The Shadowkiller (38 page)

M
ac phoned Kris back a dozen times, trying hard to hold off the sense of helplessness and panic that threatened to overpower him. Once he decided he had lost contact, he called the department and told them to dispatch cars to her location, the base of the mountain where Skip Caldwell disappeared. He thought about calling Ty but knew there was nothing he could do. He pulled on some shoes, grabbed his coat, and headed for the carport.

The Channel 7 dispatcher looked at the clock in his office and wondered what the hell had happened to Kris Walker and her crew. He tried them again on the two-way and got no response. Whenever a crew wrapped a story, it was standard procedure for them to call in, but he hadn't heard from Kris's crew since their live feed. It was already one in the morning, but it was common knowledge among dispatchers that cameraman Gary Taggart had been reprimanded for stopping off for beers after late-night assignments when technically the vehicle and all the gear were checked out to him. Station policy not only prohibited drinking when in possession of company property, but the prompt return of the van, with its many hundreds of thousands of dollars of equipment, was imperative. The dispatcher decided to wait a while longer before calling the big guns and putting Gary's ass on the line. He rationalized two reasons: they had gone to the far reaches of Snoho County and it was Christmas Eve. He figured that they had turned off the radio and celebrated a little—both strictly against company policy—and would probably be rolling into the barn any minute now.

At a little after one a.m. Mac's car rolled up to the turnout at the base of Skip's mountain. There were no patrol cars. He picked the Desert Eagle off the seat and racked the slide to chamber a round. He radioed to the station and gave the dispatcher directions to relay to the patrol cars. But even though this was their beat, because of the large area, remoteness, darkness, and organic nature of the roads—not to mention that many of them were not well marked—patrols sometimes got lost. Their GPS systems were only so effective in identifying many of the tiny side roads that sprouted from the main roads like so many spider veins.

At ten minutes to two a patrol car pulled up next to him. Mac threw a fit over his radio because they'd only sent one car and yelled at them to order backup. The confused deputies weren't even sure of what they were responding to, other than they had been told Sheriff's Detective Mac Schneider had reported an abduction.

Mac apologized, then patiently explained to the deputies the details of Kris's panicked call, carefully leaving out who—or rather what—he thought the assailant was. He feared that if he got into that now and hurriedly tried to explain, they would be calling for backup to help bring
him
in and the search effort might come to a screeching halt. The three men grabbed their flashlights and walked up and down the road, shouting for Kris. In his panic to find Kris, Mac did not think to ask the station to check with the phone company which cell relays had been used during her calls with him. This would have told him the general area she was in. He mistakenly assumed the crew had been where they said they were during their newscast. What he didn't know was that Kris and her crew had taken the wrong road and had been halfway around the mountain from where Mac and the deputies searched.

At precisely three a.m. Kip Chalmers, operations manager for Channel 7 and the name at the top of the list of people to alert in an emergency, received a call. Chalmers did not appreciate being roused from a sound sleep on Christmas morning and ordered the dispatcher to call the police. As his head again found the pillow, Chalmers decided the whole crew of that van was in deep shit. After Christmas they'd be fired or written up, he thought, drifting back to sleep.

The dispatcher placed the call to 911 and within ten minutes the desk sergeant at the Snohomish County Sheriff's Department now had another source to corroborate Mac's story. He ordered all cars in the vicinity to look for the van and the crew. The television station gave the sheriff's office the frequency of the van's GPS tracker, but no one could raise the frequency. It was either damaged or too far out of the area.

Several hours passed before a patrol car found the frightful battle scene, a tossed-over vehicle and two slaughtered people. More patrol units arrived, and a bleary-eyed Carillo pulled up to the scene just as the sun rose. The position of the van and the two yellow nylon tarps, hands and feet protruding, woke him up. He approached one of the uniformed cops.

“Whaddya got?”

The young cop looked at his notepad and recited it like a grocery list. “Two DBs, lots of upper-body trauma including dismemberment. The van was pushed over by unknown assailants, and according to the TV station, there are two additional individuals missing. Merry fuckin' Christmas, huh?”

The van's Channel 7 logo answered one of Carillo's questions. He knew they had lots of employees but hoped the blond witch was under one of the covers. He walked over and knelt by a body, pulling back the fabric. It wasn't her, but a chill ran down his back as he looked into the open, milky eyes of a dead girl, young, probably early twenties. The skin of what had been a pretty face was putty gray, her neck crushed. What struck Carillo was the way it was crushed, with her head turned forty degrees too far, a crust of blood ringing her mouth and nostrils. Livid strangulation marks stood out all over her neck like amorphous tattoos from her throat to below her ears. Carillo had never seen anything like it.

“Christ,” he said, throwing the cover back over the poor girl. “What kind of sick fuck would do that?”

“We don't have any idea who or why they did it,” said the young cop, standing behind Carillo. “The other one, his neck's broken too and his arm is separated, but not just like a regular separation, but actually off his body. It's still in his sleeve. Really weird. You're right, whoever did this is one seriously fucked-up puppy.”

At the edge of the clearing Mac walked out of the woods. Carillo saw him. Mac looked tired. He approached Carillo.

“Find your girlfriend?” asked Carillo.

Mac was in no mood to argue. “No.”

“Mac, get the fuck outta here. You look like shit. Let me do my job. I'll find her.”

Mac knew that was as close to kind words as Carillo could manage. Mac was dead tired after tromping around the woods all night with various deputies in tow. He nodded his assent to Carillo and headed for his car.

A Channel 7 helicopter buzzed overhead, then drifted down and landed in the middle of the road fifty yards from the crime scene. Several men emerged. Even casually dressed, they looked like executives. One of them, a solemn, crisply manicured man Carillo guessed to be in his late forties, approached.

“Are you in charge here?” he asked.

Carillo nodded and held out his hand. “Detective Karl Carillo, Snohomish County Sheriff. And you are?”

The man shook Carillo's hand. “Lyle Benson, general manager of the station.”

He draped an arm over Carillo's shoulder, a gesture from which Carillo normally would have recoiled, but this guy was a big cheese and seemed about to let him in on something. They walked out of voice range of the other police.

“Detective Carillo, something very, very terrible has happened here, and though it is news, it has happened to some of our family. I need your help.”

Carillo stopped, indicating his irritation at the familiarity of the man's arm on him. Benson removed his arm.

“What do you want?”

Benson, a soft man in Carillo's eyes, assumed a solid set to his face that surprised Carillo.

“Detective Carillo,” said Benson with a quiet intensity,“we want to keep this quiet for a little while, at least until we can ascertain if there is some sort of, shall we say, organized aggression aimed at our station.”

“Like a terrorist plot,” Carillo summarized.

“To put it bluntly, yes,” agreed Benson. “Our reporter who vanished was running a series on the missing people and we are examining any possible links.”

That confirmed for Carillo one bit of good news, but he shrugged deferentially. “Look, you're the media, there's not much I can do to stop any of you.”

Benson looked down into the reflection off his Italian loafers. “We just need you to hold off any statements to the press or any of your normal contacts, for a few hours, perhaps the rest of today. Most importantly we want to avoid a public panic. Given all the disappearances, and what with the crew doing a report on that very thing, well, I think it would be in both our interests to make a determination of what we have here before making this public. I would advise against using police band radios to transmit critical information. Simply put, this situation requires a blackout. That will probably require you to cordon off the area to all traffic and unauthorized personnel.”

Carillo nodded assent. Normally he would have cleared such an action with either the sheriff or the undersheriff, but he had tried them on the way and then remembered they were both skiing with their families for Christmas.

Benson continued, “We have members of an elite private security firm en route to take stock of the situation and advise us. The governor approved our request and I'm merely informing you as a matter of courtesy, as well as in a spirit of collaboration.”

“Fine with me. Just don't let your people get in my way,” he added, making sure Benson knew who was boss. Benson's plan worked for both of them. The lack of reporters poking around would take the pressure off him to get a handle on the situation. Carillo was still trying to process what had happened to the news crew. He thought of Ty Greenwood and was suddenly at a loss to explain how the man could have pulled this off. His main worry right now was that the FBI would bump him out.

Benson motioned for them to stroll back to the area of activity. “Thank you, Detective, and don't worry about our consultants. They are highly regarded. Their clients include both the FBI and CIA and I've asked them to make their findings known to you as well.”

Carillo grunted,“Yeah, okay.”

Back in his car, Carillo used his cell phone instead of his radio to call in a preliminary report to the department. Then he called his surveillance team at Ty Greenwood's hotel.

“He's been here all night,” said the plainclothes deputy who had sat in the parking lot the whole time. “Something weird, though.”

“What's that?” asked Carillo, who thought nothing could top this crime scene for weird.

“Mac Schneider was here, at the hotel. We aren't sure, but he may have been with Greenwood.”

That stopped Carillo cold. “What?”

“And this may be even weirder, but that missing reporter, the blonde? She was here last night too. We checked and she asked for Greenwood's room. She was there maybe ten, fifteen minutes, tops.”

Carillo was speechless. The deputy waited a moment. “Carillo, you still there?”

Carillo snapped out of it. “Yeah, yeah, I'm here. Okay, I'm on my way over.”

T
he night had not been kind to Ty. After the misunderstanding with Ronnie, he stayed up late working, mainly to bury himself in some mind-occupying task rather than think about how he would explain to her what happened. He wondered if she would give him long enough to reason with her, because he was sure she'd feel her eyes provided far more compelling evidence than his testimony. Ty reached for the phone but pulled back. It was not quite eight a.m. and she might be sleeping in. As he stared at the phone, debating whether to call his wife, it rang, almost as if he had commanded it to do so.

“Hello?”

“Ty, Mac.” His voice was stressed. “Get Ben, I'm almost there. Something's happened.”

“What?”

“Just get Ben.” Mac hung up.

Ty dressed quickly and knocked on Ben's door. A moment later Ben answered, dressed but looking sleep-starved.

“More dreams?”

Ben lips were drawn. “Yup. Bad one last night. Called Mac, figured he knew the girl.”

“Who? What girl?”

“Mac's TV reporter…in my dream. Oh-Mah was there. It was bad.”

“Mac's on his way,” said Ty,“says something happened.”

Ben turned and walked to the window, wanting to shield Ty from the stricken look on his face. He knew what Mac would say. His dream had been too vivid and horrible not to have happened. There was no question in his mind it had been real.

The door was open when a breathless Mac walked in several minutes later. He closed it.

“It killed a news crew.”

Ty exhaled,“Oh my God. Where? How many?”

Mac and Ben locked gazes.

“It was her,” said Mac.

Ty instantly knew. “Kris Walker.”

Mac nodded and Ben's face was full of questions.

Mac's eyes conveyed his agony. “I talked to her. I called her over and over and finally she called back. She was…” Mac paused, trying to visualize Kris's ordeal. He shook his head. “It was after her. She said so.”

Ty admitted softly,“She was here last night.”

Both of his companions looked to him. “She came to get my story. It was probably around eight or so. She wasn't here ten minutes. She kinda came on to me and Ronnie showed up and…there was a misunderstanding. You think…it…got her?”

Mac's head nodded somberly. “Yeah. It was…it was after her. It was real bad.”

Ty asked,“Where was she?”

“Around the mountain from where I felt it.” Mac turned and looked out the window.

“You gonna be okay?” Ben asked.

Mac stood for a moment, took a deep breath to gather himself, then turned back to them. “There's a tail on Ty. I think Carillo is going to come after you. We need to take the back stairs. I'll go out and get my car and drive around back and pick you guys up.”

“He's up on that mountain,” said Ben.

Mac's eyes had the fire of revenge in them. He pulled back his jacket and displayed the butt of his huge pistol. “Not for long.”

Ronnie awoke and rolled over. As her consciousness rose, a feeling of emptiness washed over her. Even on the drive home from Ty's hotel she had had regrets about her reaction to the reporter in Ty's room. Just as she knew Ty would never hurt anyone, despite what the cops and the media were saying, she also knew he would never cheat on her. Her emotions had just gotten the better of her.

She didn't know Kris Walker but what she'd seen of her gave her the impression of someone smart and ruthless. Looking at it from Ty's point of view, she saw how he could be right. She warmed to the idea she'd made a mistake, and she wanted to correct it. She admitted Ty needed help, but more so, right now, she missed him and his children missed him. And it was Christmas Day.

Meredith cuddled against her shoulder and Ronnie nudged an amber lock from the little girl's cheek. Looking at her innocent baby's face, she noticed a thread of drool tracing down from her tiny mouth and Ronnie's eyes filled with tears. She couldn't savor the moment: it only punctuated the mistakes she felt she had recently made.

She softly kissed her daughter's forehead and slid from the bed. Even though it was Christmas, it just didn't seem like it with Ty gone, so Ronnie rationalized the few hours she absolutely needed to spend in her office as okay. After that her plan was to spend Christmas evening with her family, and that would include her husband. She picked up the phone to call Ty, but Christopher was on the line talking to one of his little buddies. She decided to call Ty later, on the way home from the office. Then she'd be clearheaded enough to be firm yet loving.

Later she found her Lexus in the garage, locked, and remembered that Greta had taken it the night before. Contrary to their practice of leaving the keys in their cars, the Lexus's keys were in the house, so rather than walk back, she took Ty's Dodge pickup. Though cumbersome and inelegant, the truck connected her to Ty. As she made her way to Redmond, she resolved to call him when she got home that afternoon. She didn't think it would take any pleading to get him to come home. But if it did, so what? Ty always said she was the strong one.

Before they left the hotel, Mac and Ty had argued with Ben about whether he should try the ascent or wait below, perhaps manning a cell phone back at Mac's car. Ben would have none of it and stubbornly insisted on full participation. With great resolve he told them he needed to be there, on the trail, not waiting for word. The truth was if there was a ghost of a chance they might encounter it, he needed to look the thing in the eye. There was no alternative for him. Ty got angry with him, as a son might with a stubborn father. Mac understood both points of view. He also felt a warmth for Ben, but as a colleague and friend. In the end Ben won.

His activities during the dark time had tired him. First foraging, then killing the mother and father of the small two-leg cub, then killing the four and destroying their hardshell. Unlike most of the other small two-legs he had encountered, that last female had tried first to run, then fight. He wondered if small two-leg females were stronger, at least in instinct. The small two-leg mother had thought of her cub as he killed her, and the other female with the hair like sunlight had run, then fought him to the death. He respected such spirit.

He arranged some cedar boughs under a tree and prepared to sleep. Looking past the top of the tree, he saw dark clouds and smelled rain. His belly full, he made himself comfortable under the tree and closed his eyes.

As sleep stole over him, he thought of the old one, the small two-leg who had been trying to find him. That one had a mind voice that was strong. He heard it even now. He was coming.

As they quietly assembled their gear, Ty sized up the misty mountain before them.

“So the news crew was on the other side?” he asked.

Mac tightened his shoulder holster and nodded. “Near where I was.”

Ben handed Ty the tranquilizer rifle. “He's up there, I've felt him,” said Ben solemnly. “He's probably there now 'cause it's day. The night is his time.”

Ty shouldered the rifle. “You said you hadn't been able to conjure him, you weren't sensing him. At least until the other night at my house.”

“That feelin' was strong for a moment,” Ben said,“like from Portland. The other times he's been faint, kinda far off. I haven't been able to really get a fix, almost like he's tuned me out. I can't explain it, but I just have a feeling he's around…up there somewhere.”

Ty readied a small rucksack, stuffing some energy bars into it along with two small bottles of water. The largest thing that went into his pack was a flat, hinged plastic box. He opened it and checked its contents, the five remaining tranquilizer darts.

Ben looked on. “That juice still good?”

“Should be,” Ty said.

“Don't much matter. You're not gonna need 'em,” commented Ben.

“Why? You think one's enough?” Ty asked, wondering what Ben knew about tranquilizer darts.

“Don't know, but if one don't do, our boy's not gonna wait for number two.”

Ty tipped his head toward Mac. “That's why Mac's got the cannon. If the thing won't come peacefully, then Mac will arrest him. Posthumously.”

Mac drew his gun, popped the clip out, and thumbed the cartridges onto his palm.

“What are you doing?” asked Ty.

Mac inventoried the thumb-sized fifty-caliber rounds, then started pressing them back into the magazine. “Making sure they're all there.” He flipped the safety on and reholstered the gun.

Ben looked at the sky. “It's warming up. Weather's gonna get worse.” Then with a twinkle in his eye,“Guess that's why I live in California, 'cause down there warmer is good.”

Mac and Ty smiled, hoping the day would end on an upbeat note, maybe even success. They were defiant and frustrated, chasing a killer none of them had seen and the rest of the world didn't believe existed. It was almost as if they were daring it to be real, like kids playing with a Ouija board, not sure of the forces they were meddling with, but hoping for a thrill. They also realized that if they met their quarry, they might still not be ready. Between Mac's casting and Ben's visions, along with the mayhem this thing had apparently wrought, their opponent was both fearsome and hateful, and in their hearts they knew the three of them might not be enough.

A few ridges over from Ty, Ben, and Mac, an intensive search was under way for clues to the killing of the news crew. The team hired by Channel 7 comprised former FBI, NSA, and CIA employees as well as retired SEAL and Delta team members who were available on a moment's notice to anyone who could pay their hefty fee. Aided by local law enforcement and a growing contingent of antiterrorism operatives from several government agencies, the massive search was being conducted down roads cordoned off from the media.

By late morning Channel 7 and law enforcement, with the governor's blessing, had not yet released the real story but were expecting to do so by late afternoon or early evening if nothing else was found. They all knew there might be repercussions from not letting the public know immediately, but the savagery of the attack on the crew, along with the other disappearances, had them all trying to figure out if this were some sinister larger plot. That the attack had happened in such a remote area allowed them to more easily manage the release of information.