The Gift of the Darkness (34 page)

“Maybe.”

“You were right: I think it was the same man, and we are going to find him. But we need time, and that we do not have. Does Cameron trust you?”

“What do you mean?”

“If he does this right, he'll live. If he harms even one of them, nothing you or I can do will save him.”

Madison imagined the boat, the SWAT team ready to storm the pier, unmarked cars with officers crouched behind them, and snipers on the roofs of the pretty houses.

“Detective—”

“You can get him out of there alive, but you must tell Cameron to give himself up.”

“What?”

“If he harms any one of them, I'll take him down myself, I swear to you.” Madison hoped that what she was about to say would save lives. “The killer worked at The Rock. Now, tell Cameron to give himself up and get off the boat.”

The line went dead, and Madison dropped the phone on the passenger seat. She drove past Everett and the Snohomish, a ribbon of black water barely visible through the snow. It must be snowing in Poulsbo, too. She could drive there, catch a ferry to Winslow, and make it in under two hours. It would all be done by then; whatever was going to happen would have happened.
What are you prepared to do?
Brown had asked her once. Madison felt the tear spilling onto her cheek and wiped it off with her sleeve.

“What are we waiting for?” Detective Tony Rosario asked no one in particular. He stood behind a Kitsap County Electricity van parked in the Poulsbo marina parking lot and rubbed his gloved hands against each other. Rosario wore a navy windbreaker with SPD on the back on top of his coat; underneath it the Kevlar dug into his armpits.

“Marine Control is not in place yet; they had an emergency they needed to deal with first,” Dunne said. He was next to him, his night-vision binoculars trained on the E Pier, the second one in from the right, opposite the Harbormaster's office. Kelly was edging close to Dunne, trying to see through the windshield, ticked off that SWAT was going in first. He looked up: on the roof of the Scandinavian Grocery Store a sniper would be keeping his sight on the third boat in, the one with the cabin lights on. Kelly couldn't see him, but he knew he was there.

Everybody was in place: a dozen SWAT officers were covering the ground between the pier and solid land, ready to go on the signal. The chief had decided against a negotiator—it was better to get in fast and grab him before he managed to shoot another cop. Lieutenant Fynn stood with the other chiefs at the end of Pier D, behind a small brick building that matched the Harbormaster's office. It was his operation, but technically speaking the Poulsbo Chief of Police ran things: they had all gotten into position when the agents cut the power to the block and had said little since then, four somber, middle-aged men stomping their feet to keep warm.

The seventeen commissioned officers of the Poulsbo police force had looked on as the Special Weapons and Tactics Unit had taken charge. A couple of them had grumbled halfheartedly about territory and jurisdiction, but everybody remembered the bodies on the
Nostromo
that had set sail from their very own harbor, and they quickly shut up.

The SWAT commander, Marty Karlsson, had briefed his team.

“Cameron's boat is the third from the end of the pier. We have something like twenty-four vessels, left and right, to pass before we get to his. I know we got him eyeballed in the cabin, but if I see you cross a boat you haven't checked first, I'm going to dunk your ass in the freezing water myself.” There were nods and yessirs all around. “This guy's an eel, slippery and fast; you give him half a chance, and you'll get yourself shot. No special privileges here—if he doesn't want to end the day in one piece, he doesn't have to.”

A few times the curtains in the cabin of the sleek thirty-footer fluttered as if someone was brushing past them, and every time it happened, thirty-five men and women with heavy artillery held their breath.

“How long?” Fynn asked Chief Rogers.

Rogers raised three fingers. Voices came through his headset—the patrol boat was almost in place.

Yards away, Dunne turned to Spencer, radio in hand. “That was Madison just now,” he said. “She wanted to talk to Fynn.”

“Why?”

“She's found something.”

“Did you tell her it's happening?”

Dunne nodded.

“Where the hell's my partner?” Kelly turned around.

“He had to go,” Dunne said.

“Go where?”

“He had to
go
.”

Shadows moved fast on E Pier. There was a burst of crackle and voices in Spencer's earpiece. “They're going in,” he said.

Tony Rosario was annoyed that the public lavatories had been locked for the duration of the operation. It was too damn cold to stand around with three large coffees kicking around in his system, and Kelly was getting on his nerves.

They had parked their car out of sight by a Dumpster in a back alley behind the front street. It was still within the block that had been plunged into darkness, and he figured he could take care of business without going too far. He smiled to himself. It was so dark, he ought to be careful not to pee on their own car by mistake.

He found his way more easily than he'd thought he would, and after a couple of minutes he was standing between their unmarked Ford and the Dumpster, taking his gloves off and unzipping his pants—and, Lord Almighty, was it cold out there.

When he heard the bumblebee, at first it didn't register, and he was zipping himself up when it buzzed again: with sudden clarity, Rosario knew that you don't get bumblebees in December, and it was a beeper that had just gone off three feet behind him.

He half turned, and someone grabbed him by the hair, smashing his head against the brick wall in front of him. His nose broke on impact, a pain so sharp, he almost lost consciousness. Things moved awfully slowly: the ground came up to meet him, and he tried to reach for his weapon, but his brain couldn't quite get the hand to move fast enough.
Not like this, sweet Jesus, not like a fool
. He felt the butt under his fingers.

The voice spoke low, close to his ear: “Stay down.”

Someone patted his pockets. Rosario tried to breathe through the warm flood, his eyes filled with tears.

“Stay down now.” A man's soft whisper and an open hand pushing lightly against his back.

Then the pressure was gone, and Rosario found enough balance to stand up with the help of the wall. He leaned his back against it and looked around—he was alone. He felt for his gun and the police radio that was in the pocket of his overcoat and then the ground around his feet.

At a roadblock three streets away, Kitsap County troopers flagged down the deep green Jeep Cherokee. The passenger flashed his Seattle Police Department badge.

“How's it going back there?” Officer Carey asks the man, nodding toward the marina; he wishes he was close enough to the action to have a story to tell—any story.

“We got him locked down,” John Cameron replies. “He's not going anywhere tonight.” He waves at the officers as he drives on. The heating in the car is turned up full blast, and he's glad his clothes are dark over the rubber diving suit, glad that Officer Carey didn't notice they were soaked, and glad for that first instant when the SWAT officers had cut the power and he had lowered himself into the black water, the chill taking his breath away. Cameron's hand shakes as he adjusts the air vent and picks up the beeper from his belt: it's Quinn's number. Cameron drives with one hand; with the other he undoes the straps on the waterproof backpack on the passenger seat. He dials the number with difficulty, his fingers aching and stiff as the blood comes back into them.

“Nathan?”

“Jack. Where are you?” Quinn's voice is controlled, but Cameron hears the steel in it.

“Driving.”

“The police have the boat under surveillance. You can't go back there.”

“I'm coming
from
the boat.”

A long pause as Quinn considers the implications of what Cameron has just said.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. How did you know they found the boat?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well . . .” Cameron smiled. “Your timing was impeccable.”

“Jack, Detective Madison told me that—” Quinn paused for a second. “She confirmed that the inmate who was murdered in prison was very probably killed by the same man who killed Jimmy. She's getting close to a name.”

“How did she know about the prison murder?”

“Someone in CSU told her Hollis was digging around. And, Jack—”

“What?”

“How did you get off the boat?”

“I took a swim in the dark. I don't recommend it.”

“That's not what I'm asking you.”

“I know what you're asking me, and the answer is no.”

“Okay, where are you now?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Quinn's voice is colder than the black sea. “Go to hell, Jack.”

But Cameron had regretted the words as soon as they had left his lips.

“Home. I'm going home.”

Quinn stands in the kitchen, the cell phone in his hand. He hasn't told Cameron that the killer worked at the restaurant, and he doesn't know where Cameron's home is anymore. In the other hand he holds the tape recorder that he has used since Billy Rain called him, on it Madison's voice telling him his client is about to be taken down. He takes out the tape and turns it around in his fingers. It was entirely accidental, but there it was, her career and her future contained in a small piece of plastic.

Rosario made his way back to the marina, his coat front soaked in red. By the time he got back, the spotlights had come on, flooding every corner of the waterfront park. SWAT officers crisscrossed, jumping from boat to boat, searching every inch with the flashlights clamped
onto their rifles. Rosario, breathless and shaky, got through a group of local patrol officers who were sweeping the parking lot and headed for Lieutenant Fynn.

Fynn was being briefed by the SWAT team sergeant, and they both turned as he approached them.

“Medic!” Fynn shouted as Rosario crumpled to the ground.

“I'm sorry,” he rasped.

Within seconds Fynn and the County Sheriff were on the radio organizing roadblocks all over the peninsula. It was as if a great gust of wind had suddenly come upon the marina and dispersed the crowd: the Crime Scene Unit was on its way to work Cameron's boat, but for everybody else, the fun was now elsewhere. Small SWAT teams went through downtown Poulsbo, each accompanied by a local officer familiar with the streets. In their hearts they all knew their prey was long gone.

Kelly stood at a distance, watching, as a paramedic packed Rosario's nose and tried to stem the bleeding. His partner had gotten his gun taken and couldn't identify his assailant for sure. A voice ident in court was like pissing in the wind. Kelly was angry and hurt, as if Rosario had slighted him personally. What business did he have going out there on his own anyway? Their eyes met, and Rosario looked away. Kelly walked over and sat down heavily next to him.

“Could be worse,” he said.

“How?” Rosario replied.

“I could be talking to a body bag.”

Lieutenant Fynn questioned Officer Carey personally, the young trooper flustered and upset. This was not the story he would have wanted to tell.

The cell phone rang, and Madison snatched it from the passenger seat.

“It's Andy,” he said.

“What's happening?”

“He's gone.”

“How?”

“By the time SWAT hit the boat, it was too late; he must have taken a dive. Don't know when—we had people watching the boat for hours. Anyway, he must have made them at some point, because when they got in, they found the lights on and one of those little fans with a revolving head flapping the curtains about. We went through the boat, but we got nothing; now we're just waiting for CSU.” He paused. “And Rosario was attacked from behind while he was taking a leak.”

“What?”

“SWAT was about to go in. Tony goes back to the alley where they had parked their car, because Poulsbo officers have locked up all the toilets in the marina, and just as he's finishing his business, he gets smashed against a brick wall. He's got a broken nose, and his eye doesn't look too good. Worse than that, his weapon and badge were taken.”

“Cameron.”

“He couldn't say. Thing is, they have, like, next to zero violent crimes here. What are the chances of somebody else walking around who doesn't mind attacking cops?”

“Is he okay?”

“He was taking a leak, Madison. My guess is he feels pretty raw. And the next time Cameron takes a shot at somebody with his gun, his mood is not likely to improve.”

“No, it's not.” It was small consolation that Cameron had left the boat before she called Quinn; Rosario's nose was still broken, and his piece still gone. “Can I talk to Fynn?” Madison asked Dunne.

“He's not here. He's questioning the troopers who let Cameron through the roadblock, and he's feeling real pissy, so unless you have something good to say to him, and I mean
gold
, I'd just leave him alone for a couple of hours.”

Madison could sure use the time to make her point sharper and fill in the details; they hung up. She was sorry that Rosario had been hurt, no question there, but her heart knew things could have turned out much, much worse, and for that, if nothing else, she was grateful. She stopped for coffee on Mercer Street and dialed her next call.

Nathan Quinn answered after the first ring.

“Your client attacked a police officer,” she said.

“Is the officer still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's a good day for both of us.”

She paused. “I want The Rock's employment records. Do I need to get a warrant?”