Frank nodded and stood up. “All of my reports concerning Kane are on file downtown; the rest is simply an old man’s opinion. Still, I’d be happy to help you any way I can, Detective. Lord knows I wouldn’t mind the company.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
He walked her to the door, unable to look her in the eyes after his last comment. She supplied him with one of her business cards, adding her home phone number to the back of it. He closed the door behind her.
After reengaging the locks, Frank slumped with his back to the entry and rubbed one hand over his face, feeling the scratch of thick stubble.
Although they’d only known one another for less than an hour, he couldn’t help but worry for Melissa. She’d already trod on dangerous ground without even knowing it, and her job would no doubt take her down the path of danger again before an end to the killings came within sight. He cursed himself for not having the courage to tell her the complete truth about Kane, even though he knew she wouldn’t believe him.
Like it or not, he was on his own.
He clenched his right hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall. Pushing away from the front door, he crossed the living room and went to the smaller of the condo’s two bedrooms. Full bookcases lined the walls, skirted by columns of other books stacked on the floor. Towers of boxes containing copies of past case files from around the country blocked the room’s only window. His computer desk sat in the far corner, flanked by a six-foot high filing cabinet and a cherry wood armoire.
Here the walls were lost under a collage of old documents: statement reports and crime scene photos from the original Kane disappearances; pictures from the Stillwater basement and cellar; lab analysis forms; blood work results; pictograph comparisons; maps of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, and the Dakotas.
Stepping over the pair of forty-pound dumbbells he used to keep in shape, Frank opened the upper half of the wardrobe exposing his safe. He dialed the combination and withdrew one of four identical folders, each containing more evidence gathered on Kane and his partner.
After setting the file on his desk, he closed the safe and turned to the room’s closet.
He slid open the double folding doors.
On the closet’s single clothes rack hung several rugged coats, a black S.W.A.T. jumpsuit, a bulletproof vest, and four styles of shoulder holsters, all purchased through military surplus catalogues.
The back wall of the closet had been converted into a storage area for Frank’s collection of weaponry. A gun rack held two Mossberg shotguns—one pistol grip, one with a full stock—an HK 33A2 assault rifle, and an M-16A1. Below the gun rack sat two three-drawer dressers. The first contained fifteen different handguns of assorted caliber and design, along with ammunition for each, whereas the second housed a variety of communication and sensory devices: a directional microphone, night vision goggles, a hand-held GPS unit, several TriField meters, and five different rifle scopes.
Frank shrugged into one of the shoulder holsters and chose a 9mm Glock from the dresser. He also took the pistol grip Mossberg, concealing it in a leather travel bag. Both weapons were already loaded and ready for use.
In the master bedroom, he traded his shorts for a pair of jeans and slipped a tweed jacket over his tee shirt and firearm. He looked a bit overdressed for the evening’s temperature but wouldn’t appear suspicious.
There were a number of phone calls to make, information yet to search out; he also needed to go out to the garage and prep the equipment on his Blazer. After almost three years of preparation and research, he had actual work to do.
More importantly: he had purpose.
Frank grabbed his wallet and keys off the nightstand and started to return to his office when he stopped. His eyes fixed on the darkness outside the bedroom window.
His mouth went dry at the sight. Before he could stop it, his mind superimposed Kane’s leering face over the glass, coming out of the night in the same horrific way he’d lunged through the cellar doorway in the past.
Frank fled from the room, into the hallway. He doubled over, gasping.
He stood there for a moment, allowing the memory to pass and the reality of what he planned to do to sink in. Leaving the house required mental readiness these days, and in his single-minded focus on organizing for the task ahead, he’d forgot the raw fear of it. He’d seen a therapist about his condition several years back, but quit going after the first few sessions. A doctor would never understand his troubles without knowing the whole story—he wasn’t about to risk getting himself admitted to a psychiatric hospital—and the medication he’d been prescribed did nothing but give him headaches and make him horny.
He forced himself to relax his breathing and straightened up.
He’d go. There was no choice now. He needed to act before the killer took more lives and gathered strength.
The therapist believed his fear stemmed from something in the past.
In truth, it came from the expectation of what horrors lay ahead.
And the idea of facing them alone.
CHAPTER 23
Blood.
In the sunlight it shone deep red. Now it appeared black.
The Killer waded into the dark pool and lowered the Wurakk stone into position at its center, maneuvering the chiseled eight-foot column of granite with the effort of repositioning a hollow bone.
The petroglyph settled into place, sinking a good four inches in the pool’s sticky liquid. Enamored by the sight, the Killer caressed the ancient writing on its surface, carved symbols that had taken almost two days to recreate.
Not far away, hidden within the old cemetery, Kane’s corpse waited.
The Killer grinned.
The preparations were finished. Only one thing left to do.
Get Mallory.
Tim sat in silence on the bench next to Mallory while she talked with her friends. He held the plate of cold funnel cake in one hand and his drink in the other, trying not to notice how Mallory ogled the boy named Derrick.
The guy looked seventeen, maybe older, dressed in a plain white tank top and faded over-sized pants. He’d dyed his hair bright yellow and wore it stylishly spiked, whereas the skin on his face looked smoother than ice. When Mallory finally made a round of introductions, she’d spoken his name with a certain melody in her voice Tim hadn’t heard before.
She was commenting on the solid gold earring in Derrick’s left ear when one of the other girls, Elsa, spoke up. “What happened to the one with the massive diamond in it?”
“That was for Wendy,” he said. He looked to Mallory with a downhearted sulk on his face. “Wendy was my girlfriend. Since we broke up, I just couldn’t keep wearing it, you know? A diamond is like the perfect gem, unbreakable, and it was meant to represent our perfect love. But when I found out she was cheating on me, it totally shattered my heart.”
Tim looked away. Good grief!
“That’s tough,” Mallory said.
“Poor guy,” Elsa cooed, stroking his arm in a gesture of sympathy.
Derrick kept his eyes locked on Mallory, who remained enthralled by his gaze.
Eager for a distraction, Tim got up and used the excuse of throwing out the uneaten food as way to get away the group for a moment. He spotted The Wild Thing in the distance, the park’s largest roller coaster, and had the immediate compulsion to go and throw himself on the tracks instead of spending another second listening to Derrick.
He knew what was happening.
And he knew there was no way to stop it. Whatever spark ignited between them under the roller coaster had obviously burnt out, leaving him cold.