“That’s okay, I guess,” he said. “At least you didn’t have to backtrack. How’s the family?”
“She’s fine,” Banner said shortly.
Castle looked like he was about to say something, then shut up. They stood in silence for a minute, both staring down the slope to where the forensics people were picking over the remains of the car. The rifle had already been recovered, given a preliminary investigation, and rushed to the lab. It would be a while before they’d know if it was even possible to tie what was left of the weapon to the Heckler & Koch PSG1 rifle used in the shootings in Cairo and Fort Dodge, but they could certainly confirm that it had been a PSG1, if not the PSG1. She thought about how sure Blake had been and how sure she herself had been of Wardell’s likely direction just twelve hours before.
“Maybe it’s not him,” she said. “Maybe it’s not a red van.” Castle’s brow furrowed in confusion at that. “Maybe it’s a red herring, instead.”
Castle shook his head. “Be a hell of a coincidence.”
Banner realized she’d phrased it wrong. “I don’t mean he didn’t dump it here, or that this has nothing to do with him. I mean maybe he’s trying to throw us off again. Like with the green shirt. That would explain the rifle being here.”
Castle’s face set hard at the mention of the green shirt. It was still a sore point. Last night they’d managed to finally tie up that particular loose end in the form of a homeless drunk found sleeping among the trash in an alley near the West Harrison Street Greyhound station, green T-shirt still very visible under the puke stains. After being hauled in for questioning, he admitted “some dude” had paid him fifty bucks to swap shirts and take the bus to Chicago. When pressed for a description of said dude, his recollection was shaky to say the least. The fifty dollars had evidently been spent in exactly the way Wardell had hoped it would be.
Banner pretended she hadn’t noticed Castle’s discomfort and continued. “Just because he’s not on a straight-line drive doesn’t mean he’s not still gunning for Daddy dearest. So either he’s doubling straight back to Nebraska…”
“Or he’s taking the scenic route,” Castle finished. “Which would involve either laying low for a few days, or killing again down here.”
“He’ll kill again today.”
Castle nodded agreement. “He will. Look, Banner, the father was a good theory. I’ll admit it. But we’ve got no real evidence to suggest that’s what he’s planning. Not counting the escape, we’ve got two victims so far, and they fit the established MO like a glove: perfect strangers chosen for convenience.” He paused, evidently considering the choice of a priest as the last victim. “Convenience and impact. Today will be the same, unless we get lucky.”
“What about Mia Jennings?” Banner said, referring to Wardell’s ex-girlfriend and first known victim. “She wasn’t a perfect stranger.”
“That was different. You read the report from Behavioral Sciences. Jennings was just the spark for the fire.”
“That’s not what I took from it,” Banner said. “It was more like Jennings was the excuse to get started.”
“What’s the difference?”
Banner said nothing, but she thought there was a difference, and it was an important one.
Castle let the silence hang for a minute and then said, “Random kill, somewhere in this area, within the next two hours. Maybe Springfield, maybe one of the smaller towns.” He sighed through his nostrils. “We’ve already routed teams to every town within a hundred-mile radius of this spot. Everywhere with a population over a thousand.” He said this with a slight edge of defeat in his voice. The unspoken rejoinder: What if he picks one of the other places? Castle shook his head in frustration. “The canvas is just too damn big this time: He’s only one man against all of us, but he’s making that an advantage.”
Banner understood his frustration and shared it. Most serial killers operate within much tighter geographical boundaries: choosing their victims within easy reach of their home or base. Wardell was different. Wardell could strike anywhere there were people, whereas they could only hope to cover the areas with the largest concentrations of population, play the odds as best they could. Meanwhile, the bodies would pile up until they got lucky or Wardell got careless.
Banner looked at her watch. Coming up on eight thirty. That meant she’d been up for twenty-seven hours after sleeping three the previous night. It also meant it was peak rush hour, central time: prime time for Caleb Wardell. She looked up at the news choppers.
“When are you on?”
He patted his cell phone through his coat and said, “Anytime now.”
“At least people have a rough idea of the danger zone today,” Banner said, hoping that was even true. “What are you going to say?”
“Donaldson wants the usual. Stay calm; go about your business; don’t panic. The standard bullshit.”
“And?”
“And that’s not going to do it. They should panic. I’m going to tell people in the area to stay indoors if possible. Don’t travel unless it’s necessary. Avoid public spaces.”
“You think they’ll go for it?”
“Some of them. Maybe.”
Banner’s cell rang; it was Blake. As she hit the button to answer, Castle’s phone rang too. The interview, no doubt. In tandem, the two of them turned and walked a few paces apart to concentrate on their new conversations.
Banner didn’t bother with hello, just asked, “Are you in Lincoln?”
“I’m headed to a place called Allanton. I was in Lincoln last night. What’s happening with the red van in Missouri?”
Banner shot a glance at the nearest news helicopter. “You saw it on the news? I’m there right now.”
“Heard it,” he said. “On the radio. Castle there?”
“He’s getting ready to be interviewed. CNN, I think. You find Nolan yet?”
“I’m working on something. Are your people still up in Lincoln?”
“We pulled them back when there was no trace of Nolan. We’ve let it be known we’re looking for him though. If he sees the news, he might come to us. Assuming he’s able to.” She paused and said, “Eight thirty already.” She didn’t have to say more.
“I know.”
“We need to catch a break soon.”
“I know.”
“Blake?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful up there.”
29
It was a wooden shack, long abandoned and forgotten, its rightful owner probably long dead and just as forgotten.
It stood alone in the woods, three hundred yards from the road, barely larger than an outhouse. Decades of long, hot summers and longer, freezing winters had blended it into its surroundings. Ancient green paint peeled back from the damp, dark wood, weaving a perfect camouflage out of the colors and the small ragged patterns. Forget seeing it from the road; you could pass within twenty feet of the shack and not even notice it was there. Unless somebody told you exactly where to look, of course.
Wardell stopped five paces from the door and savored the moment of anticipation, remembering the instructions.
If I’m not around when you get there, the padlock key is in the third tree to the right as you face the door.
Wardell walked to the third tree and circled its trunk. Sure enough, on the other side was a deep knot, just big enough to insert his fingers and thumb. He reached in and felt around until his fingers closed on a cold, hard sliver of metal. He gripped it between two fingers and drew the key out, realizing there was not one padlock key, but two on a ring.