Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) (12 page)

Tree limbs crackled in the fire, soot and smoke curling upwards to the ceiling. Adam could see them ‒ his beloved braves ‒ eating and laughing before the open fire. He kept his mind empty, so he wouldn’t miss the visions that might be there.

Two days in the cave because of Ramsey’s leg, two days without hiking onward in the open country. Two days and no sign of the rangers.

Adam explored the pit houses, towers and underground kivas, each carved into natural alcoves and painted with a skillful hand. He heard the wind as it shrilled through the chinking and, when the light faded in the many passageways, he thought he saw Tarahuma, the spear-thrower, carrying an atlatl.

Ramsey wasn’t far behind pointing at this and that, and nursing that weeping wound. Sometimes he would pace and mutter, and sometimes he would chew the black stuff and doze off for a while. His eyes were circled in bruises at least that’s what Adam thought they were. Like he’d been popped with a fist. And he was up and down like a man with no way, whispering “leave no man behind… leave no man behind.”

It was late afternoon when Adam rinsed the saucepan at the mouth of the cave, set it beneath a natural runoff. He could hear the
drip, drip, drip
, and then a sudden downpour drumming against metal. And every now and then he would go and fetch it so they could bathe and wash their clothes.  

“Close your eyes,” Ramsey whispered, dipping his fingers into a multi-colored compact. “Need to camo your face up.”

Adam closed his eyes, felt those fingers working the colors from nose to cheekbones, jaw to neck. It tickled his throat and he flinched a little.

“They won’t see us coming out.
When
we come out,” Ramsey said.

Adam knew Ramsey could move through the woods like a phantom, face flattened with paint. How else could he have survived this long.

“It’s cool,” Adam said, trying to think of things to say.

“What’s cool?”

“All that stuff on your face. I’ve seen it in movies.”

“Your dad would know all about that.”

“He never talked about the military. He never told me what it was really like.”

“It’s about survival. It’s about killing.”

Adam felt a twinge in his belly, remembering something his pastor said. “Thou shalt not kill.”

Ramsey snorted. “You don’t give up do you?”

“No. Because God never gave up on me.”

Ramsey tucked his chin on his chest and stared at the fire until his eyes began to water. “I don’t believe in all that God stuff.”

“But you can,” Adam whispered. “We can pray if you like.”

Ramsey shook his head. “There are things you don’t know, things you don’t need to know. I can’t pray. It won’t take away the filth.”

“Did you kill that old man?” Adam had to ask, had to know. Ramsey frowned and looked away like he needed reminding.

“Men like that take young boys. They do things.”

Adam could still see a skeleton in the woods when he thought about it. He had been hoping they wouldn’t stumble across it any time soon. “Like the one tied to a tree?”

“Yeah, just like him.”

“Did you know the boy?”

Ramsey nodded and sniffed. Said he knew the boy.  He was dark skinned, like a nut, pretty-looking too. Always stood beside his mother in the hardware store, always helping her out with a smile. Then one day he was gone. But his face wasn’t. It was all over the shop windows, bus stops, tacked to trees and posts. And when Ramsey saw that boy’s face he vowed he’d kill the man who did it. He made an anonymous call to the police department. Told them where to find young Evan Trader. Wanted to take him down off that tree, but he knew better than to tamper with evidence. Only the police never found the man who killed him because he moved like a demon through the woods.

“It’s dangerous out here.” Ramsey wiped his eyes with the heel of one hand, looked like he was crying. “And I care.”

“Is that why you took me? Because something bad was going to happen.”

Ramsey began to take jagged breaths, and his hand was wiping some of that paint off. “It would be easy to say that. The world’s not as bright as you think it is. And it gets darker by the day.”

“What then?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Ramsey tried a smile, only it was lopsided, not really happy. “Finish your rabbit. It’s getting dark.”

He stood and kicked dust over the fire until the flames were nothing but yellow rattails curling above a bed of ash. All those tears were because he was tired, that’s all. Tired of running. Tired of waiting.

An owl hooted on a nearby tree, only Ramsey didn’t think it was an owl. They would be herded in like cattle so he said, shut in by those rangers until they were starved out. He kept droning on about the old man with the thick red beard, kept saying he probably told the rangers where they were.

Adam knew Ramsey was dreaming it. The old man was already dead. And dead men don’t speak.

They were warm and full of rabbit before the sun went down. Wrapped in their jackets, hoods up and lying on their bellies on the lookout ledge, they watched the opposite slope and listened to the grass murmur. After a while Ramsey fell asleep and that’s when Adam noticed the figure, leaning against the trunk of a tree in the deep dusk. He was alone, or so Adam thought.

Not too tall, judging by the notches on the pine tree he stood against and looking across the canyon at the cliff. His face stayed that way for a time and then he looked about, slowly approaching the narrow track of shingle at the base of the slope.

A beam of light skimmed the trees. Twice it floated up the cliff wall and down again, making circular movements as it neared the bottom. There was a coyote somewhere on the slope chuffing and howling. That’s what woke Ramsey. 

Adam felt the hand against the back of his head, pushing his face lower behind the rock.

“Five,” Ramsey grunted. “Maybe more.”

Adam saw one man push up the sleeve of his jacket, wristwatch lighting up his face for an instant. He hooted to someone in the trees and another hoot came back. They all fanned out, ghostly pale in the moonlight and merging with the shadows.

Adam lowered his hood and listened, but he couldn’t hear anything. He thought he saw something a little further down the slopes, a dark shape that seemed to bleed into the gray rock it was lying on. An animal stretched out for the night, waiting like a sentinel until dawn.  

“The cave’s sacred,” Ramsey said, chewing that stuff again, spat a chunk of it on the ground. “They won’t come here. So we’ll wait for an hour or two. Then we’ll make a run for it.”

The growling in Malin’s stomach was the alarm she didn’t need at eleven forty-five on a Sunday night. The hollow between her breasts was drenched in sweat and she threw off the quilt in a hurry.

Thoughts of Hollister churned around in her head, how he seemed to lead her further and further down that foggy path without ever giving her some tangible hope. She’d already changed her name to AvantGuard.

A shiver ran down her back as she focused hard on the open door and the pale pink glow from the kitchen. The occasional sweep of car lights on the road outside the window reminded her that the world was waking up, people returning to their early morning shifts.

She padded out of the bedroom and stared at the laptop on the kitchen counter, a glossy lid illuminated by three puck lights beneath the kitchen cabinets. If it wasn’t for that extra dose of curiosity she’d been born with she wouldn’t have bothered checking.

There were four emails. Two were store receipts, one was spam and the other was an alert from Heartfree.com. WingMan
had sent her a private message… to her new account. She blinked a few times to see if it would go away and when it didn’t she signed into the website and there it was.

Wanna talk?

Two words. It was the best he could do. Maybe he was looking for women. Maybe he thought she was someone else. She looked down the right hand margin of the screen, saw only seven people on the list of chatters. His name wasn’t among them.

Sure.

But she didn’t press
SEND
. She wondered if it was too eager, too desperate. But she was a detective first and detectives don’t hesitate. They ask questions and she had plenty.

Talking of lonely, she needed to hear a human voice. Spasms of panic hit her when she was alone, like the time when her mother died. The time when she realized there would never be another sympathetic voice. She noticed Temeke didn’t picked up when she dialed his number. Left him a voicemail instead.

Two people came off chat and four more came on. It was like a revolving door, a pantomime of actors with false names and faces. Women with young faces, hopeful faces, faces with so many virtual nips and tucks did they really think they could ever get away with it? And men sucking in those overhangs and showing the pecs they had in their twenties.

She hit
SEND
.

WingMan had no idea who AvantGuard was, but he’d want to know, probably ask for her number because men like him trolled the dating sites, picking up chicks and scoring notches on their cupboard doors. Boy, was he going to be pissed when he found out it was only her.

Hollister was handsome, relaxed, confident, and women fell for him. Hard. He was never overtly lecherous or sexual, just a little suggestive. Listening was his strength and mystery was his forté. There seemed to be a never ending stream of relationships because on the internet you can cast your net far and wide, love a woman in Texas and another in Tokyo, or so he said.

In fact, the women on chat had no life. This was their escape from boardroom to bedroom where nothing ever changed and nothing ever would. This was the dating of the future where everyone sat in their own bubble, never feeling flesh, never getting sick.

It was surprising how intimate you could get without ever meeting, how flirtatious without ever really knowing. It was exciting and dangerous. And it was downright stupid because the risks were greater.

She wondered if he was still sore about the escort job she once had, sore she’d suddenly changed into a prude. That was the word he’d used, wasn’t it? Prude.

Malin made herself a cup of tea, ate a piece of toast and then she got to thinking. Perhaps the women on chat were all waiting to talk to Hollister, probably already met him, already kissed him . . .

She walked back to the laptop and nearly dropped her cup. It was the beep of an incoming message. WingMan was online. He was also on chat and he’d already left her a message.

Like the new name. Cute.

Malin’s heart nearly skipped a beat. How did he know? The picture was the same, a bland blue avatar that everyone used when they first signed up.

He’s a cop, stupid, that’s why.

It was true, she was always on Heartfree.com. He just didn’t need to remind her that’s all. As for the name change, she found it a little creepy he was able to find her among so many. But it was her own fault. She had fallen in the trap of what he called
desperation
.

She knew her way around the internet like a teenager. There were plenty of police officers trolling the same sites, basking in their easy chairs and having a good laugh. Some were just ordinary folk looking for an ordinary date, some were predators sitting on the sidelines, watching. So which one was Hollister?

New name?

Don’t go playing games, Malin. You know how easy it is to look up an IP address. We’re all family.

It’s not a coincidence you’re on here, is it?

All singles use Heartfree. All lonely singles, that is.

Are you lonely?

Sometimes. You are. You’re desperately seeking me.

There was nothing desperate about wanting to talk to him.
Seeking you
?
she began to type and then changed it to:
And you’re seeking who?

I’m here to find a way.

What do you mean a way?

He typed four more lines. This time poetry.

The many men, so beautiful!

And they all dead did lie.

And a thousand thousand slimy things

Lived on; and so did I.

She was about to google the first line when he carried on typing.

I’ve been up all night thinking.

Malin almost smiled. It sounded like the old Hollister, the Hollister who did a lot of thinking, especially at night. He had to take melatonin to get his mind to stop scuttling like a hamster in a wheel, or he would lose his mind.

Thinking about what?

When in Rome.

Rome is about five thousand miles away.

You’re about five thousand miles away.

Malin narrowed her eyes and considered this. If he was saying he missed her she wasn’t falling for it. Trouble was, she needed to unload, to talk to someone she trusted, someone she had been close to. And Hollister was always the first person who popped into her head. He was from a well-connected family, father ran for public office, mother was a Hampton’s socialite and it never seemed to amaze her that he lived in the slummiest area of town without so much as a hint of embarrassment. He said it was because he didn’t want women going hog-wild over his money. It was clever in hindsight, if indeed it were true.

Of course, she had done a little snooping herself when she lived in Camden. He had about sixty thousand in the bank, nothing to scoff at, nothing to get excited about either. He drove a white Toyota Highlander and bought his clothes from a dry cleaners down the road, the type that sold unclaimed suits. He had supernatural charm he could turn up on a whim and steely gray eyes that always appeared amused. And worse, he said he could never fathom why Malin―or any woman for that matter―wanted to get married. It was a tie he could do without, no back door to bolt through when things got tough.

Malin followed him to Alexander Avenue one night, a neighborhood in Maple Shade. She shrugged into a dark ski jacket, hair scooped up in a beanie, duty belt, cuffs and a nine millimeter. The only thing missing was a hand grenade.

She parked around the corner on Martin Avenue, a block down from Alexander and walked to the house. A white 1950 Cape Cod style set back from the street with a gabled roof and dormer windows, and a large wreath hanging on a red painted door.

It was nearly dusk when she climbed over the wall between the houses, caught her jeans on a nail and ripped them from crotch to knee. She landed in a dense thicket of buckthorn, narrowly avoiding a square of light from a brightly lit window.

A dry hinge squeaked on the back patio and she caught snatches of conversation drifting out onto a wide lawn. The voice was female, accusing, asking why he hadn’t called, why he hadn’t visited in over a month and why he wasn’t wearing uniform. She loved him, wanted him out there on the sun lounger in nothing but his black leather tactical boots. He could wear his insignia, those nice yellow bars, if he could think of where to wrap them. There was laughter then.

This woman was twelve years Hollister’s senior and happy to provide large withdrawals every time he made a deposit. It was clear why he favored the back door. It paid the rent.

Nausea rolled through Malin’s stomach and she tried to breathe. All she could remember was scuttling back to the car, jeans flapping around one thigh. She was thankful when the sound of an incoming message distracted her from that particular nightmare.

Are you there?

Malin waited just a few more seconds, enough to unravel a ribbon of scenarios that were playing out in her mind.
Yes, I’m here.

Are you talking to someone else?

Was he actually jealous? She mulled over what to say, wanted to type
maybe
and then realized how childish it sounded. The delay alone would keep him guessing.

Got more important things to do, right?

She quickly typed.
Nothing more important than you.

Glad to hear it. Glad to hear I’m still number one.

But I’m not, am I? Heard you were getting married.

You got that wrong. No chance of me getting married. Sounds like a life sentence to me.

It was true. Hollister would be hard pressed to tie the knot, but then this stripper was pregnant wasn’t she? Malin was fed up with typing, wanted to talk on the phone.
Seriously, can we…
she began to type and he beat her to it.

The mayor’s son. High profile case. Saw it on the news. You and Temeke?

As soon as she settled on a topic, Hollister seemed to change course and then he’d hit her with something new. She decided to let it go.
Yes, yes and yes.

Has the kidnapper called?

He called the victim’s wife.

How did he sound?

Calm. Middle aged. He said he had the boy, wanted three hundred grand in ransom. Wanted half in hundreds, half in small denominations. Said it better not be sequenced or the boy’s dead.
Malin blew out a loud breath. She didn’t want to tell him too much.
We’ll find him. You know that.

This one’s different.

Why?

You won’t find him in the usual places. He’s never killed, never kidnapped. Had a speeding ticket in 2006. Bought a house in 2008. His name won’t be in the database. So don’t bother looking.

It was one of those moments when everything became a blur. She opened her mouth, not sure of what to think.
You know him?

Met him once. Strange guy, closed off. A little angry. But then we all have an axe to grind.

Hollister had met him?
Give me a name.

Think Malin. Most people who commit crimes aren’t always smart. They’re delusional, need money to drive their drug use. That’s their motive. This guy’s different. He’s dying. So in the days to come, he’ll lose the ability to plan because he won’t be able to get the painkillers he’s so dependent on. Ask yourself this. Why hasn’t he called again? Why hasn’t he kept in touch?

Hollister went silent. No little dots, no friendly bubble. How did he know who this kidnapper was?

Are you there?

He signed off then. Just like that. Malin sat in a fog for a moment clasping her head. She gave the computer a harsh, threatening look, picked up the phone and dialed his number.

“Listen,” she said to his voicemail. “I hate to intrude on your privacy, but it looks like it’s going to be a long night. I don’t care what you’re doing or who you’re doing it with. You don’t just leave me hanging there with a statement like that! I’m going to keep calling this effing number until you pick up!”