The Bones Will Speak (20 page)

Robert was just trying to hurt me. Again. He used the pathetic excuse of caring for Aynslee to personally deliver the news of his pending marriage. His sudden passion to take care of his
daughter, to protect her, would be short-lived. He was too much in love with his new lifestyle: a whirlwind of book signings and fancy parties . . .

And a new wife.

Where in his world would a rebellious teenager fit?

You didn't ask him for money to pay Winston's vet bill.

I'd just have to leave Winston at the vet until I found the money. At sixty-five dollars a day.

Better find some funds quickly
.

I found myself in the bathroom staring at my face in the mirror. My bloodshot eyes glared under eyebrows drawn together, forming a deep furrow. My skin was pale with blotchy red patches, and my lips were thin and tight.

Splashing cold water on my face didn't seem to erase the distorted image staring back at me.

Robert's right on one count
.
Aynslee won't be safe until someone catches the murderer.

I applied fresh makeup, then changed into a navy blazer and slacks. I wasn't quite sure how long it would take me to drive to the restaurant to meet the former prosecuting attorney.

I decided to take both the rifle and pistol with me. Double-checking to be sure I locked all the doors, I raced through the cool evening air to my car. I'd grabbed the notes faxed to Dave about the serial killings as well as my own known/unknown list.

Concentrating on my driving, I made an effort not to think about Robert, but I could so clearly hear his voice in my mind.
“You seem to think that just because no one has taken revenge on a forensic artist in the past, you're safe.”

“Revenge usually involves a personal hurt.” I answered his imagined voice. “I was just doing my job.”

Dave's voice now echoed in my head.
I don't think that matters. In the killer's eyes, you've wronged him. His natural instinct is to hold on, let the hurt fester, then strike back.

“That's not logical.”

People don't have to act logically. Look at you.

“What do you mean? You're not putting me into the same category as a sociopathic serial killer, are you?” I swerved over the center line, and an approaching car blasted its horn. I jerked my car back into my own lane.

Think about it, Gwen. It's a matter of degree. If you keep holding on to anger and past hurts, you eventually may want to strike back, get even.

“I'm not like that, Dave.”

That's exactly what you're like.
Robert once again intruded on my thoughts.

“Shut up, Robert. You just want to stop feeling guilty for abandoning your family and getting engaged.”

Don't you get it? I don't feel guilty. You think I'm a prisoner, trapped by your feelings. But you're the prisoner
.

I overcorrected on a curve. My right front tire hit the gravel on the side of the road. The rear swung right. Twisting the steering wheel, I attempted to straighten the car, but I was too close to the edge of the pavement. I hit the berm and slid off the highway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE CAR BOUNCED ONTO A GRASSY DIVIDE. THE
soft dirt slowed the momentum, and I stopped short of the railroad tracks. I sat for a moment, waiting for my heartbeat to slow and hands to stop shaking, then stepped from the car.

No traffic appeared in either direction. Good. I felt foolish for losing control of my vehicle.

I shook my head. Maybe my brain was like an Etch A Sketch. If I turned it upside down and shook it, all the bad thoughts would be erased. Instead, they crowded together and pounded away:
serial killer, Phineas Priesthood, revenge, Aynslee, fiancée, vet bills . . . forgiveness . . .

Headlights appeared, slowed, and signaled that the driver would pull over.

Doggone it.
I'd been hoping I could slink back onto the highway unnoticed. I reached back into the car and snatched up my SIG.

The car slid onto the shoulder of the road and rolled down the window. “Need help?”

“Dre?”

“Yeah. You okay, Gwen?” The deputy started to get out of his car.

“Fine. Don't bother to get out. I just . . . um, a deer . . . so . . . spun out on the gravel.” I was glad he couldn't see my face. I jumped into my car and slipped my pistol under my purse. Before I could put the car into drive, Dre appeared and made the motion to roll down my window. I hesitated, hoping my color was back to normal, then did so.

“Do you need a push?” he asked. “Or a tow truck?”

“I think I can drive out.” Gently applying gas, I trundled forward. Fortunately the ground was relatively flat. I waved as I hit the pavement. He'd probably be on the radio as soon as he got in his sedan, calling Dave.

I should be grateful he hadn't asked me to take a Breathalyzer.

I almost missed the restaurant. A florescent sign in the window announced the place was open, and a collection of dusty pickup trucks hugged the front. I parked, tucked the pistol into my purse, and grabbed up my papers.
I didn't check to see if I was followed.

Quickly I locked the rifle in the trunk, then raced to the restaurant and waited just inside the door, watching the road. No car pulled into the parking lot or slowed down when passing. When I turned, the waitress was watching me with a wary look. “You okay, hon?”

“Yeah. I'm just . . . yeah.”

She shrugged, picked up a coffee carafe, and waved it around. “Sit anywhere.”

The décor had been quite modern in the early seventies, with an abundance of harvest-gold and burnt-orange wallpaper and upholstery. I found a booth near the rear and sat facing the
door. The orange pendant light overhead cast a mini spotlight onto the table. I leaned back so I would be in relative darkness.

As the waitress moved my way with a menu, I peeked into my wallet. A lonely five-dollar bill and some loose change limited my choices of dining. I was suddenly starving.

“Coffee?” She held up the pot.

“Sure.” As she poured, I quickly scanned the menu.

“What else can I get you?”

“Uh, I'm fine.”

As she took the menu back from me, she gave me a look that said I was anything but.

Wrapping my fingers around the cup, I surveyed the other patrons. A weary-looking family sat by the door, and a middle-aged man in jeans and a T-shirt ate a slice of lemon meringue pie at the counter. I tried not to stare at the pie.

This was a stupid idea. The killer knew my phone number. He easily could have called me and arranged for this meeting. I took his word that he was Scott Thomas.

At least I was in a public place.

Headlights flashed outside, and I sat up straighter. Two men wearing camouflage jackets and Seahawk baseball hats entered, waved at the waitress, and took seats at a booth to my left. Without asking, the waitress brought them both a slice of apple pie and coffee.

I stuck my hand in my purse and felt for loose change on the bottom—two pennies. I emptied two creams and a sugar into my coffee cup and stirred.

The meringue-pie man scraped the last few flakes of crust off the plate, picked up his coffee cup, and walked over to my table. “Were you followed?”

I dropped the spoon. “No. I don't think so.”

He sat across from me, then silently studied my face for a few moments. “When I was prosecutor in Spokane, I saw a number of your composites. You do nice work.”

“Thanks. Ah, if you don't mind, would you show me some identification?”

He pulled out his billfold and handed me his driver's license. While I inspected it, he took a sip of coffee. Satisfied, I returned it.

“You've probably looked up the Phineas Priesthood case by now.”

I nodded.

“They made sure we knew it was them, and not the Aryan Nations or skinheads. They left notes, shouted slogans. We caught Jerome Daly right away. He was the driver of the get-away van. He has Parkinson's disease, and he's pretty much confined to bed or a wheelchair now.”

I nodded again.

“We figured we'd closed the book on the group when Evans and Weeks died, but we missed it. A single line in a police report. On the day of the shootout and fatal accident, the officer noted he saw someone running. He didn't get a good look at him, and running isn't against the law. Right after that was the shootout, then pursuit.”

“So, by the time the officer returned to the house the two men were hiding in—”

“No sign of a fourth man. Weeks, Daly, and Evans weren't smart enough to have pulled off the bombings.”

I leaned closer. “So you think the one that got away was the mastermind.”

“Yes. And he likes killing.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

SCOTT LEANED CLOSER. “WE CONTINUED TO
investigate. The threats came first. Some biblical quotes. A few from Christian Identity books. Like this.” He handed me a crumpled piece of paper in a plastic sleeve.

As the kamikaze is to the Japanese / As the Shiite is to Islam / As the Zionist is to the Jew / So the Phineas priest is to Christendom. It makes little difference whether you agree or disagree with the Phineas Priesthood. It is important that you know that it exists, is active, and in the near future may become a central fact in your life.

“I ignored them. At first. The threats increased.” He handed me a second sleeve.

Soon, the fog that comes from heaven will be accompanied by the destroying wind of a righteous God.

I handed the note back to Scott, then wiped my hands on my jeans.

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. That's why they're in plastic. Classic Phineas Priesthood materials,” Scott continued. “Next came messages left on my phone warning me not to prosecute Jerome. I ignored them. I found a dead cat—”

I sloshed my coffee cup.

“I see you got that message too.”

“Why a cat?” I asked as I mopped up the liquid with a napkin.

“I can't prove this, but the lady in Kellogg who first called the police had cats. She was in a hit-and-run car accident less than a week after the two men died in a shootout.”

“So both a warning and a hint.”

“That's what I think. Under the cat was a threat directed at my family, with the Phineas Priesthood symbol and the word
traitor
. I told the police, but they couldn't do anything.” He shifted in his seat and looked around the room. “Then one day a photograph was stuffed in my mailbox. A photo of my daughter going to school with a red
X
drawn over her.”

“So you moved.”

“As fast as I could. Later I heard about the lead detective's son being murdered by a serial killer.”

“That's what I was told.”

He glanced around the diner again. “I decided I had to do something. I contacted some friends at the prosecutor's office and told them I wanted to know whenever a trial date was set.”

“Because?”

“Because everyone who had been linked to this case would be in danger.”

“So you're running around warning people—”

“Not people. You. You're the only one left who was directly involved with the investigation.”

“Wait. Didn't you mention the police in Kellogg?”

“Officer Mike Higgins was the investigating officer. He moved to California. Then dropped out of sight. Maybe a good thing for him. He had a ride-along that day. Gal named Margie Sheehan.”

“Is she . . .?”

“Dead? Yes. Fell down a flight of stairs. Because some of the deaths seem to be accidents and each was different, no one put it all together.”

“Until you did. What do you know that can help me?”

The waitress warmed up our coffee, and he waited until she'd moved on to another table. “I think the killer was the mastermind of the Phineas Priesthood cell. I think he threatened the detective and his family, but the threats were ignored, and his son was murdered. I think that's why the detective committed suicide. Guilt.”

Scott's eyes were red rimmed with purplish bags under them. He hadn't shaved in a day or two, and his hair needed a trim. “He was your friend, wasn't he?”

Scott nodded and leaned back from the table. After clearing his throat, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He gazed at it for a moment, his fingers stroking the edges, before handing it to me.

I recognized it immediately. “A challenge coin.”

“Yes. Originally given in World War I. Now they're awarded in law enforcement as a motivation to achieve a specific goal.”

“And this particular goal was?”

“Find the remaining member and bring him to justice. There's a part of this whole thing that's never been released. After the shootout in Kellogg, we raided the house where the two men had holed up. We found evidence of a carefully crafted plot to derail a train, a train carrying chemicals, on either April 19 or 20.”

“The nineteenth because it is the anniversary of Waco and Oklahoma City. If caught or killed, they would be placed on the martyr's honor roll.”

“Right, and the twentieth would be Hitler's birthday.”

“Do you know where this was to have happened?”

“No. Rail lines in Idaho, Washington, and Montana were marked, but no one line or shipment was identified. Needless to say, such an event could have been catastrophic if the chemical spill were to occur near a major city.” He took back the coin. “We put together a task force to find the author of this plot, the man that got away. There were ten of us. We each got a coin to remind us of the stakes should this sociopath succeed.”

“Were the task-force members also threatened or killed?”

“No. Just the initial investigators. He probably held them accountable for the deaths of his co-conspirators. And, since time had passed with nothing to show for it, the task force was dissolved.”