Victim Six (31 page)

April 6, 10:50 a.m.
Key Peninsula

Kendall Stark caught her breath when she laid eyes on Max’s drawing on top of Principal Al Judson’s desk. Judson was a stoop-shouldered man of about fifty-five with sparse white hair. He had the sour demeanor of a man with indigestion or one who longed for any other job than the one he held.

“You can see our concern,” he said.

“I do,” she said, meeting his gaze before looking back down at the paper.

It was a mostly black-and-white rendering, although there were splashes of red in three places. Max, who was left-handed, had smudged some of the imagery. It showed a woman supine on what Kendall figured was a bed. The drawing, with its mix of perspective, had a kind of surreal look. Next to the woman, at the foot of the bed, was a man standing. He was holding a knife. Like the woman, he was nude. Between his legs was a depiction of a penis.

There were splashes of blood on the blade and at the point where the female figure’s two legs converged.

“What’s with her arms?” she asked. “It looks like they’re tied above her head.”

“Sick, isn’t it?” Principal Judson said.

“If it is what we think it is,” Kendall said.

“Maybe it’s from a video game,” the principal said. “I know they have an Xbox, because the boy traded games and got in trouble for it.”

Kendall nodded at the possibility, although she’d never known an Xbox game to have such abhorrent imagery. She wondered if Cody had seen such things.

“Or maybe some porn he saw when an adult carelessly left the TV on,” Al Judson said.

“That’s more than porn,” Kendall said, her expression grim. “But I know there has to be an explanation.”

There was another detail that eluded the detective for a moment because it was so faint, as if it had been erased or smudged away.

The woman on the bed wore a crown.

Kendall said nothing more as she took the paper and rolled it into a tube. She put it inside a glassine bag and marked her initials, the date, and the Castile surname. She made her way toward Max in the nurse’s office.

Max looked on the verge of tears when he saw that she was carrying the drawing. His teacher had her hand on his shoulder.

“Everything will be all right,” she said.

He didn’t say anything.

Kendall patted the paper-covered examination table. “I need you to sit up here so we can see eye to eye. Okay?”

The little boy hopped up on the table, tearing the paper covering and looking embarrassed about the ripping sound.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said.

“Max,” Kendall said, “where did you get the idea for this drawing?”

Max looked away.

She didn’t want to lead him with questions designed to get a response that she could later use in court. Inside, she hoped that what Max Castile had drawn had absolutely no basis in reality. At least, not at his house. Maybe some kid had brought some filthy photo from home and he had drawn the image from memory.

“Who is the man?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

Kendall wasn’t getting anywhere.

She decided to press a little, “Is this something you’ve seen?”

“I don’t know.” He started to cry, and she lifted him off the table and held him.

“It’s okay,” she said softy. “We’ll take care of this. We’ve left messages for your mom and dad. We’ll all figure this out.”

Kendall went back into the principal’s office to call Child Protective Services. While she waited to be connected to a caseworker, she thought of the antique rolling pin that had been used as a device of torture and how the name Castile had come up in the case before. She knew that something evil had been going on in the Castile home, and the innocent little boy in the principal’s office had seen it.

April 6, 11:15 a.m.
Port Orchard

The headline on the front page of the
Lighthouse,
left on the dock by a boater, piqued Trey Vedder’s interest, which was unusual. The teen almost never read a newspaper or cracked open a book. The closest he ever came to a piece of paper was when he sat on the toilet or when he picked up trash around the marina. But then, as he sat smoking on a bench overlooking the marina, the headline of this particular piece of newsprint beckoned to him:

Marine Fiberglass Clue in Cutter Case?

The article, by Serenity Hutchins, related the news first announced by the Mason County Sheriff’s Office, then confirmed by Kitsap County’s coroner:

Trey dialed the Sheriff’s Office and, as instructed, waited. A half hour later, he stood and nodded in the direction of a well-dressed man who parked his BMW in front of the marina. It was Josh Anderson, wearing charcoal pants and an Eddie Bauer pullover. The investigator hurried in the young man’s direction.

“You Trey?” he said.

The teen stood. “That’s me.”

“You see something we should know about?”

Trey pointed to the article with a motor oil–stained finger.

“I don’t know if this is anything, but there’s one guy that kind of creeps me out. Follow me.”

The pair started walking down the ramp to the slips where a hodgepodge of boats—sloops and power, new and old—were moored. Barn swallows that had started nests in the covered moorage skimmed the glass of Sinclair Inlet. The air was heavy with the smells of diesel, creosote, and briny water.

Trey told the detective how he’d observed what he thought was strange behavior with a particular boat owner.

“He lied to me big-time last year. Said he was fishing when I knew he hadn’t been.”

Josh sized up the kid. He looked as if he’d skipped his weekly shave, the beginnings of goatee shadowing his chin.

“You mean poaching?” he asked.

Trey shook his head. “I mean lying.”

“I’m listening.”

Trey took a deep breath and started talking about the encounter with the bucket of bloody water, how the boat’s owner had taken the craft out the day before Carol Godding’s body was found in Colvos Passage and the same day Marissa Cassava’s headless body was recovered near Anderson Point. He checked the marina log against the dates in the newspaper article.

“I checked the harbormaster’s log on that,” he added. “He fueled up those days too. It’s right there in the log.”

There are lots of people who would like to help the police solve crimes; many are devotees of
CSI
and other series about forensics. Josh wondered if Trey was one of those people. Statistically, he was way too young. But with the way those kids at Sedgewick Junior High had put Skye Hornbeck’s photo on the Internet, there was no telling what young people would do for attention.

“I was working the night before that lady was found. You can check my time card.”

The kid hadn’t told him anything significant yet, and he was already planning a stint on the witness stand. “No need for that right now,” Josh said.

“Okay. But you
can
. Anyway, I was working that night and the skipper of that boat—” He stopped and pointed at the old cabin cruiser. “That’s the guy’s boat. The
Saltshaker
.”

The old Sea Ray wasn’t exactly a thing of beauty. Its hull was dingy, and the canvas covering over the stern was tattered and cracked.

“Anyway, he and his wife, and his boy were hauling something heavy—you know all wrapped up.”

“Yes,” Josh said, now prodding.

Trey shifted his attention back at the detective. “It looked like a body. You know, all wrapped up in a brown plastic tarp.”

Josh reached for a cigarette as they stood on the pier next to a
NO SMOKING
sign.

The teenager played with the zipper of his hoodie. “I asked Sam if I could help. I mean, they
were
struggling. He refused help. When they came back, the tarp was folded up, and they carried it off. I thought maybe they tossed some trash into the Sound. You’d be surprised how many do that.”

“I guess I would be,” Josh said, his interest swelling.

“I read the article today in the paper about the fiberglass. Fits that old piece of crap,” he said, looking once more at the boat.

You’re quite a detective, kiddo,
Josh thought, but didn’t say so. “What’s this Sam’s last name?”

“Castile,” Trey said. “His wife is Melody. She’s kind of a bitch too. But nicer than he is, that’s for sure. I felt sorry for their kid.”

Josh felt adrenaline course through his lean body.
Castile
.
Melody Castile
.
Serenity’s sister and her husband
.

Without taking his eyes off the boat, he reached for his phone.

“Kendall, you know how to get to the Castiles’ place on the peninsula?”

“On my way now.”

“Castiles have a boat. Kid here at the marina puts Sam Castile in the water when our vics went missing.”

Kendall turned her SUV sharply, nearly missing her exit on to the highway. “The Cutter doesn’t work alone,” she said.

“The wife’s part of it.”

“I’m afraid so. And, Josh, I’m afraid we’ll find Serenity there, too. I hope we’re not too late.”

Serenity, bound on a mattress, could feel the presence of another naked body next to her. It was a girl, a familiar face. Her blond hair was matted with blood. Her eyes were slits,
fluttering
slits.

It was Paige Wilson, and she was alive.

“Melody!” Serenity called out.

No answer.

She turned toward Paige and tried to nudge her with her shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

It was a stupid question, but in the moment, it was the best she could do.

“Paige, are you okay?”

Paige murmured something unintelligible.

Alive.

Serenity could not tell if it was dark or light outside. She could not be certain how long she’d been unconscious. Her wrists hurt. Her feet felt like they’d been weighted down with something.

“My pretty bitch,” came the voice from the foot of the mattress.

It was low, husky, and horrifyingly familiar.

“I’m going to enjoy you. And you’re going to enjoy me.”

She knew it was Sam.

“Melody, get me out of here. Your husband is a goddamn freak!”

There was no answer from Melody.

“It’s just you and me,” he said. “You’re the one I’ve been waiting for.”

He touched her inner thigh, and she screamed.

“I like a fighter. Carol was a fighter. Skye and the others, not so much.”

Serenity didn’t seek clarification. She knew who he was talking about. She started to speak to her sister, but she felt herself slipping into darkness. She fought it, but her strength failed her. As blackness came, she heard the sound of an electric drill pulse and saw the glint of a rhinestone tiara.

“She’ll have that crown on when they find her,” Sam said. She heard him fish for something in a box next to the mattress.

“I need two molly bolts, goddamn it,” he said. “Who has been messing with my stuff?”

April 6, 2:40 p.m.
Key Peninsula

Kendall and Josh parked the SUV and BMW on the road outside the gate. They’d arrived at the location in the woods within moments of each other.

“The video cam is a phony,” Josh said, getting out if his BMW. “Serenity told me that Sam Castile is one of those guys who’s more into looks than reality. Wants the world to see him as some big deal instead of just an average guy.”

“Let’s leave the cars here,” she said.

The pair walked quietly along the bracken-fern-fringed driveway toward the log-built home. The scene was eerily quiet with the kind of heavy, oppressive stillness that comes in the spring when the Northwest’s cool marine air loses out to the season.

“Her car’s not here,” Josh said, looking around.

Kendall crept up to the glass panes of the garage door and peered inside.

“Oh,” she said in a whisper, “yes it is.”

The missing reporter’s familiar car was parked inside. Up in the rafters, Kendall caught a sliver of yellow.

Carol Godding’s canoe.

Inside the Fun House, a muted alarm had sounded.

Melody Castile peered out the window of the back bedroom, where she’d been reading a magazine. Sam had been firm in his demand that she should just sit and wait. He’d call her to the mattress when he was good and ready. No matter what she heard, the only command that she should heed would be
his
words to join
him
.

She looked through a hole scratched in the foil covering the window. She craned her neck. It was like peering through the scope of a rifle: She could see only what was directly ahead. There were no peripheral cues. She caught only a fleeting glimpse of the sheriff’s detectives and hurried down the hallway. She opened the door to the darkened room, where she found an oily and sweaty Sam next to her sister, now gagged with an athletic sock.

“Sam, someone’s here. The police, maybe—I don’t know. But someone’s here.”

The smell of the sex, oil, and sweat nearly made her vomit. For a second she felt a twinge of sorrow for Serenity.

But only for a second.

“Jesus, bitch!” Sam said, looking at her, then at Serenity and Paige. “Finish her!” He stood up, his penis erect and protruding from a leather getup, part jockstrap and part chaps, designed for the wearer’s pleasure alone.

“No,” she said.

“Prove your love to me, bitch.”

Melody hesitated, then took a step backward. “No, she’s my sister.”

“She’s a loser. You’re a loser. Deal with it. Do as I say! I’ll do the beauty queen.”

Melody stood frozen, no reaction on her face.

“Do you hear me?” He balled up a fist as if to strike her.

Not again. Not anymore.

There were three things she could do: She could run. She could fight him. She could do as she was told.

Serenity’s eyes were submerged in tears. She twisted her wrists and her feet, but she could hardly move. She was trapped. Her sister—
her only sister
—was standing over her with a box cutter in her hand.

“Cut me a piece of her,” he said.

“I…I…” Melody pushed the lever that extended the blade and dropped to her knees.