Hazen exhaled quietly. This was precisely the point that still bothered him. It was the one weakness in his theory.
“It seems to me,” he went on, “that it’s more likely the killer’s a resident of Medicine Creek, a Jekyll and Hyde type. If it was an outsider, somebody would’ve seen something. You can’t come and go from Medicine Creek, time and again, unnoticed.”
“Someone could be hiding in the corn,” said Raskovich.
“You can see into the corn from above,” said Larssen. “They’ve been flying spotter planes for days now. They’ve searched the creek for twenty miles, they’ve searched the Mounds, they’ve searched everywhere. There’s no sign of anyone hiding, and nobody’s been coming or going. I mean, where’s this killer supposed to be hiding? In a hole in the ground?”
Listening, Hazen suddenly went rigid. He felt his limbs stiffening as the sudden, brilliant insight burned its way through his consciousness. Of course,he told himself. Of course.It was the elusive answer he’d been searching for, the missing link in his theory.
He breathed deeply, glanced around to make sure nobody had noticed his reaction. It was critical that it not seem like Hank had given it to him.
And then he delivered his revelation in an almost bored tone of voice. “That’s right, Hank. He’s been hiding in a hole in the ground.”
There was a silence.
“How’s that?” Raskovich asked.
Hazen looked at him. “Kraus’s Kaverns,” he said.
“Kraus’s Kaverns?” Fisk repeated.
“On the Cry Road, that big old house with the gift shop. There’s a tourist cave out back of it. Been there forever. Run now by old Winifred Kraus.”
It was incredible how fast the pieces were coming together in his mind. It had been under his nose all along, and he just hadn’t seen it. Kraus’s Kaverns. Of course.
Fisk was nodding, and so was Raskovich. “I remember seeing that place,” said Raskovich.
Larssen had turned white. He knew Hazen had nailed it. That’s how perfect it was, how well it fit together.
Hazen spoke again. “The killer’s been hiding in that cave.” He looked at Larssen and couldn’t help but smile. “As you know, Hank, that’s the same cave where old man Kraus had his moonshine operation. Making corn whiskey for King Lavender.”
“Now that’s veryinteresting,” Fisk said, turning an admiring look on Hazen.
“Isn’t it? There’s a room back there, behind the tourist loop, where they boiled up their sour mash. In a big pot still.” He emphasized the last two words carefully.
He saw Raskovich’s eyes suddenly widen. “In a pot still big enough to boil a human body?”
“Bingo,” said Hazen.
The atmosphere became electric. Larssen had begun to sweat now, and Hazen knew it was because even he believed.
“So you see, Mr. Fisk,” Hazen continued, “Lavender’s man has been holed up in that cave, coming out at night with his bare feet and his other shenanigans, killing people and making it look like the fulfillment of the Ghost Mounds curse. During Prohibition, King Lavender financed that pot still for old man Kraus, got him set up in the business. It’s what he did all over Cry County. He bankrolled all the moonshiners in these parts.”
Hank Larssen removed a handkerchief and dabbed at the line of sweat that had formed on his brow.
“Lavender claimed his assistant, McFelty, went to visit his sick mother in Kansas City. It’s one of the things Raskovich and I checked out today. We tried to get in touch with McFelty’s mother. And we found out all about McFelty’s mother.”
He paused.
“She died twenty years ago.”
He let that sink in, then continued. “And this man McFelty’s been in trouble with the law before. Small stuff, mostly, but a lot of it violent: petty assault, aggravated assault, drunk driving.”
The revelations had been coming fast, one almost piling up upon the other. And now Hazen added the kicker: “McFelty disappeared two days before the Swegg killing. I think he went underground. As Hank just pointed out, you can’t come and go from Medicine Creek without being noticed: without neighbors noticing, without menoticing. He’s been holed up in Kraus’s Kaverns all this time, coming out at night to do his dirty work.”
There was a long pause in which nobody spoke. Then Fisk cleared his throat. “This is first-rate work, Sheriff. What’s the next move?”
Hazen stood up, his face set. “The town’s been crawling with law officers and press. You can be sure McFelty’s still laying low in those caves, waiting for a lull so’s he can escape. Now that he’s completed his job.”
“And?”
“And so we go in there and get the son of a bitch.”
“When?”
“Now.” He turned to Larssen. “Conference us into state police HQ in Dodge. I want Commander Ernie Wayes on the horn himself. We need a well-armed team and we need it now. We need dogs, good dogs this time. I’ll head over to the courthouse, get a bench warrant from Judge Anderson.”
“Are you sure McFelty’s still there, in the caves?” Fisk asked.
“No,” said Hazen. “I’m not sure. But there’s going to be physical evidence in there at the very least. I’m not taking any chances. This guy’s dangerous. He may be doing a job for Lavender, but he’s been enjoying himself just a little too much—and that scares the piss out of me. Let’s not make the mistake of underestimating him.”
He looked out the window at the blackening horizon, the rising wind.
“We’ve got to move. Our man may use the cover of the storm to make his exit.” He glanced at his watch, then looked once again around the room.
“We’re going in tonight at ten, and we’re going in big.”
Forty-Eight
The darkness was total, absolute. Corrie lay on the wet rock, soaked to the bone, her whole body shivering from terror and cold. Not far away, she could hear itmoving around, talking to itself in a singsong undertone, making horrible little bubbling sounds with its lips, sometimes cooing, sometimes laughing softly as if at some private joke.
Her mind had passed through disbelief and stark terror, and come out on the other side cold and numb. The killer had her. It—she supposed it was a he—had tied her up and thrown her over his shoulder, roughly, like a sack of meat, and carried her through a labyrinth of passageways, sometimes climbing, sometimes descending, sometimes splashing across underground streams, for what seemed like an eternity.
And through darkness—always, through darkness. He seemed to move by feel or by memory.
His arms had felt slippery and clammy, yet strong as steel cables that threatened always to crush her. She had screamed, begged, pleaded, but her protests had met with obliviousness. And then, at last, they got to this place—this place with its unutterable stink—and he had dropped her sprawling onto the stone floor. Then the horny foot had kicked her roughly into a corner, where she now lay, dazed, aching, bleeding. The stench—the stench that before had been faint and unidentifiable—was here appalling, omnipresent, enveloping.
She had lain, numb and unthinking, for an unguessable period of time. But now her senses were beginning to return. The initial paralysis of terror was wearing off, if only slightly. She lay still, forcing herself to think. She was far back in the cave—a cave much bigger than anyone imagined. Nobody was going to find their way back here to save her. . .
She struggled with the panic that rose at this thought. If nobody was going to save her, then she’d have to save herself.