“Last night, Aimee told me she thought Art Leipold was innocent. She said somebody else put all those women in the box. I didn’t believe her when she said it, but now? I don’t know.”
“Did she say why she thought so?”
“This is Aimee. I think she just sensed it.”
Stride shook his head. “Come on, Serena.”
“It sounds crazy to me, too, but look what’s going on.”
“It’s been eleven years. If Art was innocent, why would the killer have gone dark all that time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Every shred of evidence pointed to Art. He did it.”
“I hope you’re right, Jonny,” Serena told him. “I do. But even with Art dead, we both know what’s waiting for us at headquarters, don’t we? We’re about to listen to a tape from a woman who’s locked in a cage somewhere. And if we don’t find her soon, she’s going to die.”
“Save me.”
That was the first whisper Stride heard.
He looked at Serena, who nodded at him. There was no doubt. It was Aimee Bowe’s voice. The tape crackled as if time had rewound. It might as well have been eleven years earlier, when Stride stood under a water-stained ceiling in the basement of City Hall. Back then, he’d listened to the first victim, Kristal Beech, saying the same words to him. Maggie had been there. So had Guppo. He’d gone home to his wife, Cindy, and told her about the horror he felt as he listened to the tape.
They’d all been much younger.
“It’s cold. Oh, my God, it’s so cold. And dark. I can’t see anything. I can’t even see my hand when I put it in front of my eyes. Where am I? Tell me where I am. Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? I know, I know, I’m supposed to say it. Save me. Save me.”
He heard static in the silence. He listened for something in the background, some clue, some noise, that would tell them where she was. But the cage was virtually soundproof. Just as it had been back then. The only sound was the ragged in-and-out gasp of Aimee’s breathing.
When she spoke again, her voice was louder.
“I don’t know how much time I have. There’s no water in here. No food. And the cold is like a knife. You have to find me. Quickly. I know about the others. I know they died because you failed. Yes, you. Jonathan Stride. I’m here because of you. I’m paying for your mistakes.”
Stride pushed the plastic button on the tape recorder to pause the playback.
“Is this real?” he asked Serena.
She didn’t say anything.
“What do you think?” he asked again. “Is this real? Or is something else going on here?”
“I don’t know.”
He started the tape again.
“My name is Aimee Bowe. I don’t know where I am, but you know all you need to know to find me. My life is in your hands. I need you to save me if you can. Save me, Jonathan Stride.”
The tape rolled on, but the recording was over. Stride let it play for several more minutes to see if anything else was on the tape. It was empty.
“I didn’t hear any clues,” he said. “Nothing that would tell us where she is.”
“‘You know all you need to know to find me,’” Serena quoted. “Did the others say anything like that?”
“Yes.”
“What about the tape itself?” she asked.
“There are no fingerprints on it. Apparently, Maxell cassettes are still surprisingly easy to find. Whoever did this could have gotten the tape just about anywhere. The forensic team thinks it’s new.”
“But why steal Art Leipold’s tape recorder? You can still buy tape recorders in various places, can’t you?”
“Maybe because it belonged to Art. If a copycat wanted to follow in Art’s footsteps, that’s one way to do it.” He noted Serena’s dubious expression, and he continued. “We found the tape recorder next to the box in the hunting lodge. Art’s fingerprints were all over it.”
“You worked that case, Jonny. I didn’t. I’m not doubting you.”
But he could see that she was, and it bothered him.
“Why did you ask me if the tape wasn’t real?” Serena said. “Did you hear something?”
Stride didn’t answer immediately. He rewound the tape and played it over from start to finish without stopping. When he heard the final words — Save me, Jonathan Stride — he clicked it off. He watched Serena’s face.
“You hear it, too, don’t you?” he asked. “It’s too perfect. The original tapes from the victims were rough. They stuttered. They made mistakes. They started and stopped. Aimee sounds rehearsed, like an actress, not a victim. She sounds as if she’s reading from a script.”
“She is,” Serena said.
“What do you mean?”
“Everything she said is from the script of the movie. I heard the first take she did in the warehouse when she was doing her scene in the box. The words match. I’m pretty sure they match exactly. The only thing she changed was to take out the fictional character, Evan Grave, and put in your real name.”
“So it’s fake?” Stride said.
“I’m not sure about that, Jonny.”
“You said yourself she’s an actress reading lines. What else could it be?”
Serena played the tape one more time. Then she said, “No, I don’t think it’s fake. Aimee’s in danger. But she knows I was there to watch her in that scene, so she knows I’d realize what she was doing. Somehow, she’s trying to send me a message.”
37
Stride met Chris Leipold at the dead end spur off Highway 44 near Art Leipold’s hunting land. When Chris got out of the car, Stride could feel the blast of warm air from inside. It was desolate out there. They were the only two people around for miles. He watched Chris shiver as the cold penetrated his skin. The man still looked dragged down by the flu virus. Or maybe he felt the ghost of his father in this place.
“Sorry to pull you away from the movie,” Stride said.
“I’ve got assistants to keep it rolling. Dean’s done. Really, all we need is Aimee, but we don’t have her.” A gust of wind made a mournful cry in the trees, and he added in the quiet aftermath, “I don’t understand what happened.”
“Neither do I.”
“You said you got an audiotape. A message. Like all those years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you want to meet me here?” Chris asked.
“Because someone is playing Art’s game. And this is where we found Art’s victims.”
Together, they took the bridge over the Cloquet River. Several more inches of snow had fallen overnight, covering up the evidence of anyone who had trespassed there in the interim. He noticed that Chris didn’t say much and looked uncomfortable being there at all. The cold air made the man cough repeatedly as he inhaled.
They followed the trail inside the trees, where the snow had trouble penetrating the branches overhead.
“Why did you never sell this land?” Stride asked him.
“I tried. No one wanted it. Can you blame them? The hunters come out here anyway. They don’t care who owns the land. And it wasn’t worth the money to keep curiosity seekers away from the cabin. So I just let it rot.”
Where the trail narrowed, Stride took the lead. Chris kept pace behind him. The remnants of footprints lingered where the snow was shallower, but there were too many to isolate fresh tracks. Even so, he noticed a few places where the prints had been scrubbed away down to the mud, and it made him wonder if someone had been trying to make sure that nothing was left behind. He kept an eye on the dense woods ahead of him, looking for movement.