Sinister (17 page)

 

 

Snow whispered over his shoulders as he held the binoculars to his face and warmed to the scene beyond the wide windows of the mansion. A family gathering, all the Dillingers basking in the warm yellow light of the big dining room. Such a handsome family Ira Dillinger had there, but no one was crying for Mia Collins? How quickly they forgot the dearly departed.

Although dangerously close to the lodge, he was well hidden in darkness while they moved like actors on a stage, on display for him to dissect with his eyes.

One at a time, one at a time,
he reminded himself. He didn’t want to get greedy and ruin the plan. And while the flock might be hard to control, it was so easy to bring a single lamb to the slaughter.

Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he fingered the sharp edges of the teeth. His charms. Mia’s tooth had been harder to extract; surprisingly deep roots for such a shallow person. But he had it now, a fat molar to round out his collection.

He studied the women behind the window and wondered who would be the next. As his hand moved down, he felt the erection jutted up near the clicking teeth. Smiling, he seared his sharp eyes through to the women in the display case.

Pilar Larson, Ira’s prize, with round breasts and the black hair of a vixen. He would do evil things to her, and she would lap up every abuse like a thirsty cat. Ricki, the tough one, strong and fierce as her flaming red hair, moved into the kitchen. He would have her moving under him like a sleek gazelle. Sabrina, the sunshiny vet. It would be easy to trap her in the shadowy barn one night, press her into the corner until she squealed like a pig.

And then there were the young ones. Kit, the missing one, the wild child who would submit to his glimmering blade. And Brook, a kitten-girl, a rosebud ready to be plucked. Would young blood be sweeter?

He would find out. He would have his taste.

 

 

Fat flakes danced in the air as Ricki pulled into the parking lot at the office. She hoped this new snow wouldn’t be a problem for her sisters, both flying in tomorrow.

“Hey, there, Ricki.” In his white suspenders and red Henley shirt, Chet Norcross looked like Father Christmas himself.

“Merry Christmas,” Ricki said, remembering Chet as Mr. Norcross, her high school civics teacher. “You’re looking festive.”

The dispatcher adjusted the mouthpiece of the cordless device sprouting from his thick, snow-white hair and beard. “My wife and I are big fans of Christmas, and I like to play up the Santa angle.” His chair swiveled toward her and she saw that he had gained weight over the years. Yup, that belly was like a bowlful of jelly. “Welcome to our little family. I heard you hit the ground running, already supervised a search party out on the prairie.”

“I did. I was hoping to bring Sam . . . the sheriff, up to speed on it. Is he around?”

“Back in his office. I think he’s been working the case nonstop since the fire last night. Maybe you can talk some sense into him, get him to sleep. We got a room with some bunks in the back if he really can’t tear himself away.”

Ricki knew how a homicide could drive a person day and night, fill your thoughts and haunt your dreams. “I don’t think I have any sway with him, but we’ll see.” The precinct was quiet, with lights off in the break room and interrogation room. She headed down the hall and knocked on Sam’s half-open door. “Sheriff?”

His head was down, resting on folded arms. Knowing Sam, he had to be near exhaustion to pass out at his desk. She stood there for a moment, longing to smooth down his dark hair and massage his shoulders. The instinct was more maternal than sexual, but the sexual part definitely was there, too.

“Just resting my eyes,” he said without moving.

“You might want to consider resting your eyes back in the bunk room ... or even at home, where you can get decent sleep. Fuel the brain. Keep the pistons firing.”

He lifted his head, his eyes half-closed. “Too much going on.” Straightening, he sat tall, looking professional once again in his navy fleece. “So Kit showed you some caves, where he seemed to be hiding out. Tell me about it.”

“That’s pretty scary—you snapping out of sleep to the facts of the case.” She took a seat in the chair facing his desk. “Do you always do that?”

“I don’t always have two homicides to solve. So tell me about the caves.”

“Colt and I knew the general location, of course. Davis, too. But Kit knew exactly how to find the paths, even with the snow. She told us she’s used the caves for shelter at times, but not recently. Said she’s been staying in a little shed in the woods since the snow started. That maintenance shed down by the creek.” Ricki immediately felt anxious. Kit had spurned Ricki’s attempts to help her, but she couldn’t help worrying about her. “One of the caves had signs that it had been used recently,” she went on. “A fire ring. Bloodstains, which might be animal. And a deer carcass, partly skinned with its throat slashed.”

Sam rubbed his chin, dark with stubble. She’d bet that he really hadn’t gone home all day. “Maybe a hunter used the cave?”

“And left his prize deer there? I don’t know any hunter in this area that would leave behind enough meat to feed his family for a year. And when I mentioned how it was carved up that way, partially skinned, Sabrina and Colton said something about a coyote that had been skinned and abandoned on the Rocking D. Did you hear about that?”

“No, but ranchers kill coyotes and mountain lions all the time.”

“But this was different. Skinned like the other corpses. Sabrina took it in to her lab for a closer look and she said someone had even cut out a tooth.”

Sam squinted at her. “A tooth?”

When she nodded, he turned to his monitor and started clicking the mouse. “Then we have a pattern here,” he said grimly. “The preliminary report from the ME showed that crude tooth extractions were performed on Barstow and Collins. In Mia’s case, it was a molar and the killer had to dig deep.”

Adrenaline tingled in her veins—a mixture of “aha” and horror—as she jumped up and leaned over his desk to view the report. “He’s taking a tooth, one from each of his victims.”

“That assumes that Barstow and Collins were killed by the same person who skinned the coyote and deer,” he said.

“Well?”

He ran his knuckles over his chin and nodded. “Seems likely.”

“I started to suspect this when I saw that Barstow and Collins were carved up in the same way. But now, with these animals and the missing teeth, I feel him breathing down our necks. He’s out there, Sam. We’ve got a serial killer in Prairie Creek. A twisted one, with some wicked knife skills.”

“Those teeth . . .”

“They’re trophies. Trinkets. Maybe he keeps them in jars. Maybe he’s stringing them into a necklace.”

Sam let out a heavy breath. “Lot of folks in these parts know how to skin and quarter an animal. It’s a matter of survival. But this guy’s an expert.”

“Not just experienced. Trained. When I saw Mia Collins all carved up, it made me think of my biology class at Wyoming State. You know, in the lab when they slice off a cat’s skin and pin it back. Those perfect cuts so you can see the muscles and bone . . .”

“Maybe a surgeon, or taxidermist,” he suggested.

“Or a butcher. A meat cutter knows anatomy ... and talk about knife skills.”

“Maybe he’s just passing through. Serial killers wander.”

“Maybe,” Ricki agreed. Neither one of them said anything for a moment. Looking at him, Ricki felt a surge of energy. Tossing out ideas with Sam got her mind spinning, her investigative juices flowing. They were on the same wavelength.

He pulled out a notepad. “Let’s get a list of possibles. Persons of interest. Surgeons, doctors, butchers . . .”

“Does Clyde Denowski still do taxidermy?” she asked.

“He’s the only one that I know of within a hundred miles.”

“And how about Dodge Miller? He used to have that expensive butcher shop off Main Street.”

“Had to close. With the bad economy, people couldn’t afford expensive cuts of meat at his prices. Most people buy their meat at that wholesale store in Lander.”

“So what happened to Dodge?”

“He’s working at the wholesale store now, always complains about it when I see him. Hates the drive out to Lander.”

“Maybe we should talk to him,” Ricki said.

Sam was nodding. “First thing tomorrow.” He stretched and yawned. “I’d do it now, but most people don’t take kindly to having the sheriff drop in this late at night. That’s okay. I’ve got to go over these reports more closely.”

“Let me know when the information comes back from forensics,” Ricki said.

“Will do. It could be that the place was used by some hunters, but from the smell, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t be surprised if our killer moves from place to place, staying ahead of anyone who might be out there. Those acres are fairly deserted, but you’ve always got stray cattle and ranch hands, as well as the odd wanderer like Kit Dillinger.”

She thought hard for a moment, knowing she needed to talk to him about her failure to keep Kit contained. “One of these days Kit’s going to have to come back to earth long enough to plan her mother’s funeral. As far as protecting her, it’s not easy. She wants to be near the animals and she’s hanging out at the stables. I can’t get her to come back.”

“Kit could be the killer’s next target. She’ll be able to roam free again someday, but not right now.”

“Well, good luck with that. Maybe she’ll believe that if she hears it from you. Or from Davis. She respects him. And he seems really worried about her. There’s something weird there ... can’t put my finger on it. Can you ask your brother about it?”

“Apparently my brother can’t be trusted.”

“Say what?”

“I drove out to the Rocking D just after dawn to talk with him. I wanted the names of his recent ranch hands. Routine part of the investigation. He was in a foul mood, but now that I hear about the coyote, I know he’s holding something back. He didn’t say a word about it.”

Ricki thought back to Davis’s discomfort in the caves. “You need to talk to him again.”

“I have half a mind to arrest him for obstructing justice.”

“Spoken as a bossy big brother. I know because I have one.” Her cell phone buzzed in her jacket pocket. “But there comes a point when age is no longer the great dictator.” She glanced at her phone. “It’s Brook. Sorry.” She took the call. “Hey, honey. I’m right in the middle of something.”

“When are you coming home?” Brook’s voice was shaky.

Ricki was on her feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Pilar sent me home. She said I’d be fine if I locked the door. So now I’m here alone with Rudolph and . . . I thought I heard something out by the woodpile.”

“Good God.” When Sam looked up, she said tersely, “Pilar booted Brook out and she’s alone at the foreman’s house.” She covered her phone. “She thinks she hears someone outside.”

Sam leapt up and grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go.”

Ricki followed him out the door, phone pressed to her ear. “Did you lock the door behind you?” And had she locked the kitchen window? She always opened it when she cooked bacon and she was pretty sure Kit had escaped through it.

“Of course I did. Why did Pilar do that to me?”

“I’ll have a talk with her. Do you want to go back to the lodge? I’ll have Grandpa come get you.”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “I’m too scared to go out in the dark, and I’m not opening the door to anyone.”

“Okay.” Ricki climbed into Sam’s Jeep, a knot in her throat. She told herself her daughter would probably be fine, that it was merely Brook’s vivid imagination, but her galloping heart wasn’t listening.

What was the noise that Brook had heard? The sound of
him
trying to get into the house?

“I’m on my way,” she said tautly. “Stay on the phone. Just keep talking to me.”

With lights flashing, Sam sped down the state road, ignoring the snow that shimmered in the headlights. As he listened to Ricki’s end of the conversation, he considered the choice words he would have for Pilar Larson, sending Brook out alone after dark when there was a killer at large. Foolish. Irresponsible. Reprehensible.

He had no patience for people who didn’t take care of their own family. Maybe he wasn’t winning any awards as father of the year, doing the long-distance parenting thing, but he made sure his daughter, Ava, got what she needed. Hearing the strain in Ricki’s voice, he hoped to God Brook was safe. She was priority one.

And once he was out at the ranch, he’d have some face time with his brother. Davis had been holding back, and Sam wanted to know why. Sam wouldn’t stop till he cut through to the truth.

“Stay calm,” Ricki told her daughter. “Try to watch TV. One of those housewife shows.”

Sam could hear the strain in Ricki’s voice; she was right to worry. The image of bare bone and muscle and skin curling at the edges flashed in his mind, and he tamped it down, focusing on the road.

“You want to be able to hear if there are any more sounds? That’s actually a good idea. Where are you hiding? The closet. I hear Rudolph there. Yes, I’ve heard those stories of animals that have saved people’s lives. Okay, honey. You just stay put. We’ll be there in a flash.”

Ricki was still talking with Brook when they came to the turnoff for the Rocking D. He slowed the vehicle as they headed toward the main gates. He could tell Ricki was anxious, but she put up a good front for her daughter.

The foreman’s cabin in sight, he turned to Ricki and mouthed: “You have a gun?”

She pressed the phone to her jacket and reached for the small five-shot clipped to her belt. “My off-duty pistol. It’ll scare Brook’s socks off if she sees it.”

“Then don’t let her see it.” He drew his gun. “I’ll clear the interior with you, then check outside. She said she heard something by the woodpile, right?”

“Yes. The wood’s stacked under the living room window, on the west side.”

That pile needed to be moved—too combustible to sit against the house—but they could work on that later.

“We’re here, honey. I’m just unlocking the door, and Sam and I are going to search the place when we get inside.”

The door open, they moved in one at a time, pressed against walls, clearing the place, room by room. Standard defensive tactics, and Ricki played them well, like a seasoned dance partner who signaled right or left or blinked when it was time to swing around. At times like this, Sam felt like he’d had Ricki beside him all his life.

“Brook?” Ricki called into the small bedroom. When the girl answered, Sam headed outside to check around the house. He shined his flashlight on the woodpile, which seemed to be intact. Could have been an animal burrowing in. Another reason you didn’t want a stack of wood leaning against your house.

Inside, he found Ricki hugging her daughter. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. “It was really smart to hide in the closet.”

“Don’t leave me here alone again, Mom.”

Ricki’s mouth tightened. “You were supposed to stay at the big lodge. Pilar is such a—piece of work.” She had to bite back what she really wanted to say.

Brook pulled her zebra print blanket tighter over her shoulders. “Where’s Kit?”

“At the stables,” Ricki said, hoping it was true.

“I’m going to head over there now,” Sam said, tucking his flashlight under his arm. “I think you and your mom should be sleeping up at the big lodge. Don’t they have some spare rooms up there?”

“Only about half a dozen,” Ricki said. “You’re right. It’s not safe for Brook to be sleeping here alone while I’m out and about doing police work.” Again, she hugged her still-shivering daughter. “Why don’t you grab some stuff and put your boots on.”

Brook looked up at Sam. “Can I bring Rudolph?”

Ricki opened her mouth to say yes, then stopped herself. She didn’t want to weaken her position when she took on Pilar. “We’ll leave him for now, but he’ll be fine. I promise.”

Brook seemed about to argue, but apparently her fear was too great and she simply nodded jerkily.

“You’re safer up there,” Sam told her. “We don’t want to take any chances.”

There was a meow, and Brook bent down and scooped the white kitten into her arms. “Will you miss me?”

As Brook took the kitten off to gather her things, Ricki clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder to steady herself. “Nothing is so scary as thinking your kid is in jeopardy.”

Sam rubbed her back—a move meant to comfort, though the contact charged him up in a way that didn’t seem quite right for a man on duty. “She’s going to be fine.”

He dropped his hand away when Brook returned. He would have to learn to keep it to himself. As he and Ricki shifted Brook’s pillow and clothes up to the lodge on the hill, Brook was surprisingly polite and cooperative for a kid her age. Pilar was in bed when they arrived, but Ricki gave Ira a piece of her mind, and Sam followed it up with a stern warning to keep the doors locked and look after his granddaughter.

“I’ll lock the doors and turn on the alarm,” Ira agreed. “But I’ve got a cabinet full of guns, and I always keep a revolver upstairs beside the bed, just in case.”

Sam frowned. “Mind you don’t shoot a family member with that.” Domestic disputes comprised the majority of the shootings in Prairie Creek. “And be careful. You’ve got a child in the house. Have you familiarized Rourke with guns? Does he know how to shoot?”

“Hell, no. Pilar’s mollycoddled him,” Ira grumbled, “but I’ll get him going.” Then he glared balefully at Ricki. “I talked to Delilah. She’s no wedding planner.”

“I know,” Ricki said, exasperated, “but she’s a planner, at least.”

He waved her off with a dismissive hand and Sam was amused to see Ricki roll her eyes after his back was turned.

After Brook headed upstairs, Sam thought he’d be saying good night, but Ricki told him she was coming along to the stables. “I won’t sleep until I know Kit is okay.”

Sam couldn’t help thinking it would be nice to have her along.

When they entered the stables they saw the horses had been fed and settled in their stalls for the night, but there was no sign of either Kit or Davis. Ricki looked in on the pregnant mare; she was resting comfortably for the moment, it appeared. Sam tried to reach Davis on his cell. “No luck,” he told Ricki.

“Well, we’ve got two horses missing, and one of them is Luna, his mount, so he may be out there, out of range of cell service. I’m hoping Kit is with him.”

“Does he usually work this late at night?” Sam asked.

“Sometimes. As long as everything gets taken care of, nobody really cares what hours he works.”

They decided to ride out and follow the tracks leading away from the stables. Ricki showed him the tack room, and he lifted two saddles onto horses she brought over. Working together, they had the two horses ready to ride in a few minutes.

The wind had died down, and snowflakes lingered in the air like a white mist. He could get used to this, having Ricki by his side. He sat high on his mount as she pointed to the tracks in the fresh snow.

“Two sets of tracks, heading down toward Copper Woods. I hope that’s our mark,” Ricki said.

“You have to wonder why Kit would go out in this storm. Where the hell is she going?”

“Nobody knows what she does out on the prairie, or exactly where she stays. She just wanders, and as long as she doesn’t hurt the stock, Dad doesn’t mind.”

“Where was she the night of the church fire?” Sam mused aloud. “When her mother was killed?”

Ricki stared at the fields of white as their horses plodded down the trail. “You think Kit might be the killer?” Her skeptical tone indicated that she thought he was way off base.

“We need to consider everybody. That’s all I’m sayin’. Everyone knows she and Mia never got along. And she’s been in the vicinity of both murders.”

Snow collected on the Stetson she’d grabbed from the barn, and there was something about the contrast of Ricki’s soft, feminine face under a carved, manly hat that appealed to him.

“I don’t suppose you tracked too many people in New York on horseback,” he observed.

“Try none. They use the mounted police mostly for crowd control and parades.”

He nodded, suddenly sober. “It’s a dark day in Prairie Creek when a kid like Brook isn’t safe at home alone.” He didn’t want to think about the things that had happened on his watch. They needed to end the killing, stop the predator. “We’ve got to get this guy.”

“Damn straight.”

Their words fell off and the only sound was the tapping of icy snowflakes on their hats. A companionable silence, Sam thought as he stole a look over at her. Yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

 

 

Concealed by a snow-covered pine, Davis watched her dance in the snow and felt a growing alarm. Was Kit a killer? Had animal instinct taken over, defying the laws of man? To leave tonight while Babylon drew closer to birth meant she had something to do that was pretty damn important.

Kit was so far afield ... so out there.

Davis Featherstone knew how it felt to live on the outside. Cast out from the safety of a family. Outside the circle of the law.

When he was seventeen, right around Kit’s age, he’d pushed all the limits. Beer and girls and weed. He’d gambled away the few bits he could scrape together. He’d been at the center of plenty of barroom brawls, drunk out of his mind. Wasted and hungry. Surly with the teachers who wanted respect for their useless knowledge. At his best, he was a decent ranch hand. At his worst, he was a common criminal.

One night, feeling his oats, he’d stolen a shiny new truck and made a run for Vegas. He hadn’t gotten too far when the cops found him. The cops had tossed him into jail for grand theft auto. But the vehicle’s owner had demanded that the charges be dropped. He claimed that the truck had been a loan to the kid.

Ira Dillinger was the owner of that truck. He’d saved Davis from doing big-time in a state prison. He’d also given him steady work as a ranch hand and a place to stay in the bunkhouse, away from the violence at home. The boss had saved Davis’s life, but no one had been able to reach Kit in the same way.

She was one of a kind. A snowflake.

Davis looked back in the shadowed forest, checking Luna, who waited quietly where he’d tied her to a tree. Part of him felt like a cad for spying on Kit; the other part wanted to sweep her up on his horse and gallop back to safety.

But so far, he’d taken the easy out, just hanging back in the trees. He watched her sway in the falling snow, dancing around the same tree where the coyote had been abandoned. What was it about this spot near Copper Woods? And what was in that white mound, now dusted with snow?
Another coyote?

Something in her hands sparkled like an icicle when she held them up in the snow. What was it? She moved toward the white mound, then plunged her hands in.

Was she trying to bury the shiny object?

He had seen enough ... maybe too much. He came forward, emerging from the cover of trees.

“Kit.”

Lost in another world, she leaned forward, her hands submerged in snow.

“Kit.” He moved closer, calling her until she jerked up and snapped her head toward him.

“Davis?” Her eyes were full of sorrow, her cheeks tracked with tears. The sight of her tweaked a chord of emotion deep inside him, plucking at feelings he’d thought had died with his unhappy childhood. “What are you doing here?”

“Kit, what is this?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “I saw you here earlier this week with that coyote. I didn’t want to say anything when we came across that deer in the cave today, carved up the same way, but I saw you doing this ritual with the coyote carcass. Right here, with the coyote against this same tree. Dancing the same dance.”

She pulled her hands from the snow mound, rolled back on her haunches and wiped her gloves. “This is a sky tree. The coyote was dead so I brought him here to let his spirit rise to the sky.”

“The coyote wasn’t the first time I saw you with a skinned animal.” He hated pinning her down—it was torture for a free spirit like her—but it had to be done. “Last summer ... remember when I ran into your camp down by the meadows? There was a skinned lamb hanging from a tree.”

She stared at him. “I ate it. Roasted it over the fire. I was hungry.”

“You should have come to me. Mrs. Mac will feed you any time, you know that. You can’t just kill a lamb.”

Kit rose to her full height, faced him. “I didn’t. Mountain lions were attacking him. They did the damage. I scared them off, but it was too late for the lamb.” She rubbed her gloved hands together, as if kindling a fire. “That wasn’t a good day.”

Davis tipped his hat back, not sure what to think anymore. He didn’t think Kit was lying to him—there wasn’t an ounce of dishonesty in this girl—but it was impossible to get a solid answer out of her.

Her eyebrows rose over her smudged face. “I’ll pay Ira Dillinger back. I have some money buried over by—”

“It’s not the money,” he interrupted. “It was probably a Kincaid lamb, anyway. But, Kit, what is all this?” He looked toward the white mound. “Another carcass?”

“No . . . it’s stuff that belonged to my mom.” She reached into the snow and removed a glass prism, and then lifted a white trash bag from the snow, shaking out a thick pelt of brown fur. “My father gave it to her,” she said.

“Ahh . . . Why are you burying them here?”

“These are what she valued. They need to be buried here, so her spirit can rise to the sky.” She then reached into her boot and pulled out a hunting knife, sleek and sharp. A two-inch blade, better for precision cutting. “I don’t hurt animals. I try to help them.”