small sink.

His eyes wide, he tore his hands through his hair, barely noticing when he ripped out a clump of it by the roots. He bellowed once, then stormed out, leaving the trapdoor open behind him.

Doyle glanced at the phone again and rolled his eyes, then tapped the button that sent the call to voice mail. He hummed a little as he drove, head bobbing slightly in time to the Wayne Newton tune on his radio. He glanced down at the screen on the computer console bolted to the floor of the car, double-checking the address. Georgia had come through for him all right, almost too well. Ten cars in Berkshire County alone had different colored hoods. He’d managed to check out three so far: one belonged to an old Mexican guy, the other two to welfare moms. None matched the description he had, the hoods were all lighter than the body and the taillights were intact.

So that left seven. With any luck, he’d track down this guy by the end of the day. He didn’t want to think about the alternative, if none of the names panned out. If that happened, he’d have to start crossing jurisdictions, and there it got tricky. Of course, even if he found the car Morgan had mentioned, it might turn out to be nothing, someone looking to grab a few nightcrawlers in the park. Doyle’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He was counting on nailing the guy all by himself. He pictured the headline, the look of fury and disappointment on that bitch’s face when the governor handed him a commendation for catching one of the worst serial killers New England had ever seen. And there was no way a hero would lose his pension, not in this part of the state.