In the Belly of Jonah (35 page)

“You’re done,” Dr. Jay said abruptly, jerking the sponge and bucket from my hands, leaving them by the doormat, and disappearing once more through the door to the house.

I darted toward the toolbox, drying my hands on my jeans, and fished for a screwdriver. Hearing the door open again, I leapt away from the toolbox and shoved the tool down my pants in one smooth motion. I covered my face with my hand as if I was woozy.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, a camera and a white bed sheet tucked in his arms.

“I think I’m going to be sick again,” I said.

“Filth,” he spat. Tossing the items into the back of his truck, he demanded, “Get in.”

I stood, staring at him. Not the truck. Not the high-pressure water.

“Get in,” he insisted, motioning with his head for me to get in the truck, his eyes boring through me.

I did as I was told.

GUNS DRAWN, STREETER CREPT
up the driveway along the hedge to the enormous house on Whaler’s Way, Kelleher right behind him. The agent in charge had sent Brandt around back with Kyle Mills and Raymond Martinez. He asked Brandt’s man, Andy Doughty, to hang back at the curb in an unmarked in case everything went awry and they needed to call for backup. The four crime scene technicians were waiting in a van parked around the block.

Streeter crouched low and leapt onto the porch landing without a sound, flattening himself between the front door and the bay windows. He motioned for Kelleher to join him and pointed to the other side of the door where he wanted him to stand. Ready to bust open the door or through the window if necessary, Streeter stole an instant peek through the bay windows. He leaned back against the house and squeezed his eyes shut, holding onto the flash image of the inside of Jonah Bravo’s living room. Fireplace directly across from the bay windows, couch to the right allowing whoever sat in it to watch out the window or at the fireplace from the same place. An armchair was situated by the right side of the window;a lamp sat on a table underneath the windowsill. The lamp was turned off. Not surprisingly, the fireplace was cold. Streeter saw no movement of light from a television in the room.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, ready to take a closer look inside. He craned his neck to see through the window and verified his snapshot image of the room being empty. He looked around and saw no light spilling from the hallway or any other room from the house.

Streeter pressed a button on his two-way and talked into the clip mic on his collar. “Looks empty, can’t hear a sound,” he whispered. “Brandt?”

Brandt and Mills were at the back door by the kitchen. Kyle Mills’s voice sounded, “Same.”

“Martinez?”

“Same. I’m at the door to the garage. Maserati’s inside.”

“Pickup truck?”

“No pickup. Empty stall, though.”

Streeter and Kelleher exchanged a glance. Both men’s shoulders sagged.

“Doughty, are we clear?” Streeter asked.

“Clear,” the young man’s voice cracked.

Streeter took a deep breath. “On three, guys. One, two, three.”

Streeter slammed his shoulder against the door alongside Kelleher and the door splintered at the hinges. The two men pounded the door again and it twisted to the ground. Shoulder to shoulder, the men rushed into the living room and cleared the area, sweeping around every large piece of furniture and every closed door. The house was full of silence other than the noise of the kitchen door crashing to the floor and the muffled sound of the garage door being rushed by Martinez. The only thing Streeter could hear was his own heavy breathing and his heart pounding in his chest. His mind’s eye flashed to Lisa’s naked body, to Jill’s mutilated corpse, and to Liv’s captivating smile in the photo.

Where was she?

He raced soundlessly up the stairs to the bedrooms, Kelleher covering his back. The second floor was dark, no lights on anywhere, and all doors swung wide open. Streeter crept up the rest of the stairs and swept each room. The first bedroom was empty, but Streeter noticed the dead-bolt on the outside of the door and the steel grate welded to the steel window frame.

It was a prison. Probably where Jonah had held Jill between Monday night and early Wednesday morning.

He opened the closet door. Completely empty. He opened the dresser drawers. Empty. This was the spare bedroom, devoid of any signs of life except for what might be reflected in all the mirrors when the candles in the numerous candleholders scattered about the room were lit. He motioned for Kelleher to follow him down the hall to what appeared to be the master bedroom. They rushed the room, Kelleher darting off to the master bathroom to search and clear.

No sign of Jonah Bravo. Or Liv.

Streeter was relieved in one sense, hoping he wouldn’t find Liv as he had Lisa. On the other hand, he knew Liv’s time was running out.

He pushed the button on his two-way again. “Second floor clear.”

“Main floor clear,” Mills barked. “Basement too.”

“Garage clear,” Martinez answered. “He was just here.”

Streeter and Kelleher exchanged a look, Streeter finally noticing the gallery of pictures on Jonah Bravo’s bedroom wall. He slowly walked over to it, turning on the nearby lamp and shining it directly on the photos.

Kelleher moaned. “There’s more.”

“Seven dead, not four,” Streeter counted. “Three we knew nothing about, including his mother and sister.”

“And look at this.” Kelleher pointed to the seventh empty frame marked “William Tell.”

“Who the hell was he calling William Tell?”

Streeter shook his head. His two-way screeched.

“Streeter, did you hear me?” Martinez sounded.

“Yeah, I heard you,” Streeter answered. “He was just here?”

“Yeah, the hood of the Maserati is still hot. And I found a bucket with suds.”

“Cleaning lady?”

“On a Sunday? Not likely. And was she driving his Maserati?”

“Put an APB on the pickup, Brandt. Can you do that?”

Kyle’s voice sounded. “He’s doing it as we speak, Streeter.”

“Make sure they know Jonah Bravo is armed and dangerous. And he has a hostage,” Streeter added.

Kyle clicked the two-way in acknowledgment.

Streeter never took his eyes off the photographs, studying each one, his eyes darting from one to another photo, and each gory detail.

To Kelleher he said, “We’ve got to figure out where he’s taking her. It’s a matter of life and death. He knows we’re on to him and he’s going to be like smoke after he kills Liv. He’ll go back to Florida. Or worse, Cuba, and we’ll never find him there.”

Kelleher nodded, rubbing his forehead as he studied the photos alongside Streeter.

Mills’s voice boomed. “Streeter, you’ve got to see this. Brandt found a darkroom in the basement.”

Streeter and Kelleher bounded down the stairs, falling in behind Martinez, who had entered from the garage. All three descended into the basement. The sounds Mills and Brandt were making came from a large room encompassing a quarter of the basement; nearly six hundred square feet by Streeter’s estimation. The largest darkroom he’d ever seen.

He rounded the corner to find Brandt and Mills huddled around a pile of photos scattered on the large table, several more pinned to the walls.

“Holy shit,” Martinez groaned.

Kelleher’s mouth puckered at the grotesque sight.

Dozens of photos of each crime scene were scattered throughout the room, different angles and distances, different lighting and focus. The best four to six were neatly pinned beneath a ten-by-fifteen-inch glossy photo of the corresponding piece of Dalí’s bizarre artwork.

Going from left to right on the wall were Dalí’s “The Enigma of Desire: My Mother, My Mother, My Mother,”

“Seated Girl, Seen from the Back (The Artist’s Sister),”

“Bather,”all three photos of crime scenes with people he had never seen before, and “The Great Masturbator,” with photos of the young couple from Platteville pinned beneath, a photo of Jill Brannigan’s mutilated body next, and finally, a photo of Lisa Henry’s naked body.

“Streeter, look,” Doug Brandt croaked, pointing at the page that had been ripped from a book of Dalí’s works and pinned next to Lisa’s photographs.

“William Tell,”Streeter read, repulsed by the painting of the man with other distorted figures—a horse, a man, a dead donkey, a woman, a lion head—floating around him. The man, dressed only in his underwear, was standing on one leg, resting his left foot on a bench and holding scissors. His face was screwed into a look of sheer agony as he cried tears of blood, his privates dangling from his fly.

“What a sick puppy,” Martinez whistled.

“Dalí or Jonah Bravo?” Mills asked, as if the clarification mattered.

“Both,” Streeter answered. “This isn’t art. This is trash.”

“No, look,” Brandt said, the urgency in his voice pulling Streeter from his trance of disgust as he studied the Dalí painting.

Streeter hadn’t seen the photo pinned beneath the Dalí image until now. It was a photo of Liv Bergen’s house taken from a distance. Streeter saw himself approaching the door.

“You were going to be his next target, Streeter,” Kelleher realized. “You’re William Tell.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Ray Martinez blurted, making the sign of the cross as he did.

“We have to figure out where he took Liv,” Streeter said again. “And fast.”

Kelleher noticed a book of Dalí reproductions lying on the counter near a computer. The book was open to a photo of a woman dressed in a toga, spread-eagled on rocks as if mocking the crucifixion.

“Streeter, look at this,” he said.

The group of men all huddled around the photo, studying the bizarre depiction of the compromised woman, a woman with thick arms, limbs, and mountainous breasts.

“Dalí conquering a strong woman? Posing her in a sexually provocative way to reveal vulnerability?” Kelleher rambled.

“What are you saying, Phil?” Brandt asked.

“Liv Bergen. She’s strong. She runs her own mining company. He wants to reveal her vulnerability,” Streeter answered.

“That’s why he derailed his plans for William Tell,” Kelleher figured.

“Lisa was on to him, was researching Salvador Dalí, when he killed her,” Streeter said.

“And Liv was researching Salvador Dalí when he kidnapped her,”Kelleher added.

“He’s rushed,” Streeter said. “Hurried.”

“Out of control,” Kelleher added.

“Making mistakes.”

“And pissed about all these smart, strong women messing up his plans,”Martinez speculated.

Streeter said, “Where would he take her? What rock?”

“Gray Rock?”Brandt said, everyone turning toward him. “It’s probably the most popular hiking trail around here.”

“Too many people,” Mills offered. “Witnesses.”

“That didn’t stop him at the library,” Martinez chided.

Kelleher’s eyes widened. “What about the rock Liv was missing from her dresser?”

“The cluster of eleven rocks,” Streeter agreed.

“A rock for each family member,” Kelleher continued. “Jonah Bravo must have taken it as a trophy or something when he killed Lisa Henry.”

Streeter’s eyes widened when he realized he knew exactly where Jonah was taking Liv. He bolted out the door. The others followed, chasing him up the stairs.

“Streeter?” Kelleher called after him.

“The crystal,” he called back to them.

“What?” Kelleher asked.

“He took the crystal.”

“I know. But what about it?”

“I saw it in his office, on his windowsill. He’s taunting us.” Streeter ran out the front door and headed to his Jeep. He called out to them. “He’s taking her to the quarry.
Her
quarry. Anyone know where that is?”

Young Andy Doughty was standing by his car. “I do. My brother works there.”

Brandt said, “I was just there on Wednesday morning, interviewing Liv.”

“We’ll follow you,” Streeter said, waving at Kelleher to join him.