The Botanist (18 page)

Cody nodded, straight-faced. They had already figured all of that.

“Any idea where?”

“Who can say? I never ventured into the mountain, but merely traversed its outer sheath. There will be a link from the lair to each of the grave sites, but it won’t be an obvious one.”

Cody didn’t react, wondering if Resputa realized that he’d just given something away, or was it purposeful and calculated?

“A link?”

“A passage that can be easily traversed without being seen; probably inside the mountain.”

“You said grave
sites?
Only one has been found.” That wasn’t true, but as far as the press was concerned it was.

Resputa stared at him for several seconds before shaking his head. “You’re lying. You’ve found more than one; you just haven’t told the reporters yet.”

Cody frowned and leaned back in his seat. Could Resputa really read him that well, or was he guessing? Either way, he knew that there were multiple grave sites.

“You said you saw
one,
Resputa. What aren’t you telling me?”
Resputa laughed as though it was all a jolly game. “What I told you was true. That was the first one I stumbled upon. And that was when I saw Mudface. After that, I travelled around a great deal more. I saw more of the mass graves. By then, he knew I was not a threat, so he didn’t show himself to me again, though I’m sure he was watching.”

“How many did you find?”

“Four. I didn’t have time to stay and search for others, but they seemed to be arranged in a somewhat circular pattern.”

“Around what?”

“Probably his lair. I still couldn’t pinpoint that for you, though, because I don’t know how many there are. I saw only four, and the pattern was incomplete. They radiate out from a central spot, like spokes on a wheel. If you can find them all . . .”

Cody thought about that. He hated to ask an opinion of Resputa, but he was being forthcoming. Perhaps if Cody was . . . nice to him, he’d reveal more. Cody gritted his teeth.

“How many do
you
think there are?”

Resputa grinned, like he noticed the effort Cody was making and it amused him. “Impossible to say with any certainty. However, there are twelve bodies in each site, so . . .”

“So you think the number twelve has some significance to him? Twelve bodies in each of twelve gravesites?”

“All I’m saying is that it would make sense. And might I point out that, even if all twelve spots have been chosen, not all of them might be full yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been perfecting his craft for years. Maybe he’s still working up to a certain number. You may not find a complete pattern because it may not be finished.”

If that was true, it would make pinpointing the lair harder, but it was still more than he’d had a few hours ago. It was looking more and more as if finding that lair would be the key to catching this guy.

“What do you make of the Shakespeare reference?”

“An interesting detail, that. I’ve thought a lot about it. I’m not well-versed in medieval plays, Detective, but what I do remember from high school English tells me that Shakespeare’s heroines were generally beloved, were they not?”

Cody nodded. “Sometimes.” He wasn’t well-versed either, but a few plays that had been required reading came to mind. “Yes.”

“And very tragic?”

“Sometimes. Not in the comedies.”

“Perhaps Mudface sees himself as Shakespeare.”

“How so?”

“He is creating stories, is he not? The playwright is very mysterious in history’s pages. Perhaps he even wore . . . many faces.”

Cody could understand where Resputa was going with this. A fascinating psychology to be sure, but why Shakespeare? Why had that been the trigger? And what did the number twelve represent to this man? There was no way Resputa could know those things for certain. It would have to do with the individual psychology of the murderer.

“Did you notice anything else about him? Were his clothes fine or ragged? Did he have any scars? Did he carry any tools or weapons?”

Resputa grinned his sickly-sweet grin. “Very good, Detective. Now you’re thinking. His clothes were middle-class, but not particularly fine. He had on expensive hiking boots, though. Even through the mud mask, I could tell his face was scarred, and his hands were immaculately clean. In his hand he carried some kind of tool. I couldn’t see clearly but it was a heavy metal lump at the end of a stick—a meat-tenderizer, perhaps?”

“Were his clothes as clean as his hands?”

“Not dirty, but dusty, as though he’d been working.”

“A clean freak that lives in the desert. This guy’s making more sense by the minute.”

“Don’t sneer at the contradictions, Detective. Sometimes they’re the hand that tightens the noose.”

Cody froze. Something about the way Resputa said it made Cody think he wasn’t talking about the Shakespeare case anymore. All this was information he could use, but he’d have to think about it more when Resputa wasn’t studying him like a particularly fascinating bug.

“If I hadn’t asked about his clothes, would you have told me that?”

Resputa spread his hands. “I fancy myself a teacher, Detective. How will you learn if I tell you everything?”

Cody tried not to laugh at the teaching reference. Instead he nodded. He’d suspected as much: Resputa wasn’t saying everything he knew, nor would he. He would cheerfully watch Cody like a rat in a maze, laughing when Cody floundered and trying to look impressed, rather than disappointed, when Cody made the right connections.

“If there’s nothing else you want to volunteer at this time, I think I’ll go from there.”

Resputa ducked his head, as though he was being supremely magnanimous.

Cody raised his voice. “Warden, we’re finished here.” A moment later the door opened and the two guards, followed by Lincoln, entered. The guards went around behind Resputa and stood there, so he’d know he wouldn’t be moving until Cody left.

Cody stood and turned toward the door, where Lincoln waited for him.

“Do me a favor, Detective: don’t get yourself killed before my first parole hearing. I fancy a game of . . . cat and mouse.”

Cody met his red, glittering eyes for a long time. Then he turned and walked out.

Chapter 29

When Alex climbed into bed in the back bedroom of the safe house, leaving Tom playing cards in the living room, and turned out the light, she fell asleep almost immediately. The dream came again.

She sat on the floor in a room with red walls. She could hear the nearby melancholy wails of a man, juxtaposed with the farther terrified screams of women. Her face was tear-streaked, and the blue dress she wore billowed above her knees while she sat cross-legged. The sickly-sweet smell was in her nose again, and she was afraid.

Suddenly a hulking shadow covered her. She looked to her right and saw a pair of knees. Her eyes traveled upward. She didn’t want to see who it was; she was afraid to see. Perhaps it was the wailing man? Perhaps her father, or someone who would take her away from this place? But deep down she knew it wouldn’t be. She could feel, as only little girls can, that this was someone to hide from.

When her neck craned so far back she had to lean with her body, she finally found his eyes. They were cruel and peered at her from behind a wet, muddy face. His lips peeled back, revealing yellow teeth. The monster lunged down at her, snarling, and she screamed.

Alex kicked herself awake between the cotton sheets. Her heart pounded in her chest and her hands shook. The wind howled around the corners of the house; the shadows in her room moved.

Telling herself to calm down, she flopped back on her pillow. Why did she keep having these dreams? She’d had some version of them since she was a kid, but they’d come more frequently since she arrived in Mt. Dessicate. Why had this town unsettled her so?

No matter how practical Alex told herself to be, the fear wouldn’t dissipate. As she lay in the dark, trying to calm her body, she realized by degrees that something was wrong.

A series of thumps came from somewhere outside the bedroom door, random and unevenly spaced. They sounded close as well, like they were coming from the kitchen.

Alex pressed the light button on her watch. It was 2:30 am. She’d been sleeping for a few hours.

She wondered what Tom was doing out there. She supposed that he wasn’t allowed to sleep while on watch. She wouldn’t have minded if he had—just having him there was enough for her—but he was probably required to stay awake. Maybe he was rummaging for food to keep from falling asleep.

Alex turned over to try and get back to sleep, telling herself everything was fine, but a niggling worry wrapped itself around her heart. She told herself it was just a dream, and she was too old to be afraid of the dark, but she didn’t believe herself.

Another noise from the kitchen sounded like the table being scooted over the linoleum. Just as Alex wondered again what on earth Tom was up to, a loud crash sent her shooting up and out of bed.

She dove into the jeans beside her bed faster than a teenage boy when his girlfriend’s father shows up with a shotgun. She pulled her sneakers on, tying them tightly; she felt more in control with her shoes on.

Her gaze shot around the room, looking for a weapon. Her suitcase was too bulky to handle effectively, and what else was she going to do? Throw T-shirts and jeans at a potential attacker? She picked up her book. It was better than nothing, even if it was just a cheaply-bound paperback.

Then she went to the door. She turned the handle slowly, and the door swung soundlessly inward. Everything was silent—eerily so. Sticking her head into the hall, she looked both ways. Around the corner she could see the kitchen cabinets, and a corner of the table, which had indeed been pushed askew, but nothing else.

Deciding against calling out, Alex started toward the kitchen. Her heart threw itself against her rib cage, as if to escape the same terror that made her limbs tremble.

She got to the kitchen doorway, but was afraid to go any farther. The fear from her dream lingered, and her feet felt like lead. She looked behind her. Nothing. Silence. She couldn’t go the other way. The noises she’d heard were from the kitchen. She couldn’t go back to bed and pretend like nothing had happened either. The only way was forward.

Alex tried to enter the kitchen, but couldn’t make herself move. She tried again and failed. Only when she mentally berated herself for being a coward did she feel the blood coursing through her limbs again.

Deciding that if there was an intruder, a blitz attack would be the best method, she jumped the last two feet into the kitchen.

At first glance, the room looked empty. The table and chair were pushed askew, but Tom was nowhere to be seen. Then she heard a soft, huffing noise. Cautiously, she stepped forward. A pair of legs were on the floor on the far side of the table. They were Tom’s. Had he simply fallen down?

She came around the table more quickly.

“Tom?”

When his face came into view, Alex gasped, then lunged forward. Tom had one hand on his neck, which was spouting blood like a geyser, and used the other one to drag himself across the floor toward his cell phone, still five feet from his reach. Every time he pulled himself forward, the blood leapt from his throat with renewed vigor.

“Tom, stop! I’ll call for help. Sit still. Keep your hand on your throat.”

Alex grabbed the phone and a dishtowel, which she pressed to Tom’s neck. There was so much blood that she couldn’t see the actual injury. Bright red was mixed with dark purple.

With shaking hands, Alex dialed 911. She was already spattered with Tom’s blood and, try as she might, she couldn’t keep any more of it in his body. It soaked the dish towel and dripped onto the kitchen floor.

“Hold on, Tom. Relax, try to breathe.” His eyes were rolling back in his head, and she had no idea if he understood her.

Using her shoulder to cradle the phone against her ear, she pressed down on Tom’s neck with both hands. She had to find a balance between keeping the blood in and not crushing his windpipe, and she had no idea what that balance was.

The voice of a soccer mom spoke into her ear. “911, what is your emergency?”

When she answered, Alex was aware that she was shouting, but she couldn’t conceive of how to make her voice softer. “My name is Alex Thompson! I’m in a safe house on Terrance Avenue! The cop that’s with me has been stabbed—”

Alex vaguely registered the movement of air behind her before the world went dead.

When she recovered, she was lying on the ground, facing Tom. She shook her head, wondering what had happened, and why her hearing was muted.

A thumping above her head made her to look up. A huge foot was smashing the phone to tiny electronic bits two feet away. Alex struggled to clear the cotton from her mind. Then her eyes fell on Tom. He was unconscious. Nothing was holding the blood in his neck, and it was flowing freely now.

Alex scrambled to her hands and knees and across the floor to Tom, not bothering to see who the owner of the foot was. In truth, she already knew. No one else’s presence would have made her feel so afraid.

Just before she reached Tom, strong fingers dug into the hair on the crown of her head. She screamed Tom’s name as she was dragged backward. Alex kicked and thrashed and twisted, but the kitchen receded, followed by the living room, entry way, front door, and finally the house itself. The front door shrank as she was dragged down the cement steps and toward the driveway.

Rusty hinges on a car door squeaked, and Alex screamed and thrashed harder. A light went on in the house next door and she could see a man peering out through the window. She’d made enough noise to wake the neighbors.

“Help,” she screamed, then realized that was too generic. She was calling as loudly as she could, but already losing her voice. “Murder! Call 911! Somebody’s hurt in the house!” The Botanist was trying to stuff her into the back of a blue, rusted van. “Call Detective Oliver! Get Cody Oliver!”

Something crashed into her head. Every muscle in her body went slack, including her tongue. He shoved her the rest of the way in, and she watched him shut the two back doors to the van, but couldn’t get her body to respond. Her thoughts wandered along jaded, zigzagging paths. She couldn’t make them cohesive.

The van
’s frame vibrated as the engine roared to life. Then there was the feel of motion, of air rushing underneath her, just beyond the metal barrier, and Alex knew that this time, she was really in trouble.