Redemption (29 page)

Jane crested the hill. Looking up the two-lane road less than a quarter mile, she spotted the white Firebird with the distinctive red stripe. It was parked on an unsteady angle off the right side of the road. She obscured herself in the shadows of the conifers and walked toward the car. The echoing sound of the hammer continued for another few seconds before abating. She spotted movement about 100 feet in front of the Firebird. Peering closely, she identified the boy walking back to his car carrying the hammer. It would be an easy sprint for Jane. She knew she could reach his car just about the time he got to it. She could strike up a conversation. Pretend she was lost. Anything, she reasoned, to draw him into her web.

Picking up the pace, Jane jogged with purpose toward the Firebird. The lonely road and the echoing of her feet slapping against the wet gravel attracted the boy’s attention. He looked up, then resumed his gait with greater resolve toward his car. “Excuse me!” Jane yelled, waving her hand in the air. “I need directions! I’m lost!”

The boy reached the driver’s door and hastily got into his car. He steered the Firebird back onto the road and drove away from the scene. It took Jane less than a minute to stand in the spot where the Firebird had been parked. The sound of paper flapping in the wet breeze caught her attention. Turning toward the
fluttering noise, Jane discovered one missing child poster of Charlotte Walker after another, hammered to the trunks of trees along the road. The niggling idea crossed her mind that the best way for a criminal to cover his tracks and protect himself is to join the search effort for the missing victim. And what better way for that perp to feel the power of his crime than by driving a nail through his victim’s head as he hammers her picture onto a tree?

Jane arrived back at the Cabins twenty minutes later. Jogging into the parking lot, she spotted an odd sight. There was Kit, dressed in her purple pants and heavy winter coat, walking backward in circles around the perimeter of the parking lot. And she was chanting. At least, it looked as if she were chanting from where Jane stood observing the disjointed scene. Kit’s bizarre actions were attracting the attention of a few media technicians. Jane briefly considered corralling Kit and hauling her back into the room. But she weighed that option against the fact that Kit’s momentary absence afforded Jane the opportunity to do some quick investigative work on her computer. She headed for the cabin, eager to retrieve her partial cigarette from the window ledge. However, the cigarette was gone. Jane checked the surrounding area, thinking the wind may have swept it away, but she found nothing. The morning was starting off on a bad note.

Inside the cabin, Jane hurriedly turned on her laptop computer. While she waited for it to boot up, she grabbed the local phone book from the top drawer of the bureau. It was a long shot that Lou would be listed in the white pages, but Jane had lucked out before by using the most obvious means of investigative know-how. It wouldn’t work this time; there was no Lou Peters in the phone book. Jane quickly pulled out the voluminous files Kit gave her on Lou’s case and searched specific pages where addresses were listed. All she found was Lou’s prior address in Mariposa. Jane recalled Kit telling her that Lou dutifully called his bondsman to tell him he was moving to Oakhurst, but unfortunately, that address never made it into Kit’s hands.

The computer beeped to alert Jane it was ready for action. Jane opened her Internet program and clicked on her bookmark “Favorites,” opening one of her many subscription service Web sites. This particular site—
sexcriminals.com
—included a national directory that listed registered sex offenders by county within each state. Jane selected Madera County after checking the phone book cover for Oakhurst. She typed in her professional ID number and password to gain access. Within a few seconds, the page of names appeared. Scrolling down the page, Jane spotted Lou’s name and address. Typing the address into MapQuest, Jane determined the location was about eight miles away on a rural road that skirted the edge of Oakhurst. Footsteps neared the cabin. Jane quickly jotted down the address before snapping her laptop shut.

Kit walked breathlessly into the cabin, closing the door behind her. “What an invigorating morning!” she gushed. “I trust your jog was as exhilarating?”

“Yeah,” Jane guardedly replied.

Kit glanced toward the laptop. “Checking your e-mails?”

It was this sort of questioning that Jane hoped to avoid with Kit. “You got it,” Jane said in a distant manner. Kit meandered around Jane toward her bed. “You have any idea what happened to the cigarette on the window ledge?”

Kit melted onto the bed, stretching like a cat. “Yes. I disposed of it.”

Jane’s ire swelled inside her chest. “I left it there for a reason! It’s a ritual. I get dressed for my run, light a cigarette, take a few drags, crush out the tip, and leave it outside the door so I can relight it when I get back and finish it!”

Kit regarded Jane as if she were insane. “Aren’t you running to
improve
your health? Isn’t cigarette smoking antagonistic to that endeavor?”

“I run when I need to think more clearly!
And
I like rituals—”

“Like all alcoholics do,” Kit added matter-of-factly. “That’s not a judgment, by the way. I love rituals. But some can be selfdestructive. Case in point, the cigarette.”

Jane moved toward Kit’s bed. “That was
not
your cigarette to dispose of! If I want to smoke, go for a run, and then smoke the rest of it when I come back,
I will do it
!”

“That simply doesn’t make any sense,” Kit countered, twisting her body to the right until she successfully popped her spine.

“And walking backward in circles, chanting to yourself in front of television crews makes more sense?”

“Absolutely,” Kit said casually. “I learned the technique from a Chinese acupuncturist. Walking backward in circles or in a straight line for twenty minutes every day relieves pressure in the low back. It’s very common in China. They have walking backward breaks the same way we have coffee breaks. You should try it sometime. And I wasn’t chanting. I was softly singing ‘Me and Bobby McGee.’
God
, I still miss Janis—”

Jane took Kit’s rambling as another attempt to conjure a sense of openness with her, whereby Jane would drop her guard. “
I
was under the impression that we’re attempting to
not
draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves. Isn’t that our agreed upon objective?”

“Of course.”

“So don’t you think that walking backward in circles singing ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ might contradict that objective?”

Kit furrowed her brow. “My goodness. You sound like a lawyer.” Kit rolled off the bed, heading for the bathroom. “I intend to walk backward and sing whenever I want to. And you’re welcome to join me anytime.”

Kit closed the bathroom door, leaving Jane stewing. Locating her large stash of gourmet coffee, Jane set about to make her first strong brew of java. As the coffee percolated, she ducked outside, lit a cigarette, and stood in the softly falling rain sucking every drop of nicotine she could into her lungs.

When Kit emerged, Jane wasted no time. She grabbed a pair of jeans, wool socks, underwear, and a brown turtleneck and ensconced herself in the rust-colored box known as the Hop Sing bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, she reappeared, fully dressed, hair half wet, and eager to wrap her hands around a tall cup of
coffee. However, there was less than six ounces remaining in the decanter. “What the hell?” Jane said out loud.

“Oh, I poured two cups off,” Kit announced from her perch on the bed. “I hope that’s all right. I need it for later. Since you’ll be gone all day and not in need of my assistance, I figured I’d take advantage of my time alone and do a coffee enema. It’s an old, natural protocol for cancer. Really
invigorates
you from the inside out!”

Jane stared at Kit. There was a self-righteous look on her face that Jane read as “Don’t fuck with me, kiddo.” It was the sort of passive-aggressive gaze that Jane took as far more aggressive than passive. First the cigarette and now the coffee.
Fine.
If it was a battle of wills Kit wanted, she’d picked the wrong woman to play her game. “You want the coffee? Take it!” Jane said, happy to call Kit’s bluff. She dug in her duffel bag and retrieved her Glock. Strapping the shoulder holster over her turtleneck, Jane secured the Glock. And she did it all in plain view of Kit.

“You really feel you need a gun?” Kit asked quietly.

Jane looked at Kit. “You never know when someone’s gonna try to fuck with you.” She let the statement linger in the air purely for effect before donning her leather jacket and turning toward the door.

“One thing before you go,” Kit said. Jane turned just as Kit tossed a metal disc in her direction. Jane awkwardly caught it. She looked at the object in disbelief. It was one of her sobriety chips. “Don’t you get one for twenty-four hours?” Kit asked earnestly.

Jane didn’t know what to make of Kit’s bold gesture. As much as she wanted to thank her for saving the chip, she remained silent as she slipped the disc in her jeans pocket. Nobody was going to snare Jane in a trap under the ruse of altruism.

CHAPTER 19

You couldn’t call it gourmet, but The Coffee Cabin certainly knew how to make a strong brew. Jane located the drive-through, log-cabinesque establishment on her way to Lou’s house. The java tasted like the beans had been blackened, but the surge of caffeine made Jane feel more awake and alive than she had in days. The four-dollar jumbo cinnamon roll didn’t hurt, either.

Jane lit a cigarette, feeling a sense of freedom that she was finally allowed to smoke in her own car. As she curved the Mustang down the two-lane highway toward the remote county road address, Jane did what she always did when she worked a case. She contemplated the various possibilities and what might go wrong. Then she systematically developed a loose contingency plan for every possible occurrence. First, she took the worst case scenario. What if she got to the house and found Lou and signs that Charlotte was there? She still wasn’t sold on the idea that Lou had kidnapped Charlotte, but she knew she had to consider every conceivable option. If she found him there with the girl, she’d call for backup. But what if her mobile phone didn’t work out in the boonies? Okay, Jane thought, she had her Glock and she had enough experience dealing with half-cocked psychos over the years to know how to save the victim.

Then Jane considered the absolute worst-worst case scenario: What if she had to kill Lou in order to save Charlotte? Jane felt a thud hit her solar plexus. She had killed one person in her entire career on the force and she had done it because she knew it was the only way to rescue the victim. There was no glory in it, nor was there a sense of relief. There was just the restless playback in her head that she did what she had to do. Jane knew one thing: As much as she hated pulling the trigger that day, she would pull it again if it meant that someone else would live.

The secluded county road popped up sooner than Jane expected. She pulled the Mustang off to the side of the main road and scanned the area. It was an undulating topography of dried grass and barbed wire fences that seemed to hold in nothing but endless acres of dead air. Jane clicked her cell phone on to check for a signal. There was coverage, but it was sketchy.

Turning onto the county road, Jane took her time winding around the paved road and checking the bars on her cell phone. She came to a rundown trailer on her left. Noting the address, Jane realized she had another half mile or so to go before reaching Lou’s house. Driving farther, she came upon yet another trailer, this one painted bright pink. Rounding another turn, she arrived at Lou’s address.

The house was a former, old-time schoolhouse that had been tenuously refurbished just enough to make it livable. Generous curls of gray paint coiled off the sides of the house. The front windows were missing drapes. From Jane’s position, the front yard looked barren. A trio of large trash containers lined the road in front of the house. Each was stuffed so full of trash that the tops could not close. Jane checked her cell phone. There was only one bar. She backed the Mustang 100 feet down the road and parked it under a lone oak tree.

As she walked toward the house, the wind whipped around her body, driving the cold deeper into her bones. The clouds parted briefly, allowing a split second of sunshine to stream onto the road before being smothered by another bank of storm clouds. Jane reached the house and the trash bins. Opening the first one, she found several brown trash bags packed full. The second bin included assorted items that ranged from pieces of old carpeting to rusty tools. The third bin held a mix of old newspapers and plastic water bottles. Apparently, Lou was not into recycling. Out of curiosity, Jane pulled out several newspapers and checked the dates. They were all back issues of Oakhurst’s local paper,
The Sierra Star.
The most recent one was from October, while the oldest dated back to May. Jane dropped the stack back into the bin. As they fell,
the pages fluttered, exposing sections that had been carefully cut out with scissors. Jane retrieved one of the newspapers and flipped through it. The holes ranged from two inches square to half a page. Some of the missing pieces of newspaper were located in the section titled “Religion”; others were located everywhere from the front page to the color insert that featured the weekly specials at the market. Clearly, there was no rhyme or reason to what was cut out.

Jane tossed the paper back into the trash bin and closed the lid. She glanced up at the house and caught a glimpse of gleaming metal partially hidden around the left side of the house. She looked closer and realized it was the back end of a motorcycle. The hair raised on the back of Jane’s neck. Detective Charles Sawyer had mentioned that Lou rode a motorcycle and used it, according to Sawyer, to entice Ashlee.