___________________________
His blunt thumb tracked across the embossed name on the credit card, as if reading braille.
Gary Cornsilk.
He knew by using the First Tennessee Visa anywhere in the western world the authorities would immediately locate him. Pinpoint his exact whereabouts and trace his movements. Maybe even send in the marines – providing they weren’t otherwise engaged in liberating some oil-rich region that most eleventh-graders couldn’t find on a map of the world if their lives depended on it.
Alternatively, he could lie low. Wait for the smoke to clear before rolling out the next stage in his play and turning up the heat in California.
People were looking for him.
Satellites eyeballing from a hundred mile high.
He slid the card back inside his billfold and swapped the wallet for a Zippo lighter he’d picked up at some unmemorable airport gift stall. He liked it. It had a special meaning. There was a flattened American Indian tribal chief head embellished on the metal. Turquoise feathers in the headdress. A face like rolling thunder.
He flicked the lid and marveled at the flickering flame.
He’d always thought there was something magical about the exothermic process of combustion.
Something addictive.
Something godlike.
He ran his palm over the flame, delighting in its hot caress.
People were going to pay with their lives.
___________________________
On the remote chance Cornsilk was the only person in town to miss all the police activity, officers from the shaken Kodiak Police Department had taken siege of the Kodiak Inn and laid down the law. All available police personnel commanded to convene – including those pulled in on their day off. No one was complaining; an officer had been killed in the line of duty. This was top priority and the cops were cracking down.
I couldn’t blame them. Didn’t have the heart to tell them that Snakeskin was crazy, but not nearly crazy enough to come back for his gear. The explosion had been heard right across the city. It was unlikely Snakeskin didn’t know the score.
The Kodiak Inn by Best Western was in lockdown.
No one was coming in or out without having their ID’s scrutinized under a magnifying glass. More cops combing the entire complex, methodically, making sure Cornsilk wasn’t holed up somewhere inside. Officers checking out the surrounding buildings, parking lots and even the Dumpsters. Anyone kicking up a fuss was being frisked and cautioned. I couldn’t blame the KPD for being heavy-handed. One of their own had died. Blown-up in broad daylight. Word was that Hillyard had been popular. A dedicated family man. Understandably, his colleagues were angry, with a growing appetite for justice served cold. If Cornsilk was still on the island, the only way he was leaving was in a casket.
“I’ve spoken with the Anchorage field office,” Rae was telling me as I shook out the change of clothes courteously supplied by the hotel management. “Just as soon as they can rustle up the manpower, they’re sending over a forensics team and people from the bomb squad. All being well they should be here before dusk.”
Less than an hour. I didn’t like their chances.
We were shoehorned into the small office behind the reception counter. It smelled of donuts and printer cartridges. Rae had her back turned while I peeled off sodden clothes and dropped them in the trash. Strange behavior given our nighttime antics.
The jeans were a little low-cut but otherwise a decent fit. The white tee-shirt had
I Heart Kodiak
emblazoned across the chest, with the image of a fierce brown bear on the reverse. Very touristy. I covered most of it up with a red-and-black hooded flannel shirt. Luckily, my discarded hiking boots, parka, cell phone and badge had escaped the watery surge unscathed. The Glock hadn’t. It had taken a dip in the icy waters, with me, and was sitting in a puddle on the office desk. It would take time drying it out, oiling it up and making it safe and functional. For now, it would have to wait.
I ran fingers through hair thickened with sea salt. “I guess it’s as good as it gets.”
Rae nodded her approval and we returned to Cornsilk’s room. Asked the cops to clear out while we looked the place over. The first few hours following a homicide are vital, with the likelihood of an apprehension rapidly diminishing thereafter. The freezing water had woken me up to the fact I had a job to do.
I wanted to find something to point to where Cornsilk might be, right now. I wanted to catch him and make him pay for murdering Hillyard in cold blood.
I started with the items Rae had told me about on the phone.
There were several plastic soda bottles in the closet, all empty. A drum of wire and a reel of silver duct tape on a shelf, together with a pair of cutters, a soldering iron and various plastic clips. The tools of Snakeskin’s trade. Mindful of booby-traps, I lifted the lid on a plastic box, to find it full of micro-switches and other electronic stuff, including high-charge batteries like the kind used to power camcorders.
Down on the carpet I spotted a dusting of a white sugar-like substance. Too grainy to be cocaine. I got on my haunches and gathered a sample into a small heap. Picked up a pinch between thumb and index finger and rubbed the tiny crystals together to cause friction. Something caustic stung at my nose.
“Traces of ammonium in here,” I called to Rae, who was out in the bedroom, taking Cornsilk’s room apart.
“I thought you said he preferred thermite.”
“He does. Or did. Today’s blast blew that boat to smithereens. I guess he’s evolved his MO to include fertilizer bombs.”
Save the incendiaries for close-quarters. Upscale to higher energy explosives for bigger targets.
Officer Hillyard had stood no chance.
I shuddered at the thought of finding the boat first, or even Rae getting to it before any of us.
As with all bombers, Cornsilk’s methods of murder and madness were indiscriminate.
“According to the brochure, Minky’s Charters is based in Whittier,” Rae called.
“Whittier? Where’s that at?”
“A short drive south from Anchorage, by the looks of things.”
The most accessible Alaskan airport from anywhere in the continental US. If Snakeskin had flown into Anchorage, he’d picked up the ingredients for the fertilizer bomb in Whittier. Any old hardware store would do. No way he’d risk carrying bomb-making ingredients on a commercial flight. He’d bought the stuff in Whittier, loaded it on the boat and brought it to Kodiak – with a view to a kill.
“Any signs of a return flight ticket, Rae?”
“Not that I can see. I’ve checked everywhere I can think of. My guess is, if he has one, he has it with him.”
The BOLO would stop Snakeskin using it.
I rinsed my hands in the bathroom sink and dried them on a fluffy white towel. Leaned against the worktop and thought about the close shave I’d had in Sanibel, caught in Snakeskin’s deadly spider’s web. Cornsilk had taken me by surprise. Hit me with a Taser. I’d woken to find myself strapped to a chair in the middle of a complex network of wires spanning the living room in Jack’s place. An incendiary device barely feet from my face. Crisscrossing cables connected to micro switches. A timer counting down. No way out. I’d faced certain incineration. That was until Jack Heckscher – aka Jacob Klaussner – had come to the rescue at the last minute, foiling Snakeskin’s plan.
Rae appeared in the bathroom doorway. “Any progress?”
“Aside from bomb-making equipment, nothing. You?”
“I turned out all his pockets. Practically ruined his suitcase pulling the lining out. I did find this.” She held up a booklet.
“A road map?”
“Not just any ordinary road map. Come with me and you’ll see what I mean.”
Back in the bedroom, Rae unfolded the concertinaed booklet and spread it out across the bed. It was big. At least three feet by four. A driver’s map of the USA. Each individual State color-coded, with key attractions highlighted. The kind of treasure map that foreigners pick up in airports to keep their minds boggled at the enormity of the nation. I smoothed it down and looked it over.
Snakeskin had used a red marker pen to highlight certain road routes, to circle specific towns and to place cross markers on key locations. Probably the same marker pen used to write the message on Westbrook’s mirror. The highlighted routes formed a branched system of red veins across the heart of the country, in all directions. Crosses and circles seemingly randomly scattered. There were words, too. Mostly dates. Some names that looked like they could be hotels. Some that definitely belonged to people. The name
Hives
was underlined twice in Virginia. And a sad face drawn over Jackson, Tennessee. My eyes traveled southeast to Florida, where they found a circle around Sanibel Island, with the words
‘Goodbye Gabe Quinn’
splashed across the Gulf of Mexico.
Rae came in close. “It looks like he’s been hunting Westbrook for some while. See, the oldest date goes back to February, with the latest being here in Kodiak, last week.”
Not just hunting down Westbrook, I knew. This map documented Snakeskin’s pursuit of me and everyone he wrongly believed had played their part in ruining his life. I had no idea how many innocents were on his mental hit list. No idea how many nameless victims he’d already burned to death across the country. What I did know was that Westbrook had led him here. What I didn’t know was a damned thing about the guy whose crisped body was stinking up Paul Engel’s examination room.
“What do we know about Westbrook?” I mused out loud.
“Aside from him being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a whole bag of nothing.” Rae got out her phone and started tapping manicured fingernails against the screen. “The Bureau has an app,” she said as her fingertips danced on the glass. “It allows field agents to log into the system remotely.”
I made a face. “The FBI has an app.”
“Actually, we have several. They’re loaded into your phone, too. And they’re all voice-activated. Just about the handiest is Find-A-Fed. Sounds corny, doesn’t it? But it’s quite useful. It’s an electronic phonebook listing every agent’s contact numbers. A real lifesaver when you’re in a tight spot..”
I saw her brow crinkle as she scanned information. “What?”
“You would not believe how many people there are called Nathan Westbrook. I mean, really. There are dozens.”
“Narrow it down. Cornsilk is only interested in people directly involved in ruining his life. It’s a safe bet they’re either in law enforcement or connected to it.”
Rae swept fingertips over the screen. “Let’s see . . .okay, this is better. We have a Detective Nathan Westbrook.”
“A police detective?”
“Seems so. Was he part of your investigation into The Undertaker?”
“Not that I recall. Where is he based?”
“Looks like he’s time served with the NYPD – in fact, most of his career is with them – plus a shorter stint with the Reno PD.”
“Reno?” I chewed cheek. “I was in Vegas when Cornsilk got injured in Jackson, but the Reno PD weren’t involved in the case.”
I scanned the map, focusing on Nevada. There was a skull-and-crossbones drawn in red over Las Vegas, but no markings anywhere near Reno. There was something that looked like a phone number written along the blue ribbon of the Hudson River in New York, however, but no names.
“What else does your app say about Westbrook?”
“He’s unmarried. No children. Decorated twice for bravery. Worked both Vice and Homicide. And . . . there’s currently a missing persons notice filed against him. According to the FBI database, Detective Nathan Westbrook went missing last year.”