Where Angels Rest (41 page)

And Erin’s purse, with her gun and cell phone sitting on top, sat in the middle of the road. A driver had thought it was an animal and stopped, and that’s how Fisher’s body had been found.

Rage gripped Nick’s bones. The orange juice out on the counter. The purse, neatly placed in the road. The motherfucker was playing with him.

Nick looked at his watch: ten o’clock. To the best they could determine, Erin and Fisher had come here around eight-thirty. Her phone showed a call from Rodney at 7:48, and Katie confirmed that Erin had left right after. Did she say where? No. Did she say why? No.

For two-and-a-half fucking hours, she’d been in Rodney’s hands.

When his phone rang, he actually jumped. He saw Luke’s number and a brand new finger of terror touched his chest. “Hannah?” he said.

“She’s fine. Mom’s fine. I’m fine, too, thanks for asking.” A beat passed while Nick closed his eyes, trying to hear Hannah’s laughter, remember the way she felt hugging his neck. He walked to the perimeter of the crime scene tape and braced an arm against the top of a van just outside the floodlights.

“Christ, Nick, what’s going on up there?” Luke asked.

Nick told him.

“Okay, keep your head, man. Rodney knows the jig is up,” Luke said. “He’s in a car you can identify, so he’s not gonna stay on the road. He’s holed up somewhere, and enjoying fucking with you.”

“I know that, damn it. Where?”

“Get into his head. Think like a shrink. The bastard’s too far gone to do something sane.”

Nick cursed. He wasn’t the one who could think like shrink, Erin was. He’d sworn off psychology for manhunts years ag—

An idea darted through his head. “Luke, I gotta go. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

Erin moved with the gun pressed into her back. She took slow, mincing steps, pretending more weakness than she actually felt. She had to think. This was Nick’s front porch—the one where she’d seen a cooler and black marker, shell casings on the floor. What else? What was inside? The house was empty, she remembered that. No phones, no electricity. Would Nick have left any guns
here? No, he wasn’t that careless; he wouldn’t arm a place he only visited once a year.

And what about outside? Dark, eerie woods with the leftovers of Nick’s ghosts hanging on trees, acres and acres of—

No. It wasn’t just acres and acres of woods. There was a clay mine nearby. She’d passed it driving up here before, and knew there were people there late at night. How late? She didn’t know. But it wasn’t that far—a hundred, maybe two hundred yards. If she could get away just for a little while, she could find some help.

She kept walking, making a show of the difficulty, and wondered if Nick even knew yet that she was gone. What if she simply disappeared, like Sara Daniels and Jack and Rebecca? What if there was never any sign of her again?

She wriggled her hands together, loosening the pearl ring she wore. It dropped to the driveway without Rodney’s notice. A silly thing—like Hansel and the breadcrumbs—but it soothed her to do it. At least Nick would know she’d been here. Someday.

Maybe next November ninth.

They came to the front steps of the porch and Rodney nudged her. Erin swallowed back a lump of terror: She couldn’t let him take her in there.

She started up the steps and kicked one with her toe, pretending to trip. She dropped, spinning as she fell, and shoved at Rodney, but he stuck out a leg and she plowed into the ground. She landed on her own bound arms, working her legs to get them beneath her. A bullet whizzed past her head into the ground.

She went still. Rodney dragged her to unsteady feet, lodged the gun beneath her chin and spoke through gritted teeth.

“You’re even more foolish than I imagined,” he said, and hauled her up the stairs. He pulled her across the porch and over the threshold into the house, then shoved her against a wall and held up his free hand. Something white was in it and he reached out.

Pzzt.

Nick moved out of the melee of the crime scene to the backside of a county van, where he could talk. Checked his watch. Not even eight o’clock yet in L.A.

He dialed his former partner. Randy picked up on the second ring.

“HOPEWELL CO SHER DEPT,” Randy said, apparently reading the caller ID. “It’s about damn time.”

“I’ve been busy,” Nick said.

“I heard. I thought you didn’t have shit like this out there.”

Me, either.
“Randy, I need to talk to Rita Yardin. Tonight.”

“Rita Yar—Are you crazy?”

“She always said so.”

“Jesus, Nick. That broad spent a year and a half messing around in your head. And all she ever did was try to get you committed.”

“Can you get me a number?”

“Geesh…”

Dr. Yardin sounded both surprised and cocky. “Nick,” she said. “When Randy told me you wanted to talk to me, I almost fell over.”

“I’ve got a problem.”

“I remember. I’m the one who diagnosed it.”

His jaw tightened. “It’s not about me. I need to shrink someone and I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have psychologists in Ohio? Or none who’ll talk to you?”

“There’s one who will talk to me,” Nick said, a knot of pain tightening in his throat, “but she’s out of commission. Doctor, this is important.”

A few seconds of silence gathered across the miles and finally she said, “What is it?”

He laid it out. Gave her everything he knew about Rodney—his mother, his blindness, his life with Margaret and Jack. Then he gave her what they’d found at Hilltop and his cabin. Felt her cockiness transform to horror.

“Mother of God,” she said, when he was finished. “And you’re sure this woman is with him now?”

If she’s not, he’s already killed her.
“Yes,” he said. There was no other choice.

“Then he has a plan for her. If he’d wanted to kill her, you would have found her with the body of the agent. He’s using her for something.”

“I know that much. A mask?”

“I don’t know. Certainly, that’s the theme. From what you said, it sounds like he’s replaced his mother’s angels with the masks. Why? A person doesn’t do that sort of thing unless they get something out of it. What do the masks do?”

“Christ, they’re decoration. What the fuck do masks do, mounted on a wall? They can’t do anything.” He paced, then stopped. “They’re trophies.”

“On display, while the angels are crushed and in the garbage. They’re reminders of how cunning he is.”

“The angel figurines came from his mother.”
Always the mother. “ ‘To watch over you another year.’ ”
Most people would think that was nice.

“Nick, you said his music was Latin church music. What was it?”

Nick closed his eyes, tried to remember. “
Regina caeli.
I remember hearing that. And on the CD case, I saw a word like ‘angel.’
Angelis
something or other.”

“Angeli me custodiunt?”

“Maybe. I can check. Why?”

“I’m Catholic and I know some of these texts.
Semper angelis conservabor
means ‘I will be watched over by angels.’
Angeli me custodiunt
means about the same.”

“Watched by angels,” Nick said.

“And not liking it. Wanting them crushed.”

“He didn’t have to kill people to break statues.”

“No, but that’s where the power comes in. He was a kid who couldn’t see anything, while he was always being watched. As a man he could see, but felt powerful not letting anyone know. I imagine it tickled his fancy to have Maggie hang real faces on the wall without knowing it, and to have people admire them. It makes everyone
else
blind.”

“So, he replaced his mother’s angels with dead people who have no eyes at all.”

“Or ears or mouth, for that matter.”

“And he’ll do the same with one more. He’ll do it with Erin.”

“Yes, I believe so. But he won’t do it where no one can see. He’ll want it on display.”

“He doesn’t have a place to display them anymore. We just took apart his fucking art museum.”

“Then he’ll find someplace else. Someplace where you’ll be sure to see his—”

Nick didn’t hear anymore. He disconnected and ran like hell.

R
ODNEY WATCHED
E
RIN
drop to the floor and smiled. The woman had balls. She’d regret that, but he wouldn’t. It would make for a more satisfying climax, that’s all.

He reached into his pocket and touched the statue, could almost feel the weight beginning to lift from his shoulders. The last one.

And because this was the last play of the game, he was going to make sure it was special for Nick Mann.

But he’d have to hurry. Mann may get waylaid for a while blaming Maggie and tearing apart Hilltop House, but sooner or later, someone would find the dead FBI agent or notice that Sims was nowhere to be found. It wouldn’t do to still be the Angelmaker, then.

Thankfully, Jack had made that easy. Everything ready for a new identity. Thanks,
Dad.

He bit back a surge of hatred and left Erin in a heap in the hall, walked through Nick Mann’s vacation home, using his cell phone as a flashlight. Frowned. For God’s sake, the man came here every year. One would think there would be a creature comfort or two.

But there wasn’t. The place was abandoned. What must have once been a beautiful great room was desolate and lonely, with naked wires clawing from the outlets and a heap of ash huddled in the fireplace. The ceiling joists crisscrossed in a matrix ten feet up, the floors and walls stripped to bare concrete and plaster, making the tiniest sound ricochet in the rafters. Even a faint moan from Erin’s throat echoed like a whisper in a cathedral.

Rodney got busy; not much time. He moved a rickety the table to the middle of the room, lit the lantern, kicked some beer and tequila bottles out of the way. He pulled the duct tape from his coat pocket and set the last angel figurine on the empty mantel.

Watch this.

Erin was just starting to stir. He stood back and watched for a minute, enjoying her efforts, and when she got halfway up, that glint of mutiny flashed in her eyes.

I don’t think so,
Rodney thought, and walked over and kicked her in the stomach. She hit the wall and he pulled her back up and slapped her hard across the face. Her head snapped to the side, striking the doorjamb. Blood began to seep from the row of stitches in her temple.

Rodney straightened, breathing hard. He’d never done that before—beaten one of his victims. It felt kind of amazing, actually. A different kind of power.

He hoped Nick would like it.

Nick dodged the crime scene team’s markers, grabbing Quentin on the way to his truck. “Let’s go.”

“Huh?” Quentin said, jogging after him. They piled in the Tahoe. “Who’s chasing us?” Quentin asked.

“We’re doing the chasing.”

Quent buckled up. “About damn time.”

They ran without headlights or sirens until they were well outside the perimeter of the media, Nick taking mental inventory of the firepower locked in the back of his truck. The pair of 45-caliber Hechler & Koch machine pistols, a 12-gauge shotgun, the scoped Remington rifle, as well as the County pieces—an AR-15 and the standard 9mm pistol. Plus Quent’s.

Oughta do it.

“Call Carroll County,” Nick said. Quentin did, and Nick dictated what he wanted them to do: Send guys to Weaver’s. Set up a perimeter around the property, anywhere Rodney might find good clay and a place to lay out Erin. Conduct a search. And get some armored cops ready to hit Nick’s cabin.

Quentin relayed the message, saying, “I don’t care how many acres it is. You got a crazy man up there who might be trying to get in with a hostage.”

He hung up. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Nick explained the call to Dr. Yardin.

“So you think he’s at Weaver’s, looking for clay? Gonna put her on display for everyone to see?”

“No,” Nick said. “That would require that fucking
no one
up there has seen the news. Besides, the collection of masks doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters now is crushing the last angel.”

“He could have done that anywhere,” Quentin reminded him. “He could have done it already.

“But he hasn’t,” Nick said, growing more certain of it with every passing second. “Remember the orange juice, the purse. This display is just for me. The fucker is using my cabin.”

Quentin whistled. “Gun it, man.”

Don’t close your eyes. Stay awake, stay awake.
Erin repeated it to herself over and over again, like when she was young and Jeffrey was out there.
Stay awake.
Pain seared her skull and she could feel the cut on her head gaping open. Her ribs ached and there was no blood in her hands. She was still bound, humped in a corner on the floor.

Stay awake.
She wiggled her fingers as if her mother’s Derringer were there. It wasn’t.

She forced herself to look around. Rodney was… cleaning up. Moving a table, picking up bottles. Humming, a flowing tune with a few words here and there… Latin? He stopped at the mantel and set something down. Stood back and studied it, his body going rigid.

Erin swallowed.
It’s Maggie.
Dear God. She hoped Nick knew he was wrong.

Rodney turned and noticed her watching. “You’re here again?” he asked, with such a cocky tone of voice it rippled down Erin’s spine. “Just in time. I was hoping you wouldn’t miss the main attraction. Especially since it’s you.”

She made a show of working at the words. Don’t show strength; he’ll just try to crush it. “What are you doing?” she asked, and let her head loll against the wall. “You’ll never get away with this.”

He chuckled. “I
have
gotten away with this. For twelve years. Ask Justin.”

Erin closed her eyes. God. Justin.
Ninety-five percent.
Nick thought Justin would live. How cruel to think that after all this, she wouldn’t be there to greet him coming from prison.

Rodney sauntered over to her, gloating. “And now, you and your lover will be the denouement.”

Fear squeezed her heart. “Where is Nick?”

Again, the chuckle. “At my cabin, I would wager. Cleaning up what’s left of Rebecca. But I imagine he’ll be here soon. To clean up what’s left of you.”