Jude said go around here to the right, walk six paces this way. Well, here I am.
Down on my knees now, scraping needles away. Thirteen years of ’em. Damp, and they smell moldy. There it is, though, just like she said — the manhole cover. Grab it, pull—
Shit! My nail! All torn and bloody.
Big deal, Chryssie. Buy yourself a manicure when you get home. You’ll be able to afford one.
Okay. I got hold of it. Heavy. Pull up, push it over here and — Oh, yuck!
Oil and God knows what else, but down there’s the leather pouch sealed in layers of Ziplocs.
Oh! It’s like feeling around in a sewer. Where is it?
A stick, find a stick. There. Okay. Poke it in and—
Here it is! Lift up. Careful now.
Yes! You just grabbed hold of your future, Chryssie, even if it’s all oily and disgusting—
Oh, Christ! What’s that what’s that?
Somebody yelling.
Hey, what’re you doing there?
Hey!
Runnin’, that’s what I’m doing.
Runnin’ for my fuckin’ life...
Thursday, October 12
To Rho, the group that assembled in the interrogation room for their 8 A.M. meeting seemed severely diminished, perhaps because up to now Wayne had played such a large role in her professional life. Ned Grossman, Denny Shepherd, and Harve Iverson would not feel the absence of their colleague as keenly; the two detectives had barely known him, and Iverson’s tenure as commander was less than two years.
She sat at the table while the others got coffee, avoiding their eyes as her thoughts strayed to Guy Newberry. It wasn’t the first time she’d been preoccupied with a man while waiting for a meeting to start, but never in quite this way.
Guy’s story of his wife’s tragic death and the grief he carried with him had touched her deeply and allowed her to open up to him about the full extent of the effect the canyon murders had had on her life. They’d connected on an intimate level, and she knew that if she’d given him any encouragement at all, they’d have ended up in bed together. But much as she was tempted, such a close to the evening didn’t seem right. They were still too damaged and the emotional connection too new and frail to sustain the additional pressure that making love would surely bring. So she’d dropped him at the bed-and-breakfast and gone home to a cold, empty bed.
“Swift? Are you with us?”
She looked up, saw Grossman frowning at her. “Yes, sir,” she said quickly.
“Good.” He shuffled his papers, cleared his throat. “First of all, Deputy Gilardi was picked up in a bar in Eureka last night. He’s returning from Humboldt County voluntarily, and I’ll be interviewing him this afternoon. In light of your long-standing relationship, Swift, I’ll want you to sit in.”
She nodded, her spirits plummeting. What was Wayne feeling right now? Fear? Humiliation? Betrayal? Anger?
Try all of the above.
Grossman went on, “Chrystal Ackerman’s purse was recovered yesterday morning, and I took it to Santa Carla for identification by Lily Gilardi. The lab processed it, found stains of a substance that also appeared on Ackerman’s skin, tube top, and the passenger-side floor of the Mercedes. Motor oil, old and full of sludge, that didn’t match what was in the car’s crankcase. Any ideas on where it came from?”
Shepherd said, “The site of the old gas station, of course.”
“I don’t think so. There’s no evidence the car was ever there.”
He shrugged and jabbed the tip of his pencil into his scratch pad.
“Swift? Harve?” Grossman said.
Iverson shook his head.
Rho said, “No idea, sir.”
“Okay, the contents of the purse were the usual items, except for a couple of sheets of paper with directions scribbled on them. They look to be directions to Cascada Canyon, which would support the presence of the hairs and the ankle bracelet Swift found.” He passed around photocopies.
Rho skimmed them. “What’s this at the bottom: ‘stream, bridge, well, F.C. six paces’?”
“The location of Susan Wynne’s money, of course,” Grossman said.
“Did she get it?”
“If she did, it would provide a motive for her murder. Quarter of a mil is more than enough to kill for. Now, on to the evidence from Quinley’s.” He passed out glossy photographs. “Tire tracks. Two sets, not including the ones left by Alex Ngo’s truck. Recent.”
Rho compared the photos. The tread shown in one appeared new, while that in the other was nonexistent in the center, worn on the edges.
“The first is easy to identify,” the detective said. “Firestone heavy truck series, the best they make. Very little wear. Driver pulled in as close to the cliff as possible, backed out, turned south on the highway.”
“Nothing distinctive about them,” Shepherd said.
“Look closer at the left rear imprint. You’ll see a crescent-shaped nick in the tread. Once we have a suspect, that nick will help us nail him.”
Grossman turned his attention to the next set of tracks. “This other vehicle pulled in behind the fence, turned, and exited north on the highway. That last photo shows footprints leading to the cliff that were probably made by work boots. Tire size indicates the vehicle was probably a light truck, maybe one of those foreign makes like Toyota. These’re really distinctive.”
Rho stared at the photograph. She was picturing an old light Ford pickup with impossibly worn tires. In her mind she heard her own voice saying, “You can’t keep driving on those!” Heard the response, “The hell you say. They’re good for another ten thousand miles.”
Her father’s voice. Her father’s truck.
Guy rolled onto his back, acutely aware of his dry mouth and the pain above his right eyebrow. God, he’d really tied one on trying to keep up with Rhoda’s father. Jack Antolini’s system must process alcohol like most people’s process water; the man had been coherent and steady when Rhoda and he left the boat.
The thought of Rhoda sent a stab of embarrassment through him, and he covered his eyes with his arm, trying to blot out the memories of the time they spent on the promontory. Impossible, though. Even his dreams had been filled with visions of her face in the moonlight. Her face, and those of the Women Who Wait.
Rhoda, asking, “What is it that makes you so sad?” Rhoda and the stone women, waiting for his answer.
He’d cried as he told her. No woman, not even Diana, had ever seen the adult Guy Newberry cry. But while Rhoda told him of over a decade of pain and loneliness, she hadn’t shed a tear. Meaning she’d suffered far more than even he could imagine.
He lay still for a time, shielding his eyes from the light that streamed through the windows. After a while his headache eased and thirst drove him to the bathroom. He gulped a glass of water there, then took another to the turret window and drank more slowly, surveying the scene outside.
A logging truck was pulled off on the shoulder opposite the inn, its driver checking a lopsided load. A kid on a skateboard performed expert turns on the cracked pavement of the subdivision. Offshore, fishing trawlers headed back to Calvert’s Landing Pier with the morning’s catch. Clouds hovered on the horizon.
Life as usual in Signal Port, but abnormal currents moved beneath its surface today, the thirteenth anniversary of the Cascada Canyon murders.
Abnormal currents beneath the surface of his life, too. Diana’s voice was stilled. Forever, he suspected. He was alone.
As alone as Rhoda.
As alone as all the victims, in the end.