Fear the Dark (24 page)

‘How does the neomycin fit into this?’

‘It helps to minimize the fish odour with some people. In order for the antibiotic to work effectively, you’ve got to modify your diet. People who suffer from TMAU,
though – no matter what meds they’re taking, no matter how much they’ve modified their diet, you put them into a stressful situation, they start to sweat even more, and the fish odour goes into overdrive.’

‘The bedroom window at the Downes house,’ Hoder said. ‘It was open.’

‘And the windows in the other house were open, too. I looked through the photos taken of the bedrooms. At each crime scene the Red Hill Ripper opened all the bedroom windows. If our guy has this TMAU disorder, I bet he opens all the windows to clear out that fishy odour.’

Hoder made a fist and rubbed it across his bottom lip, thinking.

‘Look, this was just a quick Google search,’ Darby said. ‘It could be some sort of other metabolic disorder, maybe a skin condition, like Rita Tuttle said, maybe something else entirely. But two separate people who said something about a guy with a particular fishy and garbage-like body odour? That’s something we can’t ignore.’

‘Agreed. Where’s the Tuttle woman now?’

‘Interview room. Griffin’s going to take her statement. I think we should get a sketch artist, preferably one of yours. We can take Tuttle to the MoFo and have her talk to this guy over Skype.’

Hoder nodded and removed a satellite phone from his jacket pocket.

‘Where’d you get that?’

‘Coop,’ he said. ‘He brought them from Denver, one for each of us.’

‘Where is he?’

‘At the hotel with Hayes, sweeping our rooms for bugs. Otto’s inside our rolling lab, working his way through the blood samples.’ Hoder sighed. ‘It’s not looking good. In addition to using bleach, our guy used hydrogen peroxide on the floor. He knows forensics.’

‘If this Timmy guy signed up for a class and dropped it, the college will have his name and address on file.’

‘We’ll need a court order before we go fishing.’

‘I know. I say we skip the local route and go federal. People get real co-operative when they see a federal warrant. We can also use it to target local pharmacies, see who’s getting neomycin prescriptions filled. We should also start asking around, see if anyone knows anything about a guy named Timmy who has a permanent BO problem. What’s the status of the video interview?’

‘The RCFL guys have it,’ said Hoder. ‘They’re installing that hidden tracking program. It’ll go live in about twenty minutes or so.’

‘What do you think about putting out the information on the knots?’

‘I think it’s too early. If we go out with the knots and the sketch tonight or tomorrow, he might get spooked and decide to leave town for a while. Let him keep thinking he’s got the upper hand. We’ll give it a day or two to see what the trace comes up with.’

‘You look like you could use some sleep,’ said Darby.

‘Couldn’t we all. I’ll meet you in the interview room.’

Darby returned to Williams’s office and used his computer to get a list of local pharmacies.

There were two in Red Hill; Brewster had four. She
could sit around and wait for a court order that, most likely, wouldn’t come through until sometime tomorrow, or she could try to do something now.

Five minutes later, she was behind the wheel of her rental, with the case file and the pharmacies’ addresses lying on the passenger’s seat.

44

Baylor Apothecary was the closest, located inside the ground floor of a small brick-faced building right around the corner from Cindy’s Diner. The windows were dark, but the pharmacy was still in business. Darby pressed her face against the glass and in the gloom she could make out fully stocked aisles. Baylor’s opened every morning at eight. She’d have to wait until tomorrow.

She had better luck at the Rite Aid on the other side of town, off the main highway, Route 6. It was in a strip mall that at one point in time had included a Blockbuster video store and a discount lumber liquidator. The snow had picked up, growing in intensity. A white blanket covered the two cars in the lot.

The inside of the pharmacy was brightly lit and eerily quiet, as though it had suddenly been abandoned. It was also uncomfortably warm. Darby unzipped her jacket as she made her way to the back with the case file for the Connelly family pinched between the fingers of her left hand.

The pharmacist was a thickset middle-aged woman with a button nose and brittle black hair that had thinned to the point that her scalp was visible. Her nametag read
BARBARA
.

‘Evening,’ Darby said pleasantly. ‘I need your help with
a medication called neomycin – the oral antibiotic and not the topical treatment.’

Barbara smiled as she turned to the computer. ‘Your name?’

‘Not me. One of your male customers.’ Darby showed her federal ID, and the woman’s smile collapsed. ‘His first name is Tim or Timothy.’

‘Do you have a court order?’ The woman’s attention was glued to the butt-end of the 9-millimetre tucked inside Darby’s shoulder holster. ‘I can’t help you without a court order.’

‘The FBI are getting it together. All I need to know is whether or not you have a man named Tim or Timothy in your system who gets his neomycin prescription filled here. If he is, great, I’ll come back with the court order. If he isn’t, then I’ll get out of your hair.’

Barbara was shaking her head the entire time. ‘I can’t tell you anything unless you have a court order,’ she said. ‘HIPAA and the state’s Medical Information Act prevent me from sharing any information regarding a person’s –’

‘I understand.’ Darby had expected to encounter this reaction. During the drive, she had come up with a way around it – provided she could get Barbara the Pharmacist to agree to play along. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t explain myself correctly. My fault. You live here in Red Hill?’

‘Why?’

‘Are you familiar with the Red Hill Ripper?’

Barbara didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The skin of the woman’s face flexed and tightened against the bone.

‘You can see why I’m anxious to see if this man is in
your system,’ Darby said patiently. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything illegal. I just need to know whether or not this man is one of your customers.’

‘I’m just … I should really talk to my supervisor.’

‘I understand. But while you’re on the phone – while you and I are standing here, talking about rules and procedures, the Red Hill Ripper is planning on doing this to another family.’

Darby brought out her folder, her finger marking the spot she needed. She opened it and showed the woman a close-up of the noose wrapped around Linda Connelly’s neck, the skin swollen, bloated and purple.

The photo had the desired effect. Barbara the Pharmacist’s breath caught in her throat and she backed up slightly, wincing. Her attention swung to the pharmacy computer.

‘Just tell me if he’s in there,’ Darby said. ‘There’s no law against that, right?’

‘I … Well, no, I don’t think so.’ Barbara looked around uneasily, to see if anyone was nearby.

‘I really appreciate you helping the Bureau out on this,’ Darby said. ‘Thank you.’

The phone behind the counter rang.

Barbara looked relieved. ‘Excuse me for a moment,’ she said.

As the woman hustled away, Darby stared at the computer on the counter. The Red Hill Ripper’s name and address could be just a few mouse clicks away. She wanted to jump over the counter.

Then the pharmacist’s head snapped to Darby. The
woman’s features had gone slack, and the blood drained from her face. The person on the other end of the line said something that made her flinch. A low, guttural moan escaped her lips and she yanked the phone away from her ear.

‘He knows where I live,’ the pharmacist said, her voice stripped of colour.

‘Who?’

‘The man on the phone. At least I think it’s a man. His voice sounds … He sounds like he’s speaking through a computer.’

Barbara charged forward, her heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. ‘He said he was going to use a special knot on me.’ She held the cordless away from her as though she were carrying a snake. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

Darby dropped the file on the counter and took the phone.
He must’ve followed me here
, she thought as she moved across an aisle stocked with diapers and baby formula and jars of food. But how? She hadn’t seen anyone following her.

The front door came into view and Darby saw a young, pony-tailed guy minding a cash register, reading a weight-lifting magazine. He lowered it and watched her with curiosity and a growing alarm.

She brought the phone up to her ear. ‘McCormick.’

The disguised voice on the other end of the line spoke through a burst of static. ‘My girl,’ he said, and then let out a long moan, like someone riding the swell of an orgasm.

Darby couldn’t see the main road or much of the
parking lot behind the curtains of snow, but she could make out her car, the driver’s side door hanging open.

‘I can’t wait until we get together. I’m gonna split you in half.’

Click
.

Darby placed the cordless on a shelf stocked with discount boxes of Christmas cards. She took out her nine and from the corner of her eye saw the cashier drop his magazine, his face pale with shock.

She doubted the Red Hill Ripper was somewhere outside waiting for her to come out. He wanted to take her, and he would do it when she didn’t expect it, when she wouldn’t be able to see him coming. He wouldn’t call to alert her of his presence, and he wouldn’t make a move on her here, in a public place, with two potential witnesses. He had called because he wanted to remind her of his superiority. He wanted her to feel dread. She pushed open the doors and went outside.

Footsteps led away from her car. They were covered by snow; there wouldn’t be any way to get a mould of the impressions. Gun in hand, Darby slowly advanced to her car, snow flying into her face and the wind blowing her hair. The interior light was on; she moved around the open door, looked inside at her seat and saw two pieces of blue nylon rope speckled with white and red wrapped together to form a surgeon’s knot.

When I turn left on to Sidewinder Road, I’m relieved to find it freshly ploughed. I had my doubts: the town’s four snowploughs, which have been out working since eight or so, might’ve skipped this street, since no one lives here any more.

There is the long trailer, still attached to the semi; both are parked near the kerb outside the Downes home, looking as small as toys from my driver’s seat. I kill my headlights and then creep forward slowly. Light glows from the trailer’s tiny side windows.

I pull against a ridge of freshly ploughed snow, put the car in park and leave the engine running. If everything goes right, I’ll be back here in only a few minutes.

I step out of the car with the backpack gripped in my hand. I’m wearing a fleece hat underneath the hood of my coat, but even under all those layers I can still hear the deep, rumbling throb of the semi’s big diesel engine, which is providing power for the lights and whatever other equipment is being used in there.

I cross the street and start running towards the trailer with the backpack hugged against my chest to keep its contents from accidentally breaking. By the time I reach the trailer’s back doors, the sound of the diesel has become
near-deafening, and I can feel the ground vibrating beneath the soles of my boots.

I know the trailer belongs to the FBI: the FBI insignia, lettering and words
MOBILE FORENSICS UNIT
were prominently displayed in big, bold lettering on its side. It was parked here late yesterday afternoon. Yesterday a ramp descended from the back to allow the agents to come and go as they pleased.

Tonight the ramp is gone, rolled back underneath the trailer. But the side door has a short set of metal steps, all of which are covered in snow. After I lay the backpack on the ground, near one of the rear tyres, I unzip my coat, remove the .44 Magnum tucked in the front waistband of my jeans and make my way across the length of the trailer to the side door, ducking underneath the small windows. My hands, protected by only a thin layer of latex, are already cold, and my knuckles and joints ache.

I want to take them by surprise, if possible, so I mount the steps slowly and carefully. The handle feels ice-cold as I slowly turn it. I don’t encounter any resistance, and when I hear the lock click back I throw open the door; as it swings to my right I raise my Magnum and dart inside the trailer.

For the next few seconds time seems to slow, as if what I’m seeing has been captured inside a tableau: a big man with a shaved head sitting with his back to me and hunched over a counter; a second man who is much smaller and wearing ear-bud headphones attached to the iPod clipped to his belt. I immediately aim at the short man. He sees
me and is reaching for the side-arm clipped to his belt when I pull the trigger.

The Magnum kicks; the roar of the gunshot explodes inside my head as the round hits the man square in the chest, spraying the doors behind him with a bright red mist. The bald guy is stumbling to his feet when I turn the gun on him and fire.

The wind slams the door shut behind me and my eardrums are ringing as I move to the bald guy. He’s writhing on the floor, blood pouring out of his mouth and nose. He looks up at me questioningly, about to speak, when I shoot him in the head. I’m ducking around the counter and forensics equipment, when I notice a can of liquid nitrogen, which may prove very useful. I walk over to the small guy and examine the exit wound in his back: it’s the size of a basketball but he’s still moving, trembling, his arm reaching out for the Glock lying on the floor. I fire another round into his back and then I use the remaining rounds to shoot out the windows.

The refrigerator in the corner isn’t locked. I open it and find all the blood samples collected from the hardwood floor sitting on the shelves. I remove everything, throwing it against the floor and then smashing the glass vials with my boots. I head to the back doors, open them and jump out.

Backpack in my hand, I jog next to the side of the trailer and mount the stairs again. My hands are shaking when I place the backpack on the counter and work the zipper – not out of fear but from the cold. I’m no longer afraid. The tables have turned. I have a way out of this.