Fear the Dark (39 page)

Hubbard stormed up the rungs. When Darby heard the trapdoor slam shut, she moved the steel cord to the front of her face. She curled it around a fist and climbed a foot; she didn’t need to reach the top. She swung back and forth a couple of times to get some momentum, the cord digging into her skin; and then she raised her knees to her chest and pushed her legs up until the soles of her bare feet landed on the rough concrete ceiling.

Now she had leverage. Now she was standing on the ceiling, blood rushing into her head. Now, just as she had done every time she was alone in her cell, she wrapped both hands around the cord and pulled, muscles straining, hoping that this time she would somehow manage to break it, and have a fighting chance of defending herself.

76

Like most men, Coop had a complicated relationship with emotions. His father, when the guy was actually around and pretending to be a parent, his uncles and his male older cousins all attacked life’s emotional turbulences and soul-crushing losses in the way that Clint Eastwood did in his Westerns: keep your cool, shoot straight and if you go down, go down swinging. And never, under any circumstances, let them see you sweat or give the slightest indication that you’re hurting.

Coop was worried sick about Darby, a woman he had worked with since he was twenty-five. Not only did he admire her, he loved her. Darby was honest and loyal and never afraid.

And now she was missing –
missing
being the operative word. Missing didn’t mean dead. Missing meant there was still hope.

Denver’s FBI office had taken over the Savran investigation. Special Agent in Charge Howard Scott and his agents had commandeered Red Hill PD’s squad room, transforming the former Ripper task force centre into a hybrid hotline/command post. Additional phone lines had been installed for the tip lines. Savran, a fugitive who had murdered two federal agents, had gone platinum. The federal government had ponied up $100,000 for
information leading to his capture and arrest, an increase of fifty grand on the original reward money. The US Marshals Service was involved in the manhunt, and Savran’s name and face had been forwarded to every national news outlet, state police headquarters and law enforcement agency. Everyone in the world was looking for him right now.

So where was he?

Coop thought the answer was hidden in the thick stacks of papers scattered on his desk. He sat in a corner of the room, sifting through Savran’s background information while trying to drown out the ringing telephones and the noise of agents, marshals and troopers who, along with Red Hill PD and uniformed deputies from Brewster, kept trekking in and out of the room, talking to each other on their cell and land-line phones.

Eight days had passed since Savran had shot and almost killed Hoder, and still no one had seen him or his Ford Bronco. The last time Savran had used his credit card was during the beginning of the month, a $48.45 purchase at Amazon. He had $62,345.23, courtesy of his mother’s estate, parked in a current account at the local bank. He hadn’t touched a cent of it since his Amazon purchase.

So why would a skilful, organized killer who had murdered five – no, make that six families – why wouldn’t he clean out his account when he might have to blow Dodge at a moment’s notice?

Answer: You couldn’t apply logical thinking when it came to a psychopath. Doing so, Darby had once told
him, was about as useful as sticking your hand inside a clogged toilet.

Here’s what he
did
know. Savran’s medical records confirmed the 47-year-old had been born with the rare metabolic condition known as trimethylaminuria. People who suffer from TMAU have an impaired FMO3 enzyme; the odorous TMA can’t be oxidized into the non-odorous TMA-oxide. The TMA builds up in the person’s system, causing a fishy or garbage-like odour that is secreted through the person’s sweat, urine and breath. For the past four and a half years, Savran had been trying to mitigate the intensity of the smell by using the oral antibiotic neomycin.

A victim of bullies and merciless teasing from classmates because of his fish odour syndrome, Eli Savran, unsurprisingly, had a long and well-documented history of anger issues. Thelma and Douglas Savran had officially divorced when Eli was six. At thirteen, he had been expelled from Red Hill High School for breaking a classmate’s nose and jaw. He went to live with his father, who was working on oil rigs in New Orleans, for the next year and got into several scrapes, one of which, an assault and battery charge, had landed him a six-month stint in a juvenile detention centre. He bounced back and forth between his childhood home in Red Hill and wherever his father was working at the time. Eli dropped out of high school and took up menial work and odd jobs, mostly at night, when he could keep interaction with people to a minimum. At twenty-four, he had nearly beaten a man into a coma, earning Eli a level-3 A & B charge. The
victim, for reasons unknown, later dropped the charge, and Eli was sentenced to community service.

Reports from therapists and his former high school guidance counsellor indicated a bright student who, if it weren’t for the rage he felt because of his condition, could have gone on to a promising career in engineering or computer science. He got his high school equivalency diploma and at times flirted with the idea of getting a degree in computer programming.

But what was Savran’s motive for killing the families?

It took all the weight of the FBI to find out that the state of Colorado had approached a good number of Red Hill families, secretly and individually, to sell their properties for what pretty much amounted to pennies on the dollar. The state had them over a barrel: sell or don’t sell, the state could afford to wait. Their town was dying; there were no jobs or social services. Some families took the state’s offer. Others had the financial means to play hardball, but the state wouldn’t buckle. The families who had been murdered were holdouts.

The people with meagre jobs who were barely hanging on were the lucky ones. The vast majority were poor and scared and mostly uneducated. They were praying to God there’d be an influx of state aid, jobs and other relief measures once the incorporation went through – and the killer was paving the road for this. Why should they tell the police what they might have suspected about the Red Hill Ripper, when the state had offered these families good money for their properties? What had happened to them was their own fault.

The other factor at work was Red Hill’s small-town mentality. The people operated in the same way as the blue-collar Irish Catholics who lived in Charlestown when he was a kid: you didn’t volunteer information to the police. If you did, you’d wake up one day and find your car missing or, worse, you’d come home from work to discover your house had been burned down. And then there was always a chance that a group of people would take it upon themselves to corner you in a bar or on the street, or grab you and drive you somewhere where they would make their feelings known with baseball bats.

‘Agent Cooper.’

Coop looked up from his papers and saw Denver SAC Harold Scott. He got up and shook the man’s hand.

‘I need to have a word with you,’ Scott said. He had a deep baritone Barry White voice that immediately made him the centre of attention. ‘In private.’

77

Coop followed him to Robinson’s office, where it was safe to talk. The entire station had been swept for bugs. The USB device Darby had discovered inside Williams’s office was the only one that had been found.

‘Couple of things,’ Scott said as he shut the door. He had dark skin and dark brown eyes; he was bald on top, with the hair on the sides of his head as white as snow. ‘First is Hubbard’s fingerprint. The DD assured me it’s still locked down, so, thankfully, no one on the outside knows we found it.’

The DD was FBI Deputy Director Lou LaRoca – Scott’s boss. The two men had decided to keep the information about Hubbard’s fingerprint secret until Savran was in custody. If word about her print got out, Red Hill would turn into a free-fire zone.

‘Second is Savran’s Bronco,’ Scott said. ‘There’s an abandoned coal-burning power plant in a town fifty or so miles from here, place called Leadville. They found the Bronco parked inside. We’ve got the rifle with a thermal scope and tracer ammo – and a backpack stuffed with duct tape and zip ties. Forensics is over there working on it right now. They’ve found plenty of blood samples.’

‘You want me to head over?’

‘No, we’ve got it covered.’

Coop sensed a shift in the man’s tone that reminded him of the way the temperature suddenly drops before a thunderstorm. ‘I’ve been looking through Savran’s background info,’ he said, and filled Scott in on the man’s bank and credit card record.

Harold Scott listened attentively. He remained standing and did not ask Coop to sit.

‘Hoder’s profile said this guy was a planner,’ Scott said, after Coop had finished. ‘Speaking of Hoder, he’s out of the woods. He woke up from his coma, but he’s still having problems breathing on his own.’

‘Good. That’s good. Sir, if Savran was so meticulous, why would he leave all that cash parked in his bank account?’

‘Because these jerkoffs never think they’re gonna get bagged, that’s why. What about the background on the murdered families? Anything new?’

‘Lancaster went to school with both Eli Savran and David Downes.’

Scott nodded and stole a glance at the wall clock. ‘Anything else?’

‘Did you read my report on the burglary?’ Coop asked.

Scott straightened a little, his starched shirt tightening against his chest, a tired look washing across his features.

After Teddy Lancaster was killed, it was discovered that his keys were missing. Coop had searched the man’s pockets, his car and Kelly’s house, but he couldn’t find them. He believed Savran had taken Lancaster’s keys.

Scott scratched the corner of his lip. ‘We talked about
this. You don’t have any proof or evidence Savran was inside Lancaster’s house.’

‘You’re right, sir, I don’t. But I went through Lancaster’s home, and I didn’t find a single computer anywhere. And why would Savran take Lancaster’s keys?’

‘You’re assuming Lancaster had a computer in his house. My father’s eighty-two, and he doesn’t have a computer or a cell phone. No interest. Some people are like that. Besides, Lancaster didn’t need one. He had an iPhone, which is pretty much a portable computer.’

Coop didn’t know about the iPhone. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. Lancaster got a bill from AT & T in yesterday’s mail.’ Scott saw the suspicion lingering in Coop’s gaze and added, ‘When you searched Lancaster’s house, did you find any computer equipment? CDs, disk keys, backup drives, books, anything like that?’

‘No. I didn’t.’

‘Now, next item. Anything new on Savran?’

‘During the summer of ’83, he was sixteen and living with his father in New Orleans. He was working at the Dairy Queen the day Hubbard was abducted – his time sheet for that week was faxed this morning.’

‘I read the fax,’ Scott said, and stole a glance at the wall clock. ‘It was probably a mistake, you know. It happens. The manager at the time was, what, nineteen?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘High school kids aren’t exactly what you’d call responsible.’

‘True,’ Coop conceded, ‘but the timing of the Hubbard kidnapping doesn’t jibe with me. Driving from New
Orleans to Wichita would take roughly five and a half hours. Then, to go from Wichita to Red Hill, you’re talking nine hours.’

‘Again, we’re talking about a high school kid – one who was a budding psychopath. It might not have been thoroughly thought out, especially if Hubbard was an impulse kidnapping. If it was, he probably wanted to bring her someplace where he felt safe, like his home turf.’

‘I’m looking to see if Savran had any relatives in Wichita. I’m also still going through that list of contractors and painters who worked on the Downes house the summer before they moved in.’ Coop turned to the door.

‘Hold up.’ Scott’s lips were pursed tight, and his tone changed when he said, ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

78

‘Everyone here appreciates your dedication and hard work,’ Scott said.

Coop stared at him stupidly. ‘Are you giving me the bounce?’

Scott looked uncomfortable. ‘The place where we found the satellite phone,’ he said. ‘That river is a class-three rapid. It merges with another one about a quarter of a mile away.’

‘The Wild Straits,’ Coop said distantly. He had an idea where Scott was leading him.

‘And that one’s a class-five rapid, nasty as hell.’

Coop had searched the areas well into the night. It had been an excruciatingly perilous affair for everyone involved. Not only was the bumpy and uneven terrain strewn with hidden rocks, boulders and downed tree limbs – most of which were obscured underneath at least a good six inches of crusted snow – but the ground was covered in ice. Despite his caution, every step had proved to be a roll of the dice; he had slipped and tripped more than once. One uniform had taken the worst spill, falling ass over elbow and almost rolling straight into the rapids. Fortunately, he walked away with only a sprained ankle and a couple of nasty bruises.

‘I know you and Dr McCormick were very close.’

Were.

‘Sir, I understand –’

‘I don’t think you do,’ Scott said. His voice was quiet. Respectful. ‘We put birds in the sky equipped with thermal imaging. We didn’t find a heat signature anywhere in the woods. If Savran … people who get caught in those rapids, sometimes they’re never found.’

‘That doesn’t mean she’s dead. What if Savran took her as a hostage?’

‘Then why hasn’t he contacted us?’

Coop didn’t have an answer. The feeling of dread that he woke up with each morning gripped him, but he said the words anyway: ‘She could still be alive.’

Scott tried to keep his face empty. ‘DD wants you on the next flight home.’

‘Why?’

‘He thinks you’re too close to this – conflict of interest and all that.’

‘And you? What do you think?’

Scott didn’t have a chance to answer; his satellite phone started ringing.