The Shadowkiller (21 page)

D
eke Allison was not a poker player. He didn't even buy lottery tickets. So it was no surprise that Deke wanted no surprises. When the movie Indian was at his home, Marge correctly reported to the old man that Deke was out overseeing the repair of his truck. But he was also performing another errand, one devoted to the security of the Allison commonwealth. Even though his plans involved a family relocation in the very immediate future, Deke had just spent nearly nine grand on laser motion sensors and CCTV cameras to be deployed all around his property. He rationalized that they would make his home more salable.

When the electronics salesman asked if it was wild animals he wanted to detect, Deke automatically answered yes. But when the guy started assembling a system designed to recognize small creatures, Deke suddenly backpedaled.

“I need something that'll only trip when something…er, somebody maybe seven feet or so comes through.”

The salesman looked puzzled. “Seven feet?”

Deke quickly shook his head. “No, no, I meant six feet, maybe six five. I think it's a neighbor kid, he's real tall, I think he plays basketball for the high school.”

“Which kid?” asked the shopkeeper, being a fan of local prep hoops.

Deke shrugged, mumbling that he didn't want to name names, concerned over the blight on the record of a “nice kid.” Nevertheless, he wanted to know if the kid was around.

“I know exactly what you're talkin' about,” said the surveillance guy,“a peeper.” The man nodded knowingly. “We'll set the receptors at six feet, avoid any false triggers.”

The salesman set Deke up with the best perimeter intrusion detection system this side of the Dugway Proving Ground or Area 51. And it had consumed a mere six hours to install, align, and hook up.

Now Deke sat in his rec room, eyes flicking between Jerry Springer and the two black-and-white monitors trained on the back and side yards. His quasar-level floodlight made the motionless, grainy wide-angle images very contrasty. Anything larger than a vole or wood rat would grab his eye faster than if his satellite TV screwed up and the Spice Channel came on. Next to the monitors was the control console with eight red LEDs that would not only indicate a breach on his grid but would tell him where. Like a bargain basement nemesis of James Bond, Deke settled back into his Barcalounger for dinner, surrounded by an array of surveillance gear. Marge appeared, gently moved the rifle off his lap, and set his TV tray in front of him.

“Seen anything?” she asked, trying hard to be cheerful.

“Zip,” Deke grunted.

After spending all this money, he almost hoped the big sumbitch would show up so he could shoot at it. Almost.

Just as Mr. Springer was waxing philosophically on his final thought, a red light began winking on Deke's control console. Something had just broken the beam directly behind the sheds. Something at least six feet tall. Suddenly confronted with the very real possibility of standing toe to toe with whatever made those footprints, Deke surprised himself.

He dialed 911.

The Kinko's copy center on Bellevue Way was bustling that evening. Everyone from students at Bellevue High and Bellevue Community College to eager job hunters was banging out multiple copies of term papers and resumés as they crowded the dozens of machines. Ben made his way to the will-call desk. A cute girl of about eighteen greeted Ben with a huge smile.

“Welcome to Kinko's. May I help you?”

Ben smiled. Despite his incognito windbreaker, his rangy six-three frame and distinctive face caused many heads in the place to turn.

“I think I got some faxes,” he said. “For Campbell.”

Ben used his real surname when conducting personal business. The girl sorted through the will-call stack and found a thick folder.

“Campbell? Here it is. Wow, it's a lot. You here doing a movie, Mr. Campbell?”

Ben was amused that so many young people recognized him. Ben still did two or three films a year but had also recently been “rediscovered” via a series of widely popular commercials.

“No,” he said,“just takin' a vacation. I like your town.”

He looked into the folder, filled with his nephew David's cyberspace research. A quick glimpse at the pages left Ben amazed at what you could find on the Internet.

“Maybe you'll move here?” offered the counter girl airily.

Ben handed her his Amex card and smiled again. “Maybe.”

Twenty-five minutes after Deke Allison's agitated phone call was routed to the Snohomish County Sheriff's Department, Tyler James Greenwood was in custody for criminal trespass. In Deke Allison's excitable state he had no problem agreeing to press charges, since he had fairly warned the man the first time he'd caught him on his land. Ty was quiet on the way to the jail, his mind spinning with what he would tell Ronnie.

T
hat evening Mac walked into Olson's Gun Exchange in downtown Everett. Though it had been nearly three years, the guy who sold him his current gun recognized him. Tall, tattooed, wiry with wire-frame glasses and sporting the name tag “Ray,” the man approached. At first glance Ray appeared slightly bookish, but on further examination he projected an edgy, survivalist vibe. If you made the mistake of assuming he was a weakling, a glimpse of the big Colt .45 auto on his belt caused that perception to vanish.

“Hey man, how're ya doin'?” Ray said, remembering the face but not the name.

Mac shook Ray's hand. “Hi, Ray.”

Since Ray had just smoked his dinner and momentarily forgotten he sported a name badge, he was surprised the cop remembered him. Mac released his grip.

“Mac. Mac Schneider.”

Ray's face brightened in recognition. “Oh, yeah, Mac. Sheriff's department. You had just come up from L.A. I remember that. What's happenin', man?”

The guys who worked at the gun store liked real cops because most of them were police wannabes and would stay that way because never in a million years could they pass the background check or drug screen to be one.

“I need a gun. Bigger than this one,” Mac said, pulling back his jacket to reveal the Sig pistol Ray had sold him when he started with the department.

“What's wrong with that?” Ray asked.

“Nothing. Just need more knockdown power sometimes. What do you have?”

Ray looked conspiratorially at Mac. “This for official use?”

Mac's face was impassive. “Not necessarily.”

Ray loved anything that reinforced his belief that the government was doing shit off the books. “How big?”

“Big. Real big,” answered Mac.

Ray motioned for him to follow as he strolled to the end of the glass display cases. Ray reached down and got his hands around two handguns—an enormous, gleaming stainless steel semiautomatic pistol and an equally massive revolver. Ray's lips tightened and he puffed out his chest as he went into his pitch.

“Desert Eagle, fifty magnum action express, made in Israel,” he said proudly. “Three hunnert and twenty-five grains of jacketed lead that makes a forty-four mag look like a fuckin' paintball gun. Wanna stop a train? Here's the conductor, my man.”

Ray picked up the revolver. “If that one's King Kong—”

Mac smiled to himself at the inadvertently apt comparison.

“—this one is freakin' Godzilla. The Smith and Wesson model Five Hundred. Biggest, baddest, most powerful handgun made, period. Pushes five hunnert 'n ten grains at seventeen hunnert f-p-s. A fuckin' nuke-yew-ler hand cannon. This will kill a rhino or a polar bear, dude. And that's no shit.”

Mac gestured at the automatic pistol. “That carries more rounds, right?”

Ray nodded. “Seven plus one versus five.”

Mac pointed at the Desert Eagle and Ray laid the immense weapon into his hands. Mac's arm sagged slightly, it was so much heavier than his current weapon.

“Course, you'll have to get used to a safety again,” noted Ray. “Plus this ain't no double action like your Sig.”

“How much?” asked Mac.

Ray looked around like he was about to break policy and make this Mac's lucky day.

“Twelve-fifty. But for you, tonight? Eleven even.”

Mac hefted it and snapped the huge slide. He popped the clip out, then rammed it back in. He said a short prayer to himself that he wouldn't have to use it.

“Throw in two boxes of ammo,” he said.

Ray balked. “Uh, hey pardner, that's twenty-eight bucks a box…” Mac's look told him to shut up. “Oh hell, why not?” caved Ray. “I mean you're gonna use it to protect the citizenry, right?”

Mac dropped the hammer and it made a solid click. “Yes, I am.”

Ronnie was at her wits' end after getting Ty's call from the sheriff's department in Everett. She told Greta she had an errand to run and jumped in her Lexus. She'd heard the reports of the missing men over the last week but had never imagined that they might relate to Ty. Until now. Ty was backsliding, she could see that.

At the sheriff's department she paid his bail with cash. Knowing computers like they did, she and Ty had long ago decided to keep some cash in the house in case the computer systems governing the banking system crashed.

Ty was led out in handcuffs and unshackled in front of her. She bit her lip, suddenly wanting to cry, but not here, not in front of these people. Ronnie was scared. She was scared for her husband, her children, and their future. If he started this behavior all over again, this time he just might be beyond her ability to save him. That's what scared her the most.

With Ty's truck impounded, they had to drive home together. As they walked silently to the car, Ronnie handed Ty the keys and got in the passenger side. She had kept her cool for too long; her strength was gone. She took a deep breath and cut loose, bawling like a baby. Ty drove half a block and pulled over. He leaned over to hold her and she pushed him away.

“What is wrong with you?” she sobbed. “Are you starting this again? Are you?”

Ty knew he had to come clean. He had another bombshell to drop on her: he had quit the Forest Service that afternoon. He quickly decided it was probably not the time to tell her.

“Honey, I'm not crazy. Do you believe that?” he asked.

She turned and looked out the window, having labored over this same ground before. She tried to compose herself, sniffling as she rummaged in her pockets for a tissue.

“Ty, you can't do this. I don't know why you're dragging us through it again. I won't do it,” she said, her voice firming up. She turned to him and even in the dark car he could see her swollen eyes and beet red cheeks. His heart sank over the pain he was causing her.

“If this is what you want, you'll do it without us. The kids are older, they have more to lose, and I won't stand by and watch you disintegrate looking for something you can't find. Do you hear me?” she asked, choking back snot and tears.

He wanted to put his arms around her but that was off-limits. He put the car in gear.

“Yes, I hear you.”

They said nothing more the thirteen miles back to the house.

The next morning as soon as Ronnie's car disappeared down the driveway, Ty climbed up to the attic storage room and started searching for buried treasure. As he moved boxes, he hoped Ronnie hadn't tossed the items out in the last two years. Behind a wall of other boxes Ty found his prize, four boxes marked “Ty's books, stuff.”

There were other boxes of books but these four cartons were special. They contained research materials, books, pamphlets, Internet downloads, invoices, tape recordings, and videotapes and disks of his previous quest. Ty had sealed the issue in the boxes and exiled them to the attic after Ronnie's dire predictions about the destruction of their family.

Now with a new promise of bad things to come if he stayed on his current path, he gazed at the boxes for a moment, as if they contained some terrible poisonous reptiles and he had to think through whether he should release them. He did not want to hurt Ronnie, but Ty was in the throes of an uncontrollable urge to continue. He acknowledged that the feelings he was experiencing were tantamount to addiction. That being granted, and safe in the belief that he was not yet ready to confront his addiction by any twelve-step method, he steeled himself, grabbed the first box, and hefted it to his shoulder.

A
s the news van made its way to the scene of a story, Kris had time to think. She knew one thing they never taught in journalism classes and that was that the illusion of a story could be just as good as the real thing. Sometimes it was called hype, sometimes misinformation, sometimes just misreporting, but however you labeled it, the illusion of excitement, danger, or controversy drew viewers like a moth to a flame. While in school Kris had been mesmerized when she'd watch national news anchors, usually on the cable networks, speculate on a story. This was everything she'd been taught not to do. If a man had just taken the patrons of an electronics store hostage, or was simply driving erratically, they would debate whether he was suicidal, psychotic, bipolar, a wife abuser, drug abuser, gang member, fleeing felon, or child molester, and the ratings would skyrocket.

Kris saw this precedent as her license to conjecture wildly, that is until the truth was revealed, at which time she would shift gears and report that which was known. In her current situation, she was convinced that whether there actually was a killer was unimportant. If she could keep the ball in the air, the story of a
possible
killer could reap her ratings as well as credit for having uncovered the story. And a story this big would get national attention.
What if this is another
Green River Killer or Ted Bundy?
She got a chill for all the wrong reasons.

“Here's another. I think that's it,” said John Baxter, handing Mac a thick green Pendaflex folder. “In there is everything we've got on those three stories.”

Mac had read coverage of all their missing person cases in the local paper and saw some facts the department did not have. He had convinced Carillo it was worth the five-minute ride over to the paper to check out their files and see if they offered anything fresh.

Mac nodded, removing a manila folder and handing the rest to Carillo.

“Do you mind if we take our time?” Mac asked.

Baxter gestured toward a conference room that was rarely used.

“Not at all. You fellas want some coffee?”

Mac shook his head, but Carillo looked up. “Yeah, where is it?”

Baxter didn't mind helping the police. As a newspaperman he knew a lot of cops in the area but not these guys. He was a friend of their boss, the sheriff, and getting to know Schneider and Carillo might be helpful someday. “I'll get it,” he said.

When Baxter left, Carillo noticed something in Skip Caldwell's file.

“Okay, here's something bicycle guy's girlfriend mentioned,” explained Carillo. “Caldwell's supposed to be in a world-class bike race that's coming up. Favored to finish first or second. We need to look into the guy favored to finish third.”

Mac flipped through the folder. “Thought you didn't think much of bicycles.”

“I don't,” Carillo continued,“but there's no denying a possible motive. I guess they pay these jokers pretty good money just to ride bicycles.” He hefted Jack Remsbecker's file. “And the lawyers?” Carillo snorted. “Who needs a motive to kill a lawyer?”

Baxter heard the last sentence as he entered with the coffee.

“If you're looking for motives,” he offered,“and I don't know if this has any bearing, but I've had a guy poking around, asking lots of questions.”

Baxter handed Carillo his coffee and left the office. Carillo and Mac looked at each other and shrugged. Baxter returned a moment later carrying another folder.

“Like I said, this guy may be harmless, but he's asking the same questions you are. He's with the Forest Service and said he was investigating these disappearances. Thing is, I checked him out and his bosses didn't know anything about it. Also, FYI, the other night your people arrested him for trespassing. It'll be in our police blotter tomorrow.” He handed Carillo the file.

“Thanks. We'll check him out.”

As Baxter left again, Carillo flipped through the file. “This is the guy…You gave me some articles on this guy, Greenwood, right?”

Mac looked up, thought for a second, and nodded. “Yeah.”

Carillo continued reading.

Mac looked up again. “I figured maybe Greenwood could help us—”

“Shit!” said Carillo, “Bigfoot? This guy claims he saw Bigfoot? What were you thinking?”

“What do you mean?”

“He's the guy!”

“What guy?” asked Mac.

“The guy who's making all these people disappear,” said Carillo.

J. D. Watts was only now coming out of the drug and liquor catatonia he'd been in for three days. His life had turned from shit to worse, much worse, in less than seventy-two hours. He killed a guy in a fit of rage, then he and Errol were attacked by a fucking Bigfoot, which killed Errol and ran off with him. It was the most horrible nightmare J. D. could ever imagine.

Now he had some decisions to make. First, how was he going to deal with Errol's parole officer? As soon as Errol didn't check in, the guy would come out to snoop around. That J. D. was also on parole and the PO didn't know they were roommates didn't look good for him. Second, if someone found either Errol or Newburg's bodies, J. D. was completely fucked. As J. D. visualized being tied down to a gurney, like Sean Penn in that
Dead Man Walking
movie, he lost all strength. He didn't want to die.

Finally, the whole Bigfoot thing complicated everything by a hundred times. If they hadn't been dumping a body, they'd have the story of the century. They'd probably be rich and that would solve all of their problems. But Errol was dead now. In his mind's eye J. D. Watts saw over and over the face of that thing, staring at him, its horrid red eyes sparkling in the glow of the taillights, and he shivered.
Poor Errol. Poor me.
Sure, he'd been a little loaded at the time, but what he saw…well, it was totally real. Now what?

He couldn't exactly call the TV people with his big discovery, given the dark reason he and Errol had been in the mountains. But he knew someone would figure out Leon Newburg was missing, and also that Errol Rayburn was missing, and that the common element was probably J. D. Watts. And pretty soon, a few days, a few weeks maybe, someone would come around with questions he couldn't answer. J. D. looked at the fresh bottle of Jack Daniels he had cracked the night before, just before he passed out, and gagged.

He grabbed the remote and changed channels to watch the noon news and see if anyone had found the bodies yet. He regularly watched Channel 7's news because of that hot babe Kris something or other. As he gazed stonily at the object of his arousal, it suddenly occurred to him what she was talking about and he sat up. Missing men? Murders? J. D. realized she was describing pretty much the same area where he and Errol had gone to dump Newburg's body. If people were disappearing, he had a fairly good idea why.

A grand plan began to form in his mind. He would go public, solve the whole thing, become a media celebrity, then get a big, fancy lawyer who would get him off the hook for killing Newburg. Then doubt threw a blanket on his grand plan. What if he was wrong? What if that thing didn't kill anyone else? What if as soon as he came forward, the missing men either turned up or it was discovered they had been knocked off in a more conventional way?

J. D. sat back and took a long toke of reefer. He had time. So far, no parole officers had called for Errol, and for that matter, nothing else out of the ordinary had happened. Errol didn't have many friends, so J. D. figured so far, so good. He watched the beautiful blond newsgirl and pictured the scene as he told her his story. He allowed that maybe something would develop between them. He took another toke and fantasized about that.

Carillo threw the folder down on the desk. “This is him, Boss, Ty Greenwood.”

Sheriff Barkley picked up the folder.

Mac shook his head. “I doubt he's the guy.”

Carillo shot him an ugly glance. Mac hated contradicting his partner, particularly in front of their two bosses, but he was pretty sure Ty Greenwood was innocent.

Undersheriff Tom Rice closed the room's louvered blinds to give the four men privacy. “Why do you think it's him?”

Carillo was exasperated. “It's a no-brainer. This guy was taken apart by the press a couple years back when he swore Bigfoot chased him around Idaho when he was on vacation. I did some digging on him. At least several publications said he was on antidepressants and seeing a shrink, and I did find out he orders illegal painkillers by mail…Hey, the guy even shitcanned a high-paid career to go work for the Forest Service. Total fucking nut. We arrested him the other night for trespassing on a guy's property who had a truck turned over. I mean that's something Bigfoot might do, right?” he chuckled. No one else as much as cracked a smile and he continued. “Anyway, Greenwood's got the money to pay somebody to do that, tip a truck over. I'm tellin' you, if this guy doesn't have a motive to make people think Bigfoot's real, then nobody does.”

Barkley looked to Mac. “You're not convinced? Why?”

Mac stared at Barkley for a moment. He wanted to tell them everything he'd discovered but they just weren't ready to believe him. If he spoke up now, he'd only ruin any chance to bring this out when the timing was right. Anger flashed over his face briefly, but it was anger at himself for being afraid. “I dunno. Maybe Karl's right.”

Carillo clenched his jaw. “Fuck me runnin' I'm right.”

Barkley pushed the file back to Carillo. “Okay, this is how we'll play it. You find what you can on this guy. If he's got that much money, we just can't roust him like some crackhead. We need our shit together if we're gonna build a case. Get prepared, then go interview him, tomorrow. See if you can get him to break but don't push too hard. If he's the guy and we don't have all our ducks in a row, then he'll lawyer up and walk.”