“What about Jimmy Otto? What happened after he left?”
“At eighteen, he walked out their doors a free man. But it didn’t take long for him to revert to form. Within a few years, he was arrested for stalking and threatening a woman in California. Then he was arrested and questioned right here in Brookline, about the disappearance of a young woman. Police didn’t have enough to hold him, so he was released. Ditto thirteen years ago, when he was picked up for questioning after another Massachusetts woman disappeared. Before the police could build a case against him, he abruptly vanished. And no one knew where he was. Until a year later, when he turned up buried in that backyard in San Diego.”
“You’re right, Tripp,” said Jane. “He got what he deserved. But what made this mother and daughter run? If they killed him, if they were just defending themselves, why did they pack up and leave town like criminals?”
“Maybe because they are?” suggested Crowe. “They were living under assumed names even then. We don’t know who they really are-or what they might be running from.”
Jane rested her head in her hands and began to rub her temples, trying to massage away the headache. “This is getting so damn complicated,” she muttered. “I can’t keep track of all the threads. We’ve got a murdered man in San Diego. We’ve got the Archaeology Killer here.”
“And the link seems to be this young woman whose name we don’t even know.”
Jane sighed. “Okay. What else do we know about Jimmy Otto? Any other arrests, any other links to our current investigation?”
Crowe flipped through his notes. “Some minor stuff. Breaking and entering in Brookline, Massachusetts. DUI and speeding in San Diego. Another DUI and reckless speeding in Durango…” He paused, suddenly registering the significance of that last detail. “Durango, Colorado. Isn’t that close to New Mexico?”
Jane lifted her head. “It’s right over the state line. Why?”
“It happened in July. The same year that Lorraine Edgerton vanished.”
Jane reeled back in her chair, stunned by this last piece of information. Both Jimmy and Bradley were near Chaco Canyon at the same time.
“That’s it,” she said softly.
“You think they were hunting partners?”
“Until Jimmy got killed in San Diego.” She looked at Frost.
“This is finally coming together now. We have a connection. Jimmy Otto and Bradley Rose.”
He nodded. “And Josephine,” he said.
TWENTY
Josephine fought her way back to consciousness and came awake with a gasp, her nightgown soaked with sweat, her heart thudding. Thin curtains rippled in a ghostly film over the moonlit window, and in the woods outside Gemma’s house, tree branches rattled and fell still. She pushed off the damp bedcovers and stared up at the darkness as her heart slowed, as the sweat cooled on her skin. After only a week at Gemma’s place, her bad dream was back. A dream of gunfire and blood-splattered walls. Always pay attention to your dreams, her mother had taught her. They’re voices telling you what you already know, whispering advice you haven’t yet heeded. Josephine knew what this dream meant: It was time to move on. Time to run. She had lingered in Gemma’s house longer than she should have. She thought of the cell phone call she’d made from the mini-mart. She thought of the young patrolman who’d chatted with her in the parking lot that night, and the taxi driver who’d driven her to this road. There were so many ways she could be tracked here, so many little mistakes she might have made that she wasn’t even aware of.
She remembered what her mother once said: If someone really wants to find you, he only needs to wait for you to make one mistake.
And lately, she had made so many.
The night had fallen strangely still.
It took her a moment to register just how still it was. She had fallen asleep to the steady chirp of crickets, but now she heard nothing, only a silence so complete that it magnified the sound of her own breathing.
She rose from bed and went to the window. Outside, moonlight silvered the trees and splashed its pale glow onto the garden. Staring out, she saw nothing to alarm her. But as she stood at that open window, she realized that the night was not entirely silent; through the thump of her own heartbeat she heard a faint electronic beeping. Did it come from outside, or from somewhere inside the house? Now that she was completely focused on the sound, it seemed to intensify, and with it her sense of uneasiness.
Did Gemma hear it?
She went to the door and peeked into the dark hallway. The sound was louder out here, more insistent.
In darkness she navigated up the hallway, her bare feet silent on the wood floor. With every step the beeping grew louder. Reaching Gemma’s bedroom, she found the door ajar. She gave it a push and silently it swung open. In the moonlit room, she spotted the source of that sound: the fallen telephone receiver, a disconnect signal issuing from the earpiece. But it wasn’t the phone that caught her gaze; it was the dark pool, glistening like black oil on the floor. Nearby a figure crouched, and she thought at first it was Gemma. Until it straightened to its full height and stood silhouetted against the window.
A man.
Josephine’s startled intake of breath made his head snap around toward her. For an instant they faced each other, features hidden in the shadows, both of them suspended in that timeless moment before predator springs on prey.
She moved first.
She turned and sprinted for the stairs. Footsteps pounded behind her as she scrambled down the steps. She hit the first floor hard, with both feet. Ahead was the front door, gaping open. She ran for it and stumbled out onto the porch, where broken glass pierced her skin. She scarcely noticed its bite; her attention was focused only on the driveway ahead.
And on the footsteps closing in behind her.
She flew down the porch steps, her gown flapping like wings in the warm night air, and ran headlong up the driveway. Under the moonlight, on that exposed gravel, her nightgown was as visible as a white flag, but she did not veer into the woods, did not waste time seeking the cover of trees. Ahead lay the street, and other houses. If I pound on doors, if I scream, someone will help me. No longer could she hear her pursuer’s footsteps; she heard only the rush of her panicked breaths, the whoosh of the night air.
And then, a sharp crack.
The bullet’s impact was like a brutal kick to the back of her leg. It sent her sprawling to the ground, palms scraping across the gravel. She struggled to stand, warm blood streaming down her calf, but her leg gave out beneath her. With a sob of pain, she collapsed to her knees.
The street. The street is so near.
Her breaths reduced to sobs, she began to crawl. A neighbor’s porch light glowed ahead, beyond the trees, and that was what she focused on. Not the crunch of footsteps moving closer, not the gravel biting into her palms. Survival had come down to that lone beacon winking through the branches and she kept crawling toward it, dragging her useless leg as blood left its slick trail behind her.
A shadow moved in front of her and blotted out the light.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze. He stood before her, blocking the way. His face was a black oval, his eyes unfathomable. As he leaned toward her, she closed her eyes, waiting for the crack of the gun, the punch of the bullet. Never had she been more aware of her own beating heart, of the air rushing in and out of her lungs, than in the stillness of this last moment. A moment that seemed to stretch on endlessly, as though he wanted to savor his victory and prolong the torment.