Desolate Angel (35 page)

There are not many things I can do in my present form, other than to face my human mistakes and wish my life had been different. But I can roam. Oh, how I can roam. I can roam the hills with the best of them, and I need not worry about my safety nor wait for daylight to start my travels.

Maggie would eventually realize the significance of it being his hill. But she would have to wait until daylight to search it. Me? I’d find his hiding place tonight and then, in the morning, I would find a way to lead Maggie to it.

I set off for the hill. I moved through the streets and over the sidewalks of my town, watching as twilight gathered in the sky and families gravitated toward home, their steps quickening as they neared their blocks, drawn to the safety and warmth of those who knew them, drawn to the light of home and hearth. And though evolution and extinction had long since erased the dangers of the night for most, I knew that darkness still signified danger for most humans. Not for me. A bright moon above was as welcoming as the sun. And a night sky sprinkled with stars behind it was even better. I would have that hill to myself. Soon I would find out his secrets.

I pondered the nature of Alan Hayes as I moved through the darkness. What would a man devoid of humanity depend on to fill the empty places inside him? Arrogance, I thought. Cunning. Unquenchable rapaciousness. And, no doubt, an immense sense of self-satisfaction.

I thought about his cunning. If he had a hiding place on the hill, what had driven Alan Hayes to leave Vicky Meeks so close to his secret hiding place? If his daughter Sarah had spoken the truth to Maggie and he had not used the basement for his darkest purposes but had, instead, taken his victims to a place only he knew about, a place where he could take his time, it would likely be on this hill he felt a need to claim. But it had been sloppy of him to leave Vicky Meeks on that same hill. Had arrogance overridden cunning? Maybe he had grown so good at what he did that the thrill of being caught had faded, perhaps he was driven by a need to dance near that line?

No, Alan Hayes would not make a mistake like that. He’d only have dumped the body close to his hiding place if he’d absolutely had to.

I had been a detective once. And I had been a good one once, though that had been much longer ago than my death. I had, in fact, been considered the best prospect in all the academy, outclassed only by Lazaro Gonzales and his dazzling skills at ingratiating himself with instructors. Now Gonzales was commander and I was dead. But I still had the knowledge in me that I’d had back then—I had that knowledge and so much more.

I reached the hill just as the moon had climbed to its peak in the sky. I sat on a rock, watching, as the sky turned a deep, rich, almost luminescent blue that seemed to draw the stars to it. It felt good to be alone at times like this, and my solitude settled easily on me.

Then I saw a tiny figure far up the hill with a black spot dancing around it.

Of course. The old man and his dog. The man who had discovered Vicky Meeks in the weeds. This was his hill, too. For as long as Alan Hayes had been using it for his own darker purposes, this man had been using it as a farewell to each day and a place to greet the dawn. This was his place of solitude before he returned to a house full of other people, other voices, and all the responsibilities of his responsible life. The old man would not give up his walks on the hill just because he’d found a body. No, he, too, needed his rituals and his hill.

I saw the connection. Perhaps the old man had spooked Alan Hayes the day before Vicky Meeks was discovered. Maybe that was why Hayes had left her body in a place so close to his hiding place. He had probably been moving the body when he heard the old man drawing close on an early morning walk. He’d had no choice but to dump it where he was and to run.

As I imagined the scene, a habit I had used long ago when I still cared about my job, it was as if my thoughts now had the power to inspire a rewind of reality. I saw it all with clarity in my mind: a night like this, hours later, hovering on the edge of dawn, stalled by approaching daylight, still lit by the moon, the air crisp and clean, stars winking out above, the end of a perfect autumn night—and the perfect time to dispose of the girl who had so inconveniently died on him at last, taking away his pleasures. He’d leave his hiding place with her body somehow, a plan in mind to take the body to his car below and dispose of her elsewhere, far from his hiding place. He’d not have gotten far when he heard the old man approaching, or perhaps the little dog barking nearby, smelling him, smelling the body, alerting his owner that all was not well.

He’d have to move quickly. He’d have to move off the path to a place as close by as possible. He’d have to dump the body and run. And he’d be angry that his own routine had been interrupted by something so inconsequential and unworthy as an old man and his yappy little dog.

He’d be hoarding that anger still.

I stood up abruptly, ready to search the hill. The rock quarry on the other side of the hill offered a hundred hiding places. There were caverns and cul-de-sacs among the mountains of rocks, abandoned clearings, the desolate bottoms of dried-out reservoirs. But he would not be in the quarry. If he’d been surprised by the old man and his dog, and if he’d been using the clearing in the woods for some of his more public fantasies, he’d have to have a hiding place somewhere closer to where the body of Vicky Meeks was found. He would not run back uphill to dump her, away from the old man, not with a body in tow. He’d run downhill instead. Which meant his hiding place was above both the clearing and the crime scene.

I could see it as clearly as life and I knew that I was right. I, Kevin Fahey, had blown it utterly and thoroughly when alive. But in death? In death, I was a detective again. A good detective. I knew I was right.

I headed for the spot where Vicky Meeks had been discarded among the weeds like the unwanted remains of a meal. I found nothing and headed uphill toward the clearing where Maggie and I had seen a figure running through the woods. But again, there was nothing malignant lingering there. It felt like nothing more than an altar to the night, awaiting the scratchings and scurryings of night creatures—and so I moved on.

I continued upward, alert for signs that the old man and his dog were on the same path. I did not want to risk exposure and dogs were tricky. The little terrier had not bothered me before, but perhaps he’d only been distracted by the scent of a decomposing body nearby.

I was close to the crime scene when I heard whistling: a classic swing song popular during World War II. The old man was near.

I melted back into the shadows just as he rounded a curve in the path, anxious to get home now that he had lingered too long into the night, perhaps more anxious than usual because he was remembering the dead girl he’d discovered a week before.

But I, too, had lingered too long. The little dog sensed my presence and pulled away from his master, growling more like a Rottweiler than a terrier. He darted toward me, yapping furiously, pursuing me into the bushes. I got a glimpse of the old man’s face, pale and worried in the moonlight, and I feared he might have a heart attack, so sudden and overwhelming was his terror. I could hear his thoughts as they rushed through his mind:
Why had I taken a walk so late at night? Why had I tempted fate? What will my family say if I don’t return home? How could I have been so careless?

I fled, not wanting to frighten the old man further, hoping to leave the little dog behind. But the damnable beast kept pace, and there was no question now that he could see me. I moved quickly through the underbrush, relentlessly pursued by the dog. His determination would have been comical had I not been thoroughly annoyed. The damn thing wiggled beneath the brambles that did not bother me, leapt over rocks with a joyous abandon, darted around trees, and sent leaves flying as his paws scuttled over the forest floor. So far as he was concerned, he was doing his job, and what a grand game it was indeed.

I could not shake him. He pursued me endlessly, rattling me so much I became unsure of where I had been and where I had yet to go. I needed to find the path. I took off to my left, through a heavy tangle of dormant bushes that would surely at least slow the beast down, then I moved through a patch of pines that had established a small colony deep in the hardwood hills. I smelled asphalt ahead and reached the path again, moving quickly uphill where I knew the old man would be reluctant to follow his dog. Perhaps he’d command the dog to heel and I’d be left alone.

But that damn little beast was too quick for me, and he was a far better pursuer than I had ever been. He was with me on the path in an instant, his barks and growls triumphant. What could I do now? I couldn’t swat him and I couldn’t shake him. I had to keep moving until his master called him off.

I reached the crest of a ridge, the little dog still on my heels. I had nowhere to go. I followed the path around a bend and it continued to wind slowly upward, the steepness of its slope softened by its circular route. The boulders grew larger, the rock interface taller as I neared the top of the hill. Behind me, the dog had settled into a series of annoying yips. It sounded like I had an incredibly loud, nasal beeper affixed to my rear end. There was a reason I’d never let my boys have a dog, I thought grimly as I searched for some way to shake it.

The asphalt path stopped in a clearing surrounded on three sides by massive rocks that had tumbled from the pinnacle of the hill to a depression in the ground, forming a natural barrier. The paved walkway ended abruptly against one of the granite boulders. End of the line.

I went right, through a tumbled pile of rocks, and into the underbrush surrounding the crest of the hill. A hundred feet into the overgrown area, I knew I was lost, but I kept moving. If I found a space small enough to hide in, the little dog would not be able to follow. Then I saw it: a tangle of dried brush and brambles at the base of another outcropping of conjoined boulders. What the hell, I’d head right into the rocks and see what happened.

I moved through the brambles and discovered an unexpected clearing no more than four feet wide. The forest floor had been stamped down and smoothed; dark earth showed through the coating of fallen leaves. I examined the brush surrounding the clearing more closely and discovered a makeshift blind made of dried branches woven together and propped up against the rocks. Behind it, where the rocks came together, I saw the opening to what looked like a cave.

I knew at once I had found the hiding place where Alan Hayes took his victims. Death lingered outside the entrance, drawing me to it with the power of an inescapable but self-destructive impulse. I could not turn back.

The entry hole was no larger than a linebacker, but it was big enough for a normal person to slip through, and certainly big enough to drag a body in and out of. I stepped through the opening, into a narrow pathway formed by rock walls, seeking the cavern that must be inside.

Behind me, the little dog was barking and clawing his way through the bushes, relentless in its pursuit.

What if someone waited inside? I would be putting the dog and the old man in danger.

I stopped and listened, heard nothing, then tried to will my intuition into being. The cave ahead felt empty.

I stepped forward into the darkness.

Chapter 36

It was a place of absolute and unequivocal evil. I was filled with such fear it was as if my very bones were hollow and filled with ice.

My eyes needed no adjusting to the darkness. The cave had curving gray rock walls marked by round, battery-operated lights that were affixed to the sides at six-foot intervals. If illuminated, the room would be as bright and barren as a laboratory, albeit a prehistoric one—and one focused solely on death. A waist-high ridge in one of the walls formed a natural counter along one side. Metal instruments were laid out along the ledge, neatly lined up across a folded towel. They were surgical tools of some sort, some with jagged edges, others with blades, still more seemed to combine the functionality of saws and pliers in a bewildering array of handles and clamps. A propane torch and a two-burner gas stove stood beside the instruments, with extra cans of fuel nearby.

Two large boulders protruded halfway up through the center of the dirt floor, their flattened tops creating natural altars. Chains ending in adjustable cuffs were bolted to both ends of each stone altar. Dark stains marred the cave floor surrounding the boulder farthest from the entrance. I did not need to wonder why. In this dank environment, spilled blood would pool and bond with the soil that barely covered the rock bed beneath it.

Plastic buckets were stored next to the natural ridge along one wall, and there were two five-gallon containers of water next to them. Household bleach, other cleaners, and a bucket with plastic tubes coiled carefully inside completed the neat row of supplies. Alan Hayes was, as always, a fastidious man.