The Laura Cardinal Novels (31 page)

Adrenaline poured through her, a muscular current of fear. Her hands and legs shook.

Get hold of yourself. You’re not dead yet.

Maybe, maybe if she cooperated, put on the dress, tried to talk with him. Get him to see her as a human being. Make friends with him. Maybe she could get to his phone, or his computer, or something.

She needed to be smart. Observant, like her dad was. He didn’t miss a thing. She remembered when they went to restaurants, he always sat with his back to the wall, scanning the room constantly, always
aware
. She needed to be like that. Careful and smart.

She’d put the dress on. She’d try to get Dale to talk to her, to make friends with her.

Suddenly, she had something to do. She imagined herself as her dad. He was always in control. He’d be looking for her. He was a cop—he’d know how to find her. But in the meantime, she would picture herself as him. She would act like him, and think like him.

Musicman waited for her to come out. He’d seen this before, the girl going into his bedroom and locking the door, as if she could really escape that way, when in reality she was only putting off the inevitable. One of them—the girl in Colorado—had stayed in the room a day and a half. But she had been so hungry and thirsty, she finally opened the door.

The bedroom door lock that came with the Pace Arrow didn’t really work, but he knew it gave them a sense of security. They felt they could get away from him, and that put them at ease. What she probably didn’t notice was the hasp on the outside of the door. He could padlock it, but he didn’t. Let her think she had the upper hand.

The bedroom was soundproofed. The lace curtains in the bedroom windows looked nice from the outside but they hid the fact that they weren’t real windows—not anymore. He had boarded them up. She had locked herself in there, in that soundproofed room, and she could just think about it.

Laura massaged her back and stretched her legs. The cabin was dim; hardly anyone else on the plane. Nothing between her and her guilt over the killing in, an itch she could not scratch.
Your fault. You didn’t trust your instincts. You knew there was a problem with Oliver, but you ignored it
.

A police officer dead, lives that would never be the same.

Apalachicola

She kept seeing Chief Redbone’s face. The sense of failure she saw in his eyes.

Frank Entwistle used to call her—jokingly—the gunslinger. As in:The gunslinger come to town to help the townspeople chase out the bad elements. Like Wyatt Earp. But this time, she’d brought only devastation and death before slinking off into the night like a coward. She was going home to her little house in Vail—but what would Linda Descartes do tonight?

“This is getting you nowhere,” she muttered.

She needed to concentrate on what was happening now—Summer Holland’s abduction.

Her conversation with Victor had been brief. Summer Holland disappeared from a McDonalds in Tucson. She’d lied about who she was meeting. And Buddy had been insistent. He needed to meet with Laura face-to-face.

He knew something.

Laura saw Dale Lundy in her mind. His pale, almost feminine face. The soft, wet eyes that had no soul behind them. The Victorian-style room where he sewed with his mother. The photos of Misty de Seroux.

The 12-gauge shotgun nestled in a homemade plywood box on the underside of the trapdoor.

She closed her eyes, trying to think. Could it be Lundy? How many kidnappers could there be, operating in that relatively small part of the world?

Suddenly, lights started dancing in the corner of her eye. She opened both eyes and stared at the seat back in front of her, expecting them to go away. But the lights kept on blinking.

Pulsing on and off at the corner of her right eye.

A thin edge of panic poked its way under her heart. She remembered the same thing happening at the Jonquil Motel the night she found the matchbook.

Her hand on the doorknob, the strangeness she felt.

Laura looked down at her hand. Again it looked funny, but she couldn’t figure out why. The one side of her eye—it was like her vision was bleary from being underwater.

She got up and walked to the back of the plane, heading for the restroom, pushing down the beginnings of panic. Halfway down the aisle, the flashing lights went away.

She blinked. Nothing there—she could see fine.

Walking back to her seat, she thought:
It’s got to be stress. After what happened in Apalachicola, she had a right to be stressed out
.

Musicman had just dozed off when he heard the door to the bedroom creak. He sat up on the couch and glanced at his watch: almost two in the morning. He’d taken care of his needs twice since she had disappeared into his bedroom, but it hadn’t taken the edge off. He felt like one long nerve.

In the light seeping in from under the shades from the sodium arc light above the trailer court, he saw her edge into the hallway.

She wore the dress—he almost lost it right there.

He made sure to hide the sock he’d used as he fantasized about her, then turned on the light.

She looked like a burglar, caught red-handed.

Talk to her gently
. “I’m glad to see you,” he said.

She looked at him, and he rang like a tuning fork.

He was not expecting his reaction. Usually, seeing the girls in the dresses acted as an inhibitor, cooling his jets, so to speak.

But she was even more alluring, more exciting, in the dress. It was the juxtaposition of her innate beauty that had a definite sexual quality to it and the way the dress tried to hide it. It did hide those tanned legs, the breasts, the curve of her ass, but it had just the opposite effect than he’d expected.

It titillated him.

She stood in the doorway, looking him right in the face. Calm, cool, alert. Just standing there, so serious. So dignified. And underneath— No, he wouldn’t think about it.

“Couldn’t you sleep?” he asked.

“No." Her voice quiet.

“You sure look pretty in that dress.”

“Do I?” Interested. Friendly, even. Like she was someone else, someone older. Like she was the one who was in control.

Those cool eyes on him.

There was a speck of brown in her blue-green iris.

That hit him square in the heart. Misty had that same imperfection. That was what they called it, but he always thought of it as a beauty mark.

“You have a brown spot in your eye,” he said.

“I know. My mom calls it my beauty mark.”

This had to be a sign from God—she was the one. He felt the rush of joy.

Not that he believed she was Misty come back to life. That would be ridiculous. He wasn’t crazy, just nostalgic. Still, the resemblance was heartening.

His mind was babbling now. She was so like Misty. The spot in the eye, the words she used.
Beauty mark
. The way she tilted her chin—he hadn’t noticed it before. The cool way she looked at him.

This
time, it was going to work. He could feel it. Sure, he’d have to gain her confidence, her trust. He’d have to go slow. But this time would be different from the others.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asked. “I can cook anything you want. I’ll make you something special.”

Laura got in at two thirty in the morning. Victor Celaya and Buddy Holland were waiting for her, Holland humming like a power line. He had his keys in his hand as they walked down the steps toward the exit, his stride lengthening so he was way ahead of them, looking back periodically, impatient for them to catch up.

“He must be going out of his mind,” Laura said.

“Jesus, can you imagine what he’s thinking? What if it’s Lundy.”

Laura said nothing, because she thought it
was
Lundy.

She remembered what Jay Ramsey had said before she left for Florida—there had been another girl. “How old is Summer?”

“Twelve.”

“She lives with her mother? In Tucson?”

“Uh-huh.”

The heat hit the moment they were through the automatic doors, a hot, dry wind seizing the breath from her lips and nostrils. She’d gone from sauna to oven. It seemed to her it got hotter every year, the monsoon seasons of her memory dwindling down to a few thunderstorms, terminal humidity, and a plague of mosquitos. Maybe it was all due to global warming.

They drove the one long block to DPS headquarters. Laura had come back empty-handed. Nothing to check into evidence—that was still being decided in Tallahassee. Who got what, when. They headed upstairs to the squad bay, took chairs in the conference room. Buddy sat opposite Laura, and Victor sat between them at the head of the table.

Victor nodded to Buddy. “Okay. She’s here. What was it you wanted to talk about?”

Buddy stretched his long legs out in front of him and stared at his feet. Laura thought he had aged ten years.

Victor said to Laura, “He won’t tell me what’s going on. He said he wanted to wait for you. So give it up, Buddy, what is it?”

Buddy’s face was pale, his eyes like dark stones. He opened his mouth to speak, then abruptly launched himself out of his chair and started pacing.

“Come on, Buddy. What’s so important we have to beg for it?”

He stopped and took a breath.

“I think I brought him here.”

Laura wondered if she heard right.

“What do you mean, you brought him here?” demanded Victor.

Buddy started pacing again, head scrupulously turned away from them. He said, “I brought him here. It was me.”

“How’d you do that?” Victor’s voice loud in the small room.

“I found out my daughter was talking to this guy on the Internet. He sent her stuff—an MP3 player, earrings—“

Laura thought about Endicott’s evidence list. She had been right. It was Lundy. She looked at Buddy, who was still talking. It took her a moment to catch up with his words.

“… decided to intercept his messages. I knew he was a bad guy, a sexual predator. I’d been on the chief to let us start our own Internet sexual predator task force, but he wouldn’t go for it. This guy was out there, and I couldn’t just let him get away. So we set him up.”

“Set him up how?” Victor asked.

“I took over for my daughter. Pretended I was her.”

Victor whistled.

Laura said, “We? You said we set him up.”

“Me and Duffy.”

Duffy? Jesus.

Buddy slung himself into a chair. Now that he was talking, it all came out. How he and Heather Duffy had planned a sting, setting up a meeting with Lundy in City Park. “But he never showed. I think he saw something that tipped him off.”

Laura thought: Duffy would look like a cop even in a negligee.

“He made you,” Victor said. “He made you and he bolted, and on his way out of town, he saw Jessica Parris. And you kept this secret all this time? What about Lehman?”

“I thought it could be him.”

“That’s a huge coincidence, man.”

“Hey, his prints were on her lipstick.” For a moment, the arrogant Buddy was back. “It could have been an unrelated crime.”

“Come on! You expect us to believe that?”

“Where’s Lehman now?” Laura asked.

“First place I called. He’s at his house. He would have had time to get her to Bisbee. He had three hours.”

“But he didn’t,” said Laura.

Buddy looked at her defiantly.

“You didn’t go to his place, because you knew it wasn’t him.”

Buddy didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Laura asked, “Did he send her a picture?”

He nodded. Didn’t look at her.

“What were you trying to do? Throw us off the track?” Victor again.

Buddy stood up and the plastic chair clattered, hit the wall. His fists clenched, he stepped toward Victor.

“Wait a minute!” Laura said, getting up to stand between them. “This isn’t doing us any good. We’ve got to find this guy.”

Buddy sat back down, passed a hand over his face. “Shit.”

Laura cleared her throat. “We’ve got to compare notes. We know a lot more than we think.” She looked at Buddy. “I know stuff about this guy now. The good news is, Jessica Parris was an anomaly. He keeps his victims for a while.”

Buddy Holland shot her a look of gratitude.

She ran down what she’d learned, her belief that he was reliving some kind of relationship with Misty de Seroux. “That could work for us.”

“Are you telling me he’s looking for girls that looked like this Misty?” Victor asked.

“I know—weird, but you’ve seen weirder." She looked at Buddy. “I don’t think he’s going to kill her—not yet. I think we have some time.”

Buddy’s gaze locked with hers. “Then what are we doing hanging out here? We’ve got to get moving.”

“Where would we go? It’s better if we figure out a few things first.”

“He rapes and kills,” Buddy said bitterly. “We already know that. He’s probably already … oh shit.”

“If we recover her,” Laura said to Buddy, “we can work with that. Get her counseling.”

She reached into her briefcase and removed photographs of Alison Burns, Jessica Parris, and Linnet Sobek. And then she added a couple of candid photos Lundy had taken of Misty de Seroux.

She watched Buddy’s face. He drew in a quick breath.

“Look at them, how much they look alike,” Laura said quietly. “He wants a relationship. He wants someone like Misty.”

“You just sit down and take a load off,” Musicman said to Summer, bustling around the galley. “How do grilled cheese sandwiches and a Coke sound?”

Summer didn’t like grilled cheese sandwiches, but she thought she’d better say she did.

He was trying to be nice to her. He brought the grilled cheese sandwiches to the table on paper plates, the kind you got from Paper Warehouse. These plates had purple, blue and yellow fireworks and said HAPPY BIRTHDAY. Beside her plate was a present.

“Go ahead, open it.”

She tore off the wrapping, feeling queasy. When did he get her a present?

“Could you be a little more careful?” Dale said. “We can use that paper again.”