Say Goodbye (26 page)

“Why didn’t you say something?” Kimberly asked tiredly. “We could’ve helped you, set up a whole operation. You just needed to tell us what was going on.”

“Like my mom begged for help? Or Tommy?” Ginny’s lips curved in a smile at Kimberly’s shocked expression. “Of course Dinchara told me what Aaron did. It was too perfect for him not to share. How Aaron stood there with the gun shaking in his hands. How Tommy begged. Called him sir, offered him his truck, his money, even a blow job. And you can hear Dinchara in the background, this whispering little ghoul, ‘Shoot him, shoot him, shoot him, pull the fucking trigger, you pantywaist. Shoot him, shoot him, shoot him…’ Until Aaron pulls the trigger.

“I still hear it, sometimes late at night. My mom screaming, Tommy begging. And Dinchara, chortling away. So really, how are you gonna help me, Little Miss FBI? How can
anyone
help me?”

Ginny stopped talking. Her hands were still on her stomach, caressing the little round bulge now, trying to soothe.

“Aaron was the one who called me, wasn’t he?” Kimberly asked. “You gave him my cell phone number, he called me to bait the trap.”

“He gave you information,” Ginny countered. “All you had to do was find Dinchara, and none of this woulda happened.”

“And the packets of driver’s licenses, left on Special Agent Martignetti’s windshield?”

Ginny shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I was just doing what I was told.”

“
You
delivered them?” Sal interrupted. “But why? Ordered by whom?”

Ginny gave him a funny look. “By Dinchara, of course. Who the hell do you think’s running this show?”

Kimberly shared Sal’s confusion. “Dinchara
wanted
the IDs delivered to the GBI?”

“He wanted them delivered to Special Agent Martignetti. Showed me a picture of him and everything.”

“Why?”

“
Why?
Why not? Haven’t you guys been paying attention? You don’t ask Dinchara any questions. Not if you plan to live. He told me what to do. I did it. End of story.”

Kimberly frowned, not liking this bit of news.

Duff cleared his throat. “Ma’am, this Mr. Dinchara, he got a real name, a physical address? That’s the kind of information we need.”

“I don’t know.”

“Liar,” Kimberly said immediately.

“Hey, I already said—”

“Liar!” Kimberly slapped a photo on the table. They’d taken it from Ginny’s purse an hour earlier. The tattered black-and-white showed Ginny and Aaron, foreheads touching, laughing about something only they understood. Now the close-up caused both Ginny and Sal to do a double take. “Afternoons together at the mall. PDAs, photo ops. Obviously you developed a relationship with Aaron. Only way that happened is if Dinchara introduced you two.”

“He brought Aaron on one of his trips to Sandy Springs—”

“What, and graciously paid for Aaron to make whoopee?”

“And
filmed
us having sex. That’s what he does. Makes porn, then sells it on the Internet. You know the perv that sends out spam asking if you want to see pictures of a thirteen-year-old having sex with a goat? That’s Dinchara.”

“So he has a studio—”

“Backseat of a car—”

“Bullshit. Not for an operation that involved. He’s got a studio, in a house, where he’s taken you and you’ve been with Aaron.”

“I was blindfolded!” the girl cried. “He never let me see. You don’t know what he’s like—”

“Bullshit! We know exactly what he’s like. I got files of just his kind stacked all over my desk. Now stop stalling and tell us what we need to know.”

But Ginny wasn’t having it. She leaned over the table, wild-eyed. “No, really, you haven’t met his kind. I didn’t realize it, either. Not until he took off his hat. He doesn’t just like spiders. He thinks he
is
one. Honest to God, he has eyes tattooed all over his forehead.”

It took another two hours. Ginny denied knowing about the second boy. She insisted Dinchara always kept her blindfolded. She’d never met Aaron on her own, she didn’t know nothing about anything.

One a.m. Two a.m. Kimberly’s team had arrived. Rachel Childs led the work in the hotel room. Kimberly disappeared long enough to give a statement, have her hands swabbed for GSR, have her face photographed. When Harold was done with the photos, she asked him to accompany her back down to the basement dining room with the camera.

Ginny still sat at the end of the table, pale, hands shaking from exhaustion. Sal had moved to the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his features shut down, impossible to read. Rainie had disappeared, probably back to her room to sleep. Only Quincy and Duff seemed to still be hanging in there.

Kimberly placed the digital camera in front of Ginny. She started with the first close-up of Aaron Johnson, revealing his shattered skull. She went through all one hundred and fifty-two photos.

“This is what Dinchara did,” Kimberly stated calmly.
Click, click, click.
“He twisted Aaron.”
Click, click, click
. “Corrupted him.”
Click, click, click
. “Destroyed him.

“Aaron killed himself because he thought if he stayed alive, he would harm your child. Isn’t that what Dinchara taught him? You must destroy the thing you love. And he loved you, Ginny. With this bullet, fired into his brain, he sent you his love the only way he knew how.

“So what’s it going to be? Are you going to let Dinchara get away with this?”

“I hate you.”

“Going to write off one more loss? Going to try to return to a world where a man like Dinchara roams free—and knows all about your baby? What’s it gonna be?”

“He’s going to kill you. Once he hears about Aaron, it’s only a matter of time.”

“What’s it gonna be, Ginny?”

“He’ll go after me, too, if I help you. He’ll know. He knows everything.”

“So what’s it gonna be?”

Ginny Jones hugged her belly. She started to cry. Then she gave up the address.

Sal pushed away from the wall. “All right,” he said. “I’m calling SWAT.”

THIRTY-SIX

“Spiders tend to be solitary hunters…”

FROM “SPIDER WOMAN,”
BY BURKHARD BILGER,
New Yorker,
MARCH
5, 2007

HENRIETTA WAS DEAD. HE FOUND HER ON HER BACK inside the ICU, mangled legs curled up tight against her abdomen. He prodded her with his finger, the way a child poked a lifeless pet long after the moment had passed. Henrietta didn’t move. He tried one more time. Wasn’t ever going to move again.

He sat back in the darkened bathroom and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

Was this what grief felt like? A hard, tight feeling in the chest, a shortness of breath, an overwhelming desire to scream? He pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. It didn’t give him any relief. He could feel the pressure building, building, building.

And for no good reason, he thought of that toddler, the one the Burgerman had forced him to bury under the azalea bushes. His throat burned and his shoulders shook and he hated everything about it, the force of his grief, the ugly sound of his sobs, the impotence of his own pathetic tears.

The police had never recovered the boy’s body. The man knew because he searched the Internet from time to time. That boy remained lost, just as he himself was lost and Aaron and the new boy Scott, and approximately tens of thousands of other children each year.

His brother had been right, so many naughty boys for the Burgerman to grind into dust.

That’s what he’d been doing for decades now. Grinding, grinding, grinding. Devouring lives by the dozen, from the innocent to the not-so-innocent. It hardly mattered to him. He took, because destroying others was the only time he wasn’t afraid.

The end was coming. He could feel it now. The police scanner had been humming for the past three hours with word on a shooting at the historic Smith House. The dead was not a federal agent, but an unidentified boy. Aaron had failed. The agent had gotten him first, or who knows what. It hardly mattered. Henrietta was dead, Aaron was dead, and the younger boy had disappeared into the house lower on the hill. All that was left was Ginny, and she was nothing but a lying slut.

If the police found her first, she would give him up. Betrayal was what women did best.

He had to think, form a plan, but first, of course, he needed to tend to Henrietta.

Three-oh-five a.m. He happened to glance at the time, and the moment he noted the hour, it came to him. He knew exactly what needed to happen.

He laid out Henrietta in the middle of his bed. Then he crossed to his shelves, where the rest of his collection rested in row upon row of glass terrariums. He started on the left side and worked his way to the right, removing each lid. Then on to the nursery, the brown recluses’ room, the spinners’ room. Slowly, methodically, he set each and every spider free.

Then, out in the garage, he gathered half a dozen cans of gasoline.

He started with the computer, as that had the most evidence against him. Then into the living room, saturating the sofa cushions, the curtains, the cheap particleboard bookcases. Then into the boys’ room, moving from there up the stairs into his inner sanctum. He soaked the mattress bearing Henrietta’s body, a funeral pyre for a great warrior. Then headed back to the garage for the final two cans.

He heard sirens in the distance. More patrol officers heading to the Smith House. Or coming for him?

He’d already spent ten long years in the cruelest goddamn prison on earth. Like hell he was going back.

They should’ve found him, he thought with a fresh burst of outrage, uncapping the gas can, pouring, pouring, pouring. The stupid police should’ve trailed the Burgerman, burst into that first hotel room, and carried him valiantly away. But no, they never came. Not once in ten years. Not even at the bitter end.

They had failed him. They had let him become what he had become.

And now he would show them. He would show them everything the Burgerman had taught him how to do.

Last gasoline can was empty. He threw it into the guest bedroom in disgust, droplets spraying onto his hand and filling his nose with an acrid odor. He could hear the sirens again, gaining in intensity.

Not much time left.

At the top of the landing, he had to dance over four hairy forms, the first of the tarantulas escaping from their terrariums, trying to get the lay of the land. He took the stairs two at a time. At the bottom, he found two more of his pets, already locked in a savage embrace, fangs trying to rip through hard exoskeletons, legs grappling with each other’s heads. First taste of freedom and the territorial cannibals had already started to fight.

Girls,
he wanted to tell them,
you ain’t seen nothin’ yet
.

But no time for talking. He jerked open the hall closet, where he kept the gun safe. A swirl of the dial, flick of the wrist. He popped open the vault and regarded his arsenal.

Sirens, cresting over the hill.

Nine millimeter, Glock .40, shotgun, .22 rifle. Boxes and boxes of ammo. He stuffed everything into his rifle bag, hands shaking, spilling out some of the shells.

Tires, screeching out front.

“Fuck it!”
The man grabbed his bag and bolted for the back patio.

At the last moment, he remembered, fishing the Zippo lighter from his pants pocket, and letting it rip.

The first spray of fire leapt through the kitchen, singeing the hair on the back of his hands, making the droplets of gasoline on his own flesh start to burn. He swatted at his left hand impatiently, watching as the fire burst down the hall and made a mad dash for the stairs.

And maybe it was just his imagination, but he thought he heard the first spider start to scream.

Destroying the thing he loved. Doing what he did best.

Except there was one more person who owed him. A love that had never died, even after all these years. Aaron had failed. The Burgerman would not.

He hefted the dark green bag over his shoulder and slipped out the back door, as a white police van roared into his driveway, as the downstairs window blew out with the force of the flames, and as his entire collection started to burn.

Rita was awake and looking out her window when the first siren split the air. She didn’t react to the sound, but stayed in bed, watching as a bright orange ball rose above the trees.

She understood immediately where the fire was coming from, the old Victorian up the hill.

And it didn’t surprise her one whit when the boy suddenly appeared in her doorway, hands behind his back.

She didn’t talk, just threw back the covers, got out her gun.

“Child, you have something to do with this?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Been here all night?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right. He’s coming then. We’d better tend to the doors and windows.”

The boy drew out a knife.

THIRTY-SEVEN

“…spiders kill at an astonishing pace. One Dutch researcher estimates that there are some five trillion spiders in the Netherlands alone, each of which consumes about a tenth of a gram of meat a day. Were their victims people instead of insects, they would need only three days to eat all sixteen and a half million Dutchmen.”

FROM “SPIDER WOMAN,”
BY BURKHARD BILGER,
New Yorker,
MARCH
5, 2007

BY THE TIME KIMBERLY AND SAL ARRIVED, THE HOUSE at the address provided by Ginny was engulfed in flames. The fire department had deployed, stubbornly working their hoses, but Kimberly and Sal could tell it was a lost cause.

They stood at the perimeter, watching orange flames light up the night sky while feeling the heat of the blaze against their cheeks. Neighbors clustered around them, belting their bathrobes against the drizzling rain as they gathered in the street to watch the show.

“Pity,” an older woman commented, gray hair neatly arranged in row after row of pin curls, “used to be such a pretty house in its day.”

“You know the owner?” Sal asked sharply, he and Kimberly moving closer.

But the woman shook her head. “Used to, long time ago. But the house sold two, maybe three years ago. Rarely saw the new owner. He certainly didn’t take an interest in caring for the house or garden, I can tell you that.” She gave a disapproving sniff.

“You said he,” Kimberly pressed.

The woman shrugged. “That’s all I ever saw—younger guy climbing in and out of his black SUV. Always wearing a baseball cap, even in the dead of winter. Struck me as an odd sort. He definitely wasn’t friendly.”

“He wasn’t,” another man chimed in, standing a few feet away in a blue flannel robe. “My wife brought over a plate of brownies to welcome him to the neighborhood. Through the side window, she could see him standing in the entryway, after she rang the doorbell. But he didn’t open the door. Finally, she just set down the brownies and left. Definitely an odd duck.”

“Ever see a boy?” Sal asked.

Man frowned. “Eighteen, nineteen years old? He rarely left the house. I figured he was the son.”

“There’s a younger boy, too.” The first woman spoke up authoritatively. “At least lately, I’ve been seeing one out in the yard. Don’t know if he’s just visiting or not.”

Sal and Kimberly exchanged glances. “And tonight?”

“Didn’t see a thing,” the woman provided. “Least not till I heard the sirens and realized there was a fire.”

They turned to the man. He shrugged apologetically. Apparently, the neighbors on this street actually slept. Which was more than Sal or Kimberly could say for their evening.

They rounded up the first responder, a young deputy who didn’t have much to add. He’d heard Dispatch ordering all units to the address in pursuit of an unidentified suspect. When he’d arrived, the first red coils of fire already glowed in the front windows. Next thing he knew, the windows blew out and the house was one giant fireball. He put in a call to the fire department and that was that.

They tried the fire chief, a portly man with a graying mustache and a weathered complexion.

“Definitely an accelerant,” he boomed. “No way a structure would’ve lit up this fast in these wet conditions without a little help. From the smell, I’d guess gasoline, but we gotta get Mike in before we’ll know more.”

Mike turned out to be the county arson specialist. He’d been called, but couldn’t begin his walk-through until the fire was extinguished and the building cooled and secured. Probably late morning at the earliest, if not midafternoon.

In other words, nothing to report, nothing to do. Get some sleep, the fire chief advised them. He’d let them know when it was their turn to play.

Kimberly thought that was pretty funny. As if she’d ever sleep again. Just the thought of it made her giggle in a way that wasn’t entirely sane. And she could feel the heat again, smell the astringent odors of burning insulation, melting electrical wires, sprayed gasoline.

She wondered about the younger child. If somewhere in that burning structure, a small body was already curling up in a pugilist’s stance. She had failed one boy this evening. And his younger counterpart? The so-called
replacement
?

The fire punched its first hole through the roof, discovering a fresh supply of oxygen and exploding with an ear-cracking roar. There was a warning groan from the old structure. A yell to fall back from the fire crew.

Then, with a tremendous, creaking sigh, the old house twisted, seeming to hang in midair one last moment. Then it collapsed. Red embers spewed into the darkness. Fresh flames skyrocketed into the overcast night. The neighbors gasped. The fire crew surged forward with renewed determination.

Sal led Kimberly back to his car. They drove wordlessly to the hotel, where Rainie and Quincy slept, where Kimberly’s ERT team worked, and where the remains of a lone boy were finally being loaded up by the EMT. Ginny Jones had already been taken away to the county lockup. One ordeal ending, the next just beginning.

Sal led Kimberly to his room.

“He knows,” Kimberly murmured. “Dinchara knows that Aaron failed. That’s why he lit the fire. Because he knew we were coming and wanted to cover his tracks.”

Sal drew back the bedcovers, sat her on the edge of the bed, then carefully laid her down and tucked her in.

“We need to do something,” Kimberly continued relentlessly. “What if he decides the younger boy is a liability? Or what if he decides to come after us? We need a plan.”

Sal picked up a pillow, placed it on the floor.

“He’s coming, Sal. I can feel it. He’s going to do something awful.”

“Sleep,” Sal told her. He lay down on the floor, no blankets, just the pillow.

Kimberly stared at him in amazement. Then, much to her own surprise, she closed her eyes and the world mercifully disappeared.

“Here’s the deal,” Sheriff Duffy explained shortly after eleven a.m. He’d convened the first task force meeting in the basement of the Smith House. Everyone was in attendance, including Kimberly’s evidence response team and a bunch of local deputies who’d already been up all night. Coffee flowed fast and furious, followed by platters of buttermilk biscuits and homemade sausage. As task force meetings went, the food was superb.

“There are two major trails leading up Blood Mountain.” Sheriff Duffy had a large USGS map spread out on the first table. Now he stabbed the first thickly drawn line with his dark finger. “There’s the Woody Gap trail off of Highway Sixty. Or, you can take Highway One-eighty to Lake Winfield Scott and head up Slaughter Gap to Blood Mountain. Slaughter Gap is shorter and steeper; might be an issue if you’re lugging a body and supplies. Both hikes are pretty damn popular, however. I sure as hell can’t figure how two men could drag dead bodies up time after time without someone noticing something.”

“They didn’t follow a major trail.” Kimberly spoke up tiredly. She sat beside her father and Rainie at a second table, cradling a mug of steaming coffee between her hands. Her cell phone was clipped to her waist, still stubbornly silent though she’d already left multiple messages for Mac.

She’d slept for three hours, showered for thirty minutes. She was as close to human as she was going to get.

Sal sat all the way across the room from her. If her father or Rainie thought anything was odd about that, or wondered where she had spent the night, they hadn’t said anything yet.

Kimberly continued now. “The boy, Aaron, said they had their own trail. One above the major trails where they could look down at other hikers. Cub Scouts,” she added belatedly. “He said Dinchara liked to watch the ‘skippy little Cub Scouts.’”

Duff arched a brow. “Last I knew, scout troops hiked either trail. So we’re still looking for a trailhead next to either Woody Gap on Highway Sixty or Slaughter Gap on One-eighty.”

“Or around the other side entirely,” Harold interjected, his lanky frame bent over the map. He drew several lines with his finger. “Look, you could access, here, here, or here. By the time you crest the summit, you’re looking down on either trail. And any of these options would be safer than trying to hike up parallel to a major trail, plus over here in particular, you have a nice smooth ascent. That’s what I’d look at. You know, if I were to haul bodies up a mountain.”

He glanced up in time to catch them all watching him curiously. “Well, I
am
a hiker.”

“I think the problem,” Rachel Childs started to say from her position beside Harold, “is that there are too many options for accessing the summit. You’re talking a good eight miles just to get from the trailhead of Woody Gap to the summit of Blood Mountain. Then there’s the Slaughter Gap side, the connection with the AT, and miscellaneous other ascents. From an ERT perspective, it’s a huge search area in very difficult terrain and in very difficult conditions.”

She gestured absently toward the outside, where the rain fell in a steady drizzle.

“True, true,” Duff conceded. “But if they were carrying bodies up the trail on litters, they must have trod a pretty decent path. We’re not talking bushwhacking our way up a mountain. More like searching the bottom perimeter for the proper opening—”

“Easier said than done given the dense underbrush,” Rainie cut in.

“It will be accessible.” Quincy spoke up abruptly. “Given what we know about the UNSUB, his skill as an outdoorsman, his aptitude for secrecy, it’s quite possible that he’s covered or disguised the entranceway to the trail. But the UNSUB is obviously quite familiar with this area and Blood Mountain. And the dumping grounds in particular are even more special to him, something geographic profilers refer to as a ‘totem place.’ It’s where he can relive his fantasies, as well as alleviate his anxieties. It’s the one place he feels powerful and in control. Naturally, he will want to reconnect with that feeling as much as possible by returning to the totem place.”

“So,” Rachel Childs quizzed drily, “if we just whisper
Abracadabra,
the secret passageway will magically open up and show us the way up the mountain? Either way, we gotta find the opening to the trail. And to do that, we’re gonna need help.”

“You mean the National Guard?” Duff scowled.

“No, I mean trained search experts. Presumably with dogs.”

Duff’s eyes widened. “You think cadaver dogs could catch a scent? I haven’t worked with ’em much myself, but like you said, it’s a good eight miles from trailhead to summit. Can a dog really catch the whiff of a decaying corpse eight miles away?”

Rachel pursed her lips. “I don’t know. I’m not a dog handler. Special Agent Quincy said the subject reported dragging the bodies up the mountain on a litter. That should leave a scent trail.”

But Harold, their resident expert on everything, was shaking his head. “Dogs work off of scent. The human body is constantly shedding skin rafts and bacteria, creating an odor we never notice but is discernible to dogs’ keen sense of smell. In the case of cadaver dogs, the scent is from decomp and starts off strong, but fades as more organic matter disappears. If these dumping grounds are too old, and too far away, there might not be enough scent for the dogs to home in on.”

“I once worked with a pair of dogs that hit on fully skeletalized bones in a dry creek bed,” Rachel countered. “There wasn’t any decaying matter left at that point, either, and they still found the bones.”

“Was the dry creek bed your target area?”

“Yes—”

“Well, there you go. The dogs were working a limited target area, which enabled them to home in on a fainter odor. But in your own words, we’re not a small geographical search area. We got a whole friggin’ mountain.”

“Search dogs,” Kimberly interrupted quietly. “Forget a cadaver dog. What we need are search dogs.”

Her two teammates stopped squabbling long enough to study her.

“Why search dogs?” Rachel spoke up first. “I thought we were looking for the bodies. At the magic totem place.”

“Who were carried up the mountain by two men, one of whom’s clothing we now possess.”

Harold got it first. “Get the socks from the boy’s body,” he filled in excitedly. “Give ’em to the dogs—”

“And tell the dogs to look for the boy. With any luck, they’ll pick up his trail and follow it straight up to the dumping grounds,” Kimberly finished for him, taking another sip of scalding coffee. Her father had finally relaxed beside her, a tacit sign of approval.

“God knows the last time the men headed up the mountain,” Duff spoke up, “I thought, for trailing dogs to work, they had to be on track within hours.”

“Not bloodhounds!” Harold supplied cheerfully. “They can follow a scent that is weeks old, especially in these kinds of cool conditions. Sure, Labs make better cadaver dogs, but still nothing like a pair of bluetick hounds for tracking the escaped felon. Find us a pair of bloodhounds, and we have a chance.”

Everyone stared at the local cop.

“Bloodhounds? In Georgia?” Duff smiled. “Let me make a call.”

The bloodhounds were named LuLu and Fancy, and they were handled by an old-timer who called himself Skeeter. Skeeter wore faded blue overalls and wasn’t much of a people person. He spoke to Sheriff Duffy in a series of shoulder shrugs and head bobs. He didn’t speak to the rest of them at all.

At Harold’s insistence, they started at Highway 180, following a ridgeline Harold had picked up from the elevation map and considered the best hiking option. Despite some mutterings about “totems,” the team had taken to heart Quincy’s assertion that the subject would favor a trail that was accessible and manageable. Even killers were practical.

LuLu and Fancy started working the underbrush with Skeeter, while a German shepherd named Danielle was sent over to the Woody Gap trail with her handler. Another search team was on its way from Atlanta and would be ready to go after lunch, picking up at Lake Winfield Scott.

With LuLu and Fancy on the job, there was nothing for the rest of the task force members to do but stand around, watching the rain drip off the brim of their caps.