The Hidden (7 page)

S E V E N

W
HOEVER OWNED THE SEACREST
grocery store had made maximum use of a small space: It was packed to the brim with shelves, bins, racks arranged in a mazelike fashion, the aisles so narrow that one of any two people passing with handbaskets would have to turn sideways. A heavyset, gray-haired woman stood behind the checkout counter; the only other occupant, a skinny man in a soiled apron, presided over a meat and deli section.

Macklin smiled and nodded at the woman; she gave him a blank-faced stare in return. Her eyes followed him as he picked up a basket and moved around the store. So did the man’s when he passed by the meat counter.

Wariness again. Mistrust of strangers. Or was he just imagining it? No, dammit, he could see it and he could feel it, just like last night with that deputy. What was the matter with people around here? Sparsely populated rural area, yes, but it was also a tourist destination in better-weather months. And this was the Christmas season. Hard to believe holiday cheer and goodwill had become a lost concept on this part of the coast.

He located matches, picked out vegetables, ordered a fresh crab cracked and cleaned from the reticent counterman. The woman watched him set the basket down on the checkout counter, then quit making eye contact as she rang up the items. Frustration more than anything else prodded him into breaking the silence.

“Some storm last night.”

It was a few seconds before she said, “Worse one on the way.”

“Really? When?”

“Sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“Long-range weather forecast was for light rain.”

“Wrong as usual. Big storm—high winds, heavy rain.”

“Do you think it’ll last long?”

“Depends. No way to tell until it gets here.” Eyes the color of milk chocolate briefly met his. “You staying in the area?”

“My wife and I, yes.”

“Seacrest?”

“No. A friend’s cottage a few miles north.”

“Place well stocked? Plenty of firewood, extra candles?”

“Why? Is there likely to be another power failure?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. Happens often enough when it storms heavy.”

“A long outage like last night?”

“Had one lasted four days, a couple of winters ago. You sure you have everything you need?”

“I think so. Yes.”

She shrugged, took his money, gave him change—all without looking at him again. He said, “Happy New Year,” as he picked up the grocery sack, but she didn’t respond. He could feel her eyes on him again as he walked out.

More of the same at the service station. The mechanic on duty in the garage, a sinewy man in his forties wearing grease-stained overalls with the name
Earl
stitched across one pocket, was civil enough but in a cool, watchful way.

“Wiper blades for a Prius?” he said. “Can’t help you there, mister. Don’t carry any that’ll fit. You can get ’em in Fort Bragg, if you’re going that far.”

“I’m not. Staying nearby for a few days.”

“That right? Well, I suppose I could order a set for you. Have ’em here tomorrow or Saturday, latest.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Macklin went with him into a cluttered office, where Earl wrote up an order and he paid a deposit. When they came out again, a mud-spattered white pickup, its bed covered by a blue tarpaulin, was just pulling in behind where the Prius was parked at the forward of the two gas pumps. A gray-bearded oldster in a heavy pea jacket climbed out of the cab. Earl said, “Hey, Walter,” in friendlier tones and went over to join him.

Macklin slid his credit card into the pump’s fast-pay slot, then opened the Prius’s gas cap and inserted the hose nozzle. Earl and the bearded man, Walter, were talking now and making no effort to keep their voices down. Words carried clearly to Macklin on the cold, salt-laden wind.

“No, I didn’t hear,” Walter was saying. “I been over to my daughter’s in Vacaville, just got back last night. Where’d they find this one?”

“Down by Manchester.”

“Oh, Jesus. That’s another one too close for comfort.”

“Tell me about it.”

“They sure it’s the same bastard?”

“Sure enough. Makes four, but could be others ain’t been found yet. Now they’re calling him the Coastline Killer.”

“Goddamn media.” Walter smacked a fisted hand against his leg. “Who was it this time?”

“Delivery driver for one of the beer outfits—Ned Trotter. I didn’t know him, but June over at the store did.”

“Isn’t he the guy got arrested for abalone poaching last year?”

“Yeah, and he was at it again. Sackful in his truck.”

“Shot like the others?”

“Once through the head and then laid out neat. They didn’t find the bullet this time, but from the wound they figure it’s the same gun.”

“How you know that?”

“Deputy Ferguson. He come by about an hour ago.”

“Three five seven Magnum, what do you bet?”

“If they know for sure what kind, Ferguson wouldn’t say.”

“When’d it happen? Yesterday?”

“No, that’s when they found the body. Day before, day after Christmas—early morning, probably right after he finished poaching.”

Macklin set the catch on the nozzle, moved over to where the two men were standing. “Sorry to butt in,” he said, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. Four people shot to death?”

Now Walter was looking at him the way the woman in the store and Earl had, the way the deputy had last night. There was a little silence before Earl said, “Four that they know about.”

“But not all in the same vicinity?”

“Up and down the coast. First you heard about it, huh?”

“I’m not from around here. My wife and I live in Cupertino.”

“Don’t you pay attention to the news down in Cupertino?” Walter asked.

“Not crime news, no.”

“Well, maybe it’s time you started.”

“Papers made a big deal out of the first two in July,” Earl said. “Two kids on the beach down near Fort Ross. Both shot in the head. Sick bastard laid ’em out naked in a sleeping bag afterward.”

“Oh. That case.”

“Rings a bell now, huh?”

It did. He’d skimmed an article about that bizarre double homicide, just hadn’t made the connection. July was months past and Fort Ross was a long way down the coast from Seacrest.

“The police couldn’t find a motive,” he said.

“That’s right. Still can’t.”

“Psychos don’t need motives,” Walter said.

Macklin asked, “And there’ve been two others since?”

Earl said, “Number three late November, up on the Navarro River. And now number four down by Manchester.”

“Random victims and locations, then.”

“How it looks.”

“All outdoors? I mean, whoever’s doing it doesn’t break into people’s houses …”

“Not so far. But that don’t mean he won’t get it into his head to start.”

“Police think he lives somewhere along the coast?”

“Maybe. Might be a second-homer.”

“My money’s on a Mexican,” Walter said, “one of them illegals we got roaming around here. I never did trust those people. They get drunk or hopped up, I wouldn’t put anything past ’em.”

Earl glanced sideways at Macklin. “Ferguson’s got another idea: somebody that comes and stays a few days in one place or another, then goes back home until the next time.”

“I’ve never been here before.” The words sounded defensive even to Macklin. “Well, ten years ago, on a driving trip my wife and I took.”

“Wasn’t accusing you of anything, mister.”

“I know you weren’t. I was just …” He shook his head and said, “I hope they catch him before he kills somebody else.”

“Damn well better.”

Macklin went back to finish with his fill-up. Well, now he knew the reason behind all the thinly veiled suspicion, the meaning of the cryptic exchange between the Deckers last night and Paula Decker’s comment this morning. A wacko on the loose along the north coast, shooting people at random without apparent motive—no wonder the residents here were on edge. The Coastline Killer. More and more of that kind of lunacy these days, in rural as well as urban and suburban surroundings. Serial killers, crazies shooting up high schools and college campuses with automatic weapons, husbands snapping and taking out their families and anyone else who got in the way. Global lunacy, too: 9/11, suicide bombers, the ever-present threat of other vicious acts of terrorism. Lord, what a world this had become.

Was there any danger to Shelby and him? Potentially, yes, but so minimal as to be almost nonexistent. The latest shooting was just two days ago, and it had been several weeks between that one and each of the others. Brian Lomax might be worried enough to meet strangers who came knocking with a gun in his hand, but none of the killings had involved home invasion: you were bound to be safe locked inside a private cottage. There was a lot of Sonoma County and Mendocino County coast, too, some of it more isolated than this section. Whoever the Coastline Killer was, he could be anywhere along that two-county stretch—as far as fifty, sixty miles from here. Or somewhere else entirely by now.

If he told Shelby about the shootings, it might put an unnecessary strain on the rest of their stay. Or, worse, she might use it as an excuse to pressure him into cutting the time short, going on home. He couldn’t let that happen.

All right, so he’d keep the news to himself. If the future played out as badly as he feared, what the hell else did he have to look forward to except these next few days?

E I G H T

C
LAIRE MADE NO EFFORT
to hide the injuries to her face. One corner of her mouth twitched—a smile that wasn’t a smile. “Pretty sight, aren’t I,” she said.

“I’ve seen worse,” Shelby said.

“I’ll bet you have.”

“What happened?”

“I could tell you I fell, but you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

“Did you fall?”

The faint nonsmile again. Claire shifted her gaze back to the sea, but Shelby had the impression she wasn’t really seeing the rumpled gray water. Different woman than the one who’d welcomed Jay and her last night. The anxious, overfriendly hostess was gone; this Claire Lomax was subdued, hurting, and more than a little scared. When she lifted one hand to finger her torn lip, it trembled noticeably.

“I like it out here,” she said. “Even in weather like this. There’s something … I don’t know, soothing about the ocean.”

Shelby said, “Look, it’s none of my business. I’ll just leave you alone—”

“No, don’t.” The blonde head swung back her way, a silent plea in the pearl-gray eyes. “I need somebody to talk to. Another woman who’ll understand.”

“What about your sister-in-law?”

“Gone. Packed up and left about an hour ago. I couldn’t talk to her anyway. Not Paula.” Claire sucked in her breath, blew it out as if it were smoke burning her lungs. “I didn’t fall and I didn’t walk into a door. You’re a paramedic … you know what you’re seeing.”

All too well. She’d borne witness to the aftermath of domestic violence too many times. Seen the smashed and bloodied faces, the broken bones and torn flesh; heard the screams and the angry accusations and tearful lies and fumbling, stupid excuses. Some people, most but not all of them men, reverted to animals when they were drunk or stoned or just plain out of control.

“When did it happen?”

“Last night, not long after you and your husband left.”

“What was the cause?”

“Brian thinks I’ve been having an affair.”

Shelby resisted asking the obvious question. Instead she said, “Were you alone with him when he accused you?”

“No. Gene and Paula were there.”

“Did Gene try to stop him?”

“Gene?” Claire laughed, but it hurt her mouth and she winced and cut it off. “He’s a lover, not a fighter. Besides, he’s got his own marital problems. You heard the way he and Paula were going at each other last night.”

“Yes.”

“Paula’s not going to put up with it anymore. That’s why she left this morning. Their marriage is over.”

And you wish yours was, too, Shelby thought.

She asked, “Is Gene still here?”

“For now he is. If he decides to leave …”

“You’ll be alone with your husband.”

“For the next three days, because he’s determined to stay through New Year’s.”

“And you’re afraid he’ll come at you again.”

A gull wheeling overhead let out a sudden screeching cry, as if it were mimicking a shriek of pain; the sound caused Claire to jump, raise one hand as if to ward off a blow. “God,” she said, “my nerves are shot.”

“Has he done this before, beat you up?”

“Three or four times the last year or so. He wasn’t like that the first few years we were married. He never touched me except when we made love. Then he … changed. Turned moody, distant. Angry all the time. He’s always been jealous, but now …” She shook her head, winced, and touched her lip again.

“What changed him?”

“I don’t know exactly. Job pressures, I suppose. The economy. He owes the bank a lot of money … he may lose his company. He couldn’t stand that.”

“That’s no excuse for taking it out on you.”

“I’ve told him that, more times than I can count. He doesn’t listen to me, he doesn’t seem to care what I think or feel anymore. All he cares about is his work, the environment, spending time in that house he built up on the bluff. He comes up here alone, sometimes for days on end. At least I think this is where he goes—he won’t tell me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was the one having an affair.”

“But you’re sure he isn’t.”

“Pretty sure.” The gull shrieked again; this time Claire didn’t seem to notice. “I used to love my life,” she said. “You know, married to a wealthy man, expensive clothes, jewelry, a nice car, trips to Mexico and Hawaii. Now … sometimes now I fucking
hate
it.”

Same here, Shelby thought. Sometimes.

She said, “You don’t have to stay with him.”

“I know. But if I leave …”

“You think he’ll come after you?”

“He might. He doesn’t like to lose what belongs to him.”

“A woman doesn’t
belong
to anybody but herself.”

“Tell Brian that. He’ll laugh in your face like he laughed in mine when I told him pretty much the same thing.”

“Stay, and he’ll keep on taking out his frustrations on you,” Shelby said. She couldn’t quite keep the anger she felt from threading her words. “Someday he’s liable to hurt you a lot worse than he did last night.”

“I know that, too. You don’t think I like being afraid, do you?”

“Then why don’t you leave?”

“I could tell you it’s because I still love him, that I keep hoping he’ll turn back into the man he used to be.”

“But it wouldn’t be the truth.”

“No. I don’t love him anymore, I’m scared to death of him.”

“Then get out before it’s too late.”

“And go where? I don’t have money of my own or anywhere to go.”

“There are battered women’s shelters.”

“I couldn’t stand a place like that. Besides, he’d find me and then things would be even worse—” She glanced up at the redwood-and-glass house on the bluff top, then gingerly eased herself off the shelf. “I’d better get back before he comes looking for me.” The faint, empty smile. “He’s liable to think I’m down here seducing your husband.”

“Claire …”

“Yes?”

“If your brother-in-law does leave today, think about going with him.”

“Oh, God, no, that’s the last thing I’d do. Brian wouldn’t allow it—it’d just set him off again if I tried.”

Shelby didn’t push it. Instead she said, “We’ll be here until New Year’s morning, if you want to talk again. Or need a ride anywhere for any reason.”

Claire blinked at her. “You’d do that for somebody you barely know?”

“My job is helping people in trouble.”

“Well … I appreciate it, I really do, but I’ll be all right. I can handle Brian when he’s sober. I won’t let him drink as much as he did yesterday.”

Famous last words. “The offer is good as long as we’re here.”

“Thanks.” Claire started away, stopped and looked back. “It’s helped, talking to you. I’m glad we met.”

Shelby watched her walk away along the beach in slow, stiff strides. My God, she thought, the things we do to each other, the things we do to ourselves.