The Shadowkiller (18 page)

“I prefer extra sensory perception, but remember, I said
may,
” continued Frazier, reading Mac's expression. “We all have some sort of ability to read each other, Detective, we just don't know how it works. Have you ever experienced that moment where you and another say the same word or express the same thought and you realize it transcends coincidence? We don't fully understand the mechanics of it, but ESP is generally accepted as fact. These creatures may have developed it over time, like any other sense, allowing them an edge in finding food. Such seemingly bizarre abilities are commonplace in the animal kingdom. Sharks have receptors in their chins and can feel the electrical emanations of prey buried under the sand of the sea floor. Certainly, given how large this creature is, it would need prodigious amounts of food, both flora and fauna. Is the theory unscientific? That there is solid information to support animal and human prescience opens the door to its possibility. How does a dog know its owner is in danger a thousand miles away? Such stories, while inexplicable to known science, are documented. As to your suspect, it is definitely male, ten to eleven feet in stature and, roughly estimated, possesses a mass somewhere on the high side of five to six hundred kilograms—”

Mac's eyes fluttered slightly at the bogglingly huge metric equation.

“—that is to say, probably at least twelve to thirteen hundred pounds,” Frazier added patronizingly. “That would make him roughly eight or nine times the size of those killer chimps. A frightening notion indeed, that is, if he were of a disagreeable nature.”

“Why so heavy?” asked Mac. “If it's only four or five feet taller than a man, then why is it five or six times heavier?”

“Since it is larger in three dimensions—not two—its mass increases in a cubic progression,” explained Frazier. “A three-foot-tall child might weigh forty pounds, whereas a six-foot-tall ultra mesomorph such as a bodybuilder could easily have a mass five or six times that.”

“Okay, I get it.”

Frazier pointed at the large casting. “Notice the length of the toes?”

Mac nodded.

“These are typical of what I have seen on such castings. It indicates a creature capable of grasping the ground with the toes and negotiating very steep terrain. This is an adaptation a being of this magnitude would need to possess, given its locale and needs.”

Frazier slid his finger along the instep of the huge cast foot. “And this arch? I find it quite fascinating. I have never seen such a pronounced structure.”

Mac looked on. “Meaning?”

“Well, it may mean this individual represents a newer development on the evolutionary continuum, the higher arch representing an improvement over previous, uh, models. The arch would likely make this creature more mobile and fleet of foot than its non-or less-arched cousins. Certainly an extraordinary advancement, if so.”

Dr. Frazier waved at the shelves of his works. “Detective Schneider, here is my problem. My books have speculated for years on our friend here, but until you bring me one, I cannot state categorically to my peers that he and his kind are anything more than the quaint folklore of every Indian tribe in North America, or the fantasy of the many thousands who have seen, heard, and gathered evidence, such as you have here. Until that time, they are little green men.”

“People are disappearing, Doctor. If these things are responsible, then I need your help. Could your
Giganto
-whatever be doing this?”

“I don't know.”

“Have they been known to abduct people?”

“On occasion.”

“Kill?”

“On occasion.”

“Why would it do that?”

“Detective, this is not Harry and the Hendersons we're discussing. He is a creature seemingly more human than ape. Less than two percent of our DNA differs from that of chimpanzees and scarcely more for gorillas. He could be closer to us than even the chimps. Like us he has wants, needs, emotions. He is subject to behavioral anomalies just as humans, chimpanzees, and gorillas are. He is both cunning and spectacularly strong, likely as unafraid of us as an NFL lineman would be of toddlers. He may feel we are encroaching on his territory and be resolved to stand his ground, not defer to human progress anymore. He may just be ill-tempered. Or you may have a rogue predator, motivated by his own reasons.”

Dr. Frazier rose, signaling the end of the meeting. “And, of course, these disappearances all may be coincidental and have nothing to do with…your friend there. I have no idea.”

He came around the desk and extended his hand.

“But please let me know when you make an arrest. I will have many questions for him.”

T
he Channel 7 newsroom buzzed with the usual morning din as the noon anchors readied to report on the day-after-Thanksgiving crush at local malls. Kris was assigned a mall in north Seattle and saw it as an inconvenience since she was trying to put together a follow-up piece on the missing lawyers. Kris wanted something provocative, like making a connection between them and the logger, but she just couldn't connect the dots. She sat down at her desk to do some work before her crew assembled when one of the news writers passed by.

“Hey, Kris,” he said. “What about that missing biker? Sounds like you got a series.”

Kris leaped up from her desk. “What biker?” she demanded.

He stepped back slightly, startled by her intensity. “Uh, I thought you knew. Last night some mountain biker from Monroe disappeared up near where your lawyers and the logger did. Thought you'd be on your way out there by now,” he said, walking away.

Kris was delighted someone else had vanished but angry she'd let such an important piece of information slip past her web. She felt a slight sense of panic at losing her edge.
I need to quit screwing around and make this my goddamn story.
But the panic quickly gave way to fury at how she had wasted her evening at a commonplace car crash that had only killed two when the real story—more missing people—was transpiring at the same time. She also missed out on getting laid and that only added to her aggravation.

This missing mountain biker was the switch to her lightbulb. Kris knew it was now or never to make her move. She grabbed her phone and pressed a three-digit internal code. Without even a hello, she launched,“Rick, get your crew together, we're going to Monroe.”

Rick Kititani sighed on the other end. “Kris, you're supposed to do the mall shoot at Alderwood and I'm going to White Center. Find another crew.”

Kris was tired of his attitude. He was a cameraman, she was a reporter.

“Fuck White Center,” she said, knowing his story was only the dedication of some stupid magnet school. “We're going to the Eastside. We'll leave in twenty.”

“No, Kris. No way.”

Kris simply disconnected him and dialed. Someone answered and Kris looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Can you talk?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “I've got a problem.”

Twenty minutes later she left the station, bound for Monroe. Her camera crew was headed by the angry Rick Kititani.

When he arrived at work that Friday, Ty got chewed out for his unauthorized absence and unofficial inquiries. While his bosses took turns reading him the riot act, Ty bit his lip and tuned them out. He caught bits and pieces of “diminished work performance,” as well as “wildly overstepping his authority” and “investigation using his uniform and association with a government agency,” but he didn't care.

After the pummeling he crept off to the motor pool, climbed into a truck, and sat down to think. After promising himself it was only a matter of time until he quit the Forest Service, he climbed out of the truck and went back in to get his day's assignment. He could last long enough to plan his next move, but what he feared far more than Ronnie's concerns or reaction crossed his mind.
What if this isn't what I think it is? Then what?

Mac was just settling in at his desk when he got a call from Undersheriff Tom Rice summoning him to his office. When he entered, Mac was surprised to find Carillo and Sheriff Rick Barkley. The three men were standing and Carillo looked nervous.

“What's up?” Mac asked.

Sheriff Barkley leveled a finger at Carillo. “Your partner was on the noon news today.”

Then an irritated Rice weighed in. “We've got Channel 7 saying there's an ongoing investigation of four
murders
? What the hell's going on here?”

Mac was confused. “Four murders? Who said that?”

“That blond bitch,” said Carillo sullenly.

Before Mac could respond, Rice jumped back in. “They're accusing us of not doing our job. I don't like it. And this man next to me really doesn't like it.”

All eyes went to Sheriff Barkley. “When a reporter goes on the air and not only says we're dragging our feet but insinuates that what we're calling disappearances are actually four confirmed murders and we're not telling the public—”

Mac shook his head. “Where do they—”

The chief continued, “—then I have a problem. And now my problem is your problem. I want this handled. Follow all leads, turn all stones. I want you to find the asshole who's been putting those footprints out there and squeeze his balls. If he's got something to do with this, then sweat him and find out what. Do what you have to because I don't want the FBI or any other agencies sticking their noses up my ass because we can't take care of our own backyard.”

Sheriff Barkley fixed his intense eyes on Carillo. “And no more goddamn interviews. What the hell were you thinkin', Carillo?”

Carillo hung his head. “Sorry, Boss.”

The three men left the sheriff's office and Rice turned to his detectives. “Put together whatever you've got and come down to my office. Let's map this thing out.”

As Rice walked away, Mac faced Carillo.

“What the hell happened?”

Carillo's eyes were dark with anger. “That reporter. She fuckin' ambushed me.”

“Who are you talking about?” Mac demanded. “I thought you were going out to talk to the logger's wife.”

“I did. Then I went to interview the biker's girlfriend. That's when that bitch showed up. She tried to make it look like we were covering up something. She acted all friendly at first, then as soon as the camera was there, she made me look like a total asshole.”

Mac cringed, although he knew that what Kris claimed probably didn't matter because if what Dr. Wade Frazier told him was right, then she didn't have the important half of the story. But then neither did Carillo. Yet Mac had to keep that part quiet for the moment. He just wasn't sure when that moment would come. He was worried that if he started spouting what Frazier told him to Carillo or anyone else in the department who would listen, he'd be off the case in a New York minute and probably assigned to cold cases, pending a psych exam. Maybe the truth was he didn't quite believe it himself.

“Man, she fucked me good,” grated Carillo. “I thought we were cool, she's askin' regular questions, then she brings up the lawyers, claiming we abandoned the search early, then she throws in this shit about the mountain biker. Christ, the guy's not missing twelve hours and we're responsible. What an asshole.”

Mac started walking and Carillo followed.

Carillo continued, “So tell me you got something with that lead.”

“Not really. Not yet.”

Carillo dodged into the men's room and Mac continued back to his desk. He picked up the phone as he fished around in his organizer for the card Kris had given him. Her cell went to voice mail, so he tried the station but she was out on assignment. He called her pager, then her home. The message he left everywhere was short:
call Mac Schneider ASAP.

T
y left work early, complaining of a stress-related headache. Since no one would tell him where the incident with Joe Wylie had taken place, he managed to hack into Weyerhaeuser's internal computer and found the incident report. It wasn't very informative, making no mention of the extent of the damage. Things didn't look too promising until Ty came across an e-mail memo from a higher-up commanding one of their divisions to “harvest the damaged timber as soon as possible” and to officially blame the event on “wind damage.” That was enough to send Ty's curiosity into overdrive. It was either some kind of cover-up or just lazy procedure. As much as he wanted to believe the former, he suspected the latter.

He headed his truck east into the mountains. Within forty-five minutes he passed the Weyerhaeuser equipment facility and proceeded up Access Road Number 4, the same route Joe Wylie had taken that fateful morning a week earlier. After about ten minutes the road made a turn and straightened out as it flattened, just as described in the report. Ty expected to have to look hard for the few broken trees. He was stunned. Four loggers, busily at work with chain saws, had cut nearly half the broken trees down to stumps, but there were enough left to drop his jaw.

This was the evidence Ty had been waiting for, praying for. Tears came to his eyes.
I'm not insane. This thing was here and this hapless logger crossed paths with it and paid with his life.
He parked and pulled his Sony digital camera from his pocket.

Kris received Mac's messages but ignored them all. She had other problems. Her news director had called her in the van on the way back from her attack on Carillo and his department and screamed at her for implying that a series of missing persons had suddenly become a murder investigation. He also yelled at her for accusing the local police of keeping the threat of a serial killer from the public. Though he threatened to take her off the story, if not outright fire her, by the time she got back to the station, he simply ignored her, and that told Kris her guardian angel was probably working his magic.

Because she'd created the serial killer theory, no one else in Seattle had the story, and she assumed that management would at least wait until the next day to check her ratings. If they were strong, she was probably in the clear. She was sure her news director had confronted the station's general manager and probably been told, “If you want to chew her out, fine, but then leave her alone, she's good for the station.” GM Lyle Benson was a corporate hack from the home office in Provo, Utah. A relentless bean counter, Benson didn't give a damn about news, accurate or otherwise. He cared only about ratings and Kris was supplying them.

She briefly thought of the men who had vanished.
Now all I need is one of them to appear alive and fuck up my career.
She would deal with Mac later. It was serendipity that she had come across his partner at the apartment of Skip Caldwell, the mountain biker. After hearing of the biker's disappearance, Kris had rushed out to interview his girlfriend and run into Carillo. Taking the fourth missing man as a sign from on high, she had played her boldest hand yet with both the murder angle and her accusation that the sheriff was afraid to call it what it was.

The sheriff's official position was that the men were missing. While no real evidence of foul play had surfaced, Kris had just enough inside information to think there was more to it. But for a lone reporter to suddenly change the course of this whole thing and yell the
M
word meant there would surely be ruffled feathers, not only in every law enforcement agency involved but in television stations across Puget Sound.

When she made the decision to aggressively corner Carillo, without any facts to back up her charges, her rapid-fire attack gave the illusion of substance and heightened the impact of Carillo's caged rat behavior, his quick denial and scurrying retreat from Rick Kititani's camera. It was answer enough, not to mention wonderful television. As Kris relived the moment, she reveled in the heat between her thighs. That inspired her to conclude this might be a good moment for a win-win, a quick interlude that might satisfy her momentary needs while making a payment for a recent favor. She made sure no other employees were within earshot. She picked up her cell and dialed.

“What're you doing?” Her voice was low. “I know you're busy, but how busy? I'm very, very horny. I dunno, fifteen minutes? Ten? I can do that.”

Sorting through newspapers in his hotel room, Ben knew he was looking for something but was not sure what: it had become the classic case of “I'll know it when I see it.” He was more than a little frustrated to be sitting in a hotel room in Bellevue, Washington, looking aimlessly at every regional newspaper he could find. The TV blared in the background as he turned page after page, one publication after another. He looked at the sheets of newsprint strewn over the bed and thought the room looked like a hobo had been sleeping there. The ringing phone was a blessed distraction and he grabbed it.

“Yeah?”

“Ben?” It was Jay Fine, his agent. “You okay?”

“Yup. I'm okay, Jay. Thanks,” Ben answered.

“Look, I don't want to add to your problems, but the production company can't keep rescheduling your scenes much longer. Any idea when you'll be back?”

“No, I wish I knew,” Ben said, deliberately giving him as little information as possible. Ben knew agents were very persuasive people, and he didn't want to give Jay any ammo the agent could use against him. “But I appreciate you calling.”

“Ben,” Jay said, lowering his voice for gravity, “I want to keep you on this picture.” He paused, then continued,“I know you may need the money.”

Ben smiled to himself. Just like he thought, a little info, a little ammo.

“Thanks, Jay. I know you care about me.”

They continued the conversation a moment or two with small talk, then hung up. Ben put Jay's comments out of his head and thought about Doris. Despite the fatalistic voice he had heard at the airport about not coming back, Ben was concerned about the future. How would his decision to drop out of the movie hurt him and Doris?

As he weighed those thoughts, the TV anchor began a “humorous” wrap-up story entitled “Dueling Tabloids.” Apparently a local man recently suffered damage to his truck, and one national tabloid blamed extraterrestrials while another laid it on Bigfoot. Ben's ears perked up. He grabbed the remote and jacked up the volume. The piece was over in a flash, but suddenly a police blotter report from one of the newspapers came back to mind. He started digging through the pile of papers.

Unable to contact Kris, Mac knew she was avoiding him for good reason. He chided himself that if he had any sense, he'd avoid contact with her. She was dangerous as well as reckless. By calling these events a series of murders, she had dug herself into a hole. Mac smiled to himself at the irony that she was probably right but would never know the real reason why.

At nine that evening, a small Web site containing several photos, some text, and an alleged conspiracy by the Weyerhaeuser company and “quite possibly by Washington state law enforcement agencies” went live. Ty knew the first claim was probably a stretch, and the notion that the police were covering up anything—let alone even
knew
something—was a real reach.

But he had been emboldened by the six o'clock news when a Channel 7 reporter got the ball rolling, saying the police were downplaying murders by calling them “disappearances.” Nothing sells like a conspiracy. Ty rationalized his attack on the police and a gigantic multinational corporation as a necessary evil. The site vigorously charged both with concealing information about a recent abduction of a company employee by an “unknown nonhuman hominid.” His only goal was to stir things up and get some answers.

He knew his proof was thin, three photos of a dirt road and some damaged trees, broken, according to the Web site,“by the hominid as it marked its territory.” The site went on to speculate that the hapless logger had happened upon the creature and “was abducted and probably killed.” He questioned why the trees were cut down and why the police had never spent any resources investigating the damaged trees. Clearly, he said, the trees were key evidence. The site asked for any information and offered a $10,000 reward to anyone who might help uncover what and where the perpetrator might be. To facilitate the visibility of his site, Ty fed Internet search engines keywords such as
Bigfoot, Sasquatch, unexplained disappearances,
and
cover-up,
among many others.

Ty was proud of his site, which only took him around two hours to design. He left his computer and went down the hall to the TV room to watch a video with the kids. Greta joined them, settling onto the huge sectional next to Chris. She put her arm around the boy and her fingers brushed Ty's shoulder. She looked over, slightly embarrassed. Ty knew she had a schoolgirl crush on him. Fifteen minutes passed and Ty got up, figuring he didn't need Ronnie coming out of her office to find him practically snuggling with the au pair. He went back to his computer to check his site. After such a short time in operation he already had one hundred and thirty-six hits. Though he had no e-mails, he felt his nascent site was performing well. The word would get out. For a split second he hoped the men weren't just lost but had been killed, and in the way he described. Ty felt a twinge of guilt. In that fraction of a second, his mind had laid out the stakes:
them or me.
If they were alive, then he would soon be dead, because this would all have been a false alarm and he'd be back to plotting his own demise.

Ty ruminated about one other thing he'd learned from previous experience in such matters: if you open your mouth, make sure you're in the back of the crowd. He made sure his name was not mentioned on the site, but if it got enough positive attention, he might eventually add it. After all, he thought with soft bitterness, on this subject it had some value.

In the few days she had been living with the Greenwoods, Greta felt the tension in the house and was curious about her hosts and the secrets they seemed to be keeping.

Chris turned off the satellite and turned on a DVD movie. He skipped to the part he liked near the end.

“What's this?” she asked.

Chris unfocused from the screen and looked to Greta.
“The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms,”
he said. “It's an old movie but pretty cool. My dad really likes it.”

Greta recognized it as one Chris often watched. “So, how long has your father worked in the forest?”

“Since he saw Bigfoot,” Chris said matter-of-factly, turning back to the screen as the rubber monster decimated a scale model of Coney Island.

Greta was puzzled. “Bigfoot? What's that?”

Chris looked at her in disbelief. “You don't know what that is? Didn't you see
Harry and the Hendersons
?”

Greta shook her head and Chris conceded she was foreign. “Big-foot is this thing that lives in the woods. He's big and looks like a gorilla.” He looked back at the screen. “Or at least that's what people say.”

The sad, faraway tone of his last sentence told Greta that the implications of this story to the Greenwoods were big.

“He saw this thing? Really?” Greta asked.

Chris just shrugged.

“Why didn't he tell someone?” she wondered.

Chris took a moment to answer. “He did.”

“And?” she asked.

“Nobody believes him. 'Cept weirdos.”

Greta got the gist of the problem. “Your mother…she believes him, doesn't she?”

Chris just stared at the TV.

Greta tried another tack. “Do you believe him?”

Chris's face became set but he kept his eyes on the screen. “My dad doesn't lie.”

Greta just had some of her questions answered. She was fascinated that people with so much could let something as silly as a mythical forest ogre come between them. She figured there had to be more to it than that.
Bigfoot? What a funny name. Sounds like a character from a cartoon.
She was surprised practical Americans had such folktales.