When All The Girls Have Gone (15 page)

It was the haunted look in Max’s eyes that chilled Charlotte to the very core of her being.

“We knew we were dealing with a serial arsonist,” Max said. “He targeted lonely people he identified at online dating sites. He made them believe that they were connecting with their soul mates. Sooner or later he suggested that they meet.”

“And then he killed them?”

“Yes. The pattern seemed straightforward. He had sex with his victims, murdered them in a location where he felt safe and then dumped the bodies. He always tried to destroy the evidence by setting a fire. Sometimes he torched the victim’s car. Sometimes he set fire to the house where the victim lived. Sometimes he left the body in a trash bin and poured accelerant on the contents. Sometimes he used an old, abandoned building. But there was always fire.”

Charlotte studied Max’s grim face. “Did you catch him?”

“We put together a special team. We created a fake online identity that matched the profiles of the victims the killer targeted online. When the killer went for the bait, Beth, one of the women on the team, posed as the date. But something went wrong. Turned out the killer was onto her almost from the start. Beth was wired and we were tracking her, but the bastard found the devices. He destroyed them.”

“What happened?”

“My only hope was that he hadn’t killed her. I figured he might want to keep her alive for a while because he wanted to taunt those of us who were looking for him. I took another look at the pattern.”

“What pattern?”

“The bodies were found in different locations, but when I looked hard I could see that those locations formed a pattern. And at the heart of that pattern was an old, abandoned hospital. I wondered if he was using it as the killing ground. I tried to convince the team that it was worth a look. But there was a new guy who was supposed to be some kind of wonder boy. He was always carrying on about his algorithms and his computer models. He was sure that the perp was using another location as his base. The cops focused on it. In the end I went out to the hospital on my own.”

“No backup?”

“I was afraid that if the killer saw cops, he would kill Beth—assuming he hadn’t done so already. I pulled up a floor plan of the hospital and discovered that there was an underground tunnel that connected two of the wings and the morgue. I took a chance and went in that way.”

“The tunnel was open?”

“Yes. The electricity was off, of course. Every hallway, every closet, every storage compartment was a potential trap. I found Beth in an old operating theater. She was bound and gagged. I freed her and we started to leave. But the killer was watching. And waiting. I got off a shot—managed to hit him in the thigh. He was bleeding out, but he had splashed accelerant around the floor. He ignited the fire just as Beth and I emerged from the operating theater.”

“You were trapped in what must have been your worst nightmare—a building burning down around you.”

“Yeah, that pretty much describes the experience.” Max’s forehead was damp with sweat. He used the end of the comforter to swipe off the perspiration. He never took his eyes off the flames on the hearth. “Beth and I got out because I had studied the hospital’s floor plan. We made it to the emergency stairs and out through the morgue tunnel.”

“Thank heavens. So the killer died in the blaze?”

Max finally looked away from the fire. “Yes.”

“Was it Quinton Zane?”

“No.” He exhaled slowly. “There were a couple of other casualties, as well—my career and my marriage.”

“Why? You saved Beth. You got the bad guy. You were a hero.”

“No, I just got damn lucky. But I wasn’t asked to resign because of what happened at the old hospital. It was because of what happened afterward.”

“What?”

“I became obsessed with the case. There’s no other word for it. I couldn’t let go of it.”

“Because you weren’t positive the killer was dead?”

“I knew that the killer was dead, but I couldn’t get past the idea that there was a link to Zane. My wife, my boss, my colleagues, all concluded that I had gone over the edge. I was told to take some vacation time. See a therapist. I did both, but neither helped. I started having nightmares again. Cold sweats. Insomnia. Started seeing patterns where none existed. The works. Eventually the agency decided that I was no longer an asset. My wife concluded that I was on a downward spiral and refusing to get help. She left to move on with her life. I don’t blame her.”

Charlotte did not take her hand off his arm. She wasn’t sure if he was aware of it, but she had the feeling that she shouldn’t stop touching him. Not yet.

“It’s been several months now,” she said. “Are you still convinced there was some connection between it and Quinton Zane?”

For a moment she didn’t think he was going to respond. But in the end he did, his eyes stark.

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you still experiencing the nightmares and the cold sweats and the insomnia?” she asked.

“Not every night—but, yes. There are . . . a lot of bad nights. The therapist said I should fight the obsession. Learn to distract myself with other tasks. Practice shifting my focus, et cetera, et cetera. She said my real issues were abandonment issues left over from my past. Maybe a form of
attachment disorder complicated by some PTSD. She gave me some meds. I took them for a while. They didn’t make the questions go away. So, yes, on the really bad nights I crank up the computer and I go looking for Quinton Zane.”

She studied him. “You’re afraid your ex-boss and your ex-wife and the therapist might be right, aren’t you? You’re afraid you might have gone off the deep end; that maybe you really are in the grip of an obsession, trying to find patterns and connections where none exist.”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you should ignore what your intuition told you all those months ago. You found that old hospital. You rescued Beth. You obviously have a gift for seeing connections, and that gift is trying to tell you something.”

“My gift, as you call it, is a form of obsession. Just so you know, it is not considered to be a sign of sound mental health.”

She looked at him. “The man I am getting to know, the one who is hunting for Louise Flint’s killer and who just rescued us from a car that had been pushed into a flooding river, is not crazy.”

He exhaled deeply. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have growled at you.”

“Look, you tried therapy. You tried meds. And now, as a PI, you’re trying to distract yourself with other people’s questions.”

He frowned. “You think that’s why I opened my business?”

“Probably. But here’s the thing—you’ve got questions of your own. The questions won’t go away just because you try to ignore them. I think you need to acknowledge them. You may never get answers, but you need to accept that the questions are real and that you have reasons for asking them.”

His mouth kicked up a little at one corner.

“And you know this, how?” he asked.

“Because I’ve seen what unanswered questions can do to a person if she tries to suppress them. Take my stepsister, Jocelyn, for example. And it’s not just her. I’ve met a lot of people at Rainy Creek Gardens who never got the answers they needed. The questions don’t just go away, Max.
Somehow, you have to learn to allow them a place in your mind. Give them some space. Contain them, set boundaries, but don’t try to pretend they don’t exist. Questions fester in darkness. If you want to put them into a rational context, you need to examine them in sunlight.”

He smiled. And this time the smile was real.

“Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“After the kayaking class and a few others that were designed to make me more spontaneous, I gave up and took a class in meditation. What can I say? It changed my life.”

She did not expect to be able to sleep, so she was startled when she woke up from a dream in which she was searching for Jocelyn. For a moment she lay very still, trying to orient herself.

Memories flooded back. She was curled on the floor in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a well-worn down comforter.

She opened her eyes and saw Max. He was crouched at the hearth, feeding a few more sticks to the low-burning fire. He, too, was still draped in a comforter. His holstered pistol was on the floor beside him.

She sat up slowly. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Everything’s fine. Just keeping the fire going. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after two o’clock.”

“I’ve had a few hours’ sleep,” she said. “Your turn.”

“I’m all right. Not the first time I’ve pulled an all-nighter.”

“I’m sure it isn’t, but that’s not the point. I realize that one of us needs to keep watch. I’m perfectly capable of taking over for a few hours while you get some rest.”

For a moment she thought he would refuse the offer.

Then, to her surprise, he nodded once. “Wake me if you hear even the smallest sound or think you see a shadow. Don’t tell yourself it’s your imagination. Wake me.”

“I will.”

She got to her feet, careful to keep the comforter tightly closed, and lowered herself into a chair. The wind had died down. She could not hear any rain. The storm had blown through. The deep silence of the woods was a little unnerving, but at least it increased the chances of hearing someone trying to make a stealthy approach.

Max adjusted the quilt, wrapping it more securely around himself, and stretched out next to the gun. He turned on his side, rested his head on a throw pillow and closed his eyes.

It was oddly gratifying to know that he trusted her to keep watch. There was a bond between them now, she thought.

Don’t go there
. Two people who had faced danger together were bound to develop a sense of connection. It was a superficial and no doubt temporary state of affairs. It would fade when they were once again safe.

Still, she had never felt such an intimate connection with any other man, not even Brian. Regardless of what happened in the future, she was pretty sure she would never forget the sensation.

She rose after a while and made some more lukewarm instant coffee. She sipped it slowly, thinking about Jocelyn, wondering where she might have gone to ground.

When those thoughts began to chase each other in ever-tightening circles, she thought about Louise Flint and the other members of the investment club.

What the hell were you and your friends doing, Jocelyn? What devil did you awaken?

Max drifted in and out of a strange, twilight sleep. Every so often he came fully awake for a moment, automatically checking all of his senses for any indication that something had changed in the environment—new sounds, movement in the shadows, a draft of air.

Each time he was satisfied that all was well. Each time he saw that Charlotte was awake and attentive. Each time she smiled at him and he closed his eyes and drifted back into the weird state between sleep and wakefulness.

It was still dark outside when he emerged once again from the in-between place. This time it was the scent of warming stew that roused him.

He opened his eyes and saw Charlotte crouched in front of the small fire. She was stirring the contents of a battered pot. The first thing he noticed was that she was no longer draped in the comforter. She was dressed in the clothes she had been wearing when they went into the river.

She looked at him.

“Good morning,” she said.

“’Morning.”

He started to unwind the comforter. Belatedly he remembered that he was not dressed. He sat up cautiously.

“I assumed you’d want to get an early start,” she said. “If we don’t get a ride, it’s going to be a long hike to Loring.”

He managed to keep the comforter around his midsection as he got to his feet. He reached down to collect the holster and gun.

“We’ll get a ride,” he said. “Bound to be a lot of repair crews out first thing this morning. They’ll be checking for downed power lines and trees, damaged bridges, landslides.”

She ladled the stew into a bowl and handed it to him.

“I assume we will be stopping at the Loring Police Department,” she said.

“Yes.” He spooned up some of the stew, surprised at how good it tasted. “I’ll call Anson as soon as I can get some service. He’ll be wondering what the hell happened.”

“What if the cops we run into at the Loring Police Department were involved in the cover-up with Briggs?”

“It’s a possibility, but I don’t think that’s too likely. I did some checking when I went looking for Briggs. There’s been a lot of turnover in the department since he left. The current police chief has only been on the job for a couple of years.”

“It will be interesting to see if they pretend to believe us when we tell them that Briggs tried to murder us.”

“I’m getting the impression that you don’t have a lot of faith in the forces of law and order.”

“Generally speaking, I do—I just don’t trust the forces of law and order in Loring, Washington.”

“Things change.”

Charlotte sniffed. “Look who has suddenly metamorphosed into Mr. Positive Thinker.”

“Must be the company I’m keeping.”

She smiled a small, mischievous smile. “Ah, so now I’m a bad influence? That is so cool. I’ve always wanted to be a bad influence.”

He leaned in very close. She did not retreat. For a moment it seemed as if the world around them had stopped.

He kissed her. It was just a quick kiss. He told himself it was an experiment. But she did not pull back. Instead she put one hand on his bare shoulder. Her fingers were incredibly warm and soft on his skin. Her mouth softened under his.

When he raised his head, she did not speak. She just watched him as though fascinated.

“For the record, you are a very, very good bad influence,” he said.

She took a deep breath. “Thanks.”

He turned away, grabbed his dried trousers and headed for the bedroom to get dressed before he did something really dumb—like tell her that he had been wanting to kiss her since he had met her. Like tell her that he wanted to go on kissing her now.

Priorities,
he thought.
You’ve got a few
. One foot in front of the other.