The Shadowkiller (42 page)

R
onnie's anxiety was rising. She knew that regardless of whether Ty was reveling in his bachelor life, he would have called by now. She tried his cell phone but kept getting his voice mail.

Discarding all pretenses, she called the hotel again and left a simple message:“Come home, love, Ronnie.” She hoped that left no doubts—in case he had any. She punched in his cell phone again, and just as it rang, the power in the house winked out. Since all of their phones were cordless, the base unit went out and she lost her signal. She moved to get her cell phone then remembered it was probably in the Lexus. The house was pitch-black and though the night was occasionally lit by brilliant flashes of lightning, she didn't want to try and make her way out to the garage right now. She regretted the aesthetic decision to build the large building across the plaza. The darkness gave her the urge to locate her children.

“Kids?” she called out. “Where are you guys?”

“Mommy! Mommy!” came Meredith's small voice, raised in panic. “It's dark!” She'd never seen a power outage in her six years.

Greta shuffled into the kitchen in her slippers. “You have candles?”

Ronnie felt her way to the cupboard and pulled out some candles. “Go ahead and put them around the downstairs.” Then she whispered, “Just don't give the kids any.”

“How come, Mommy?” asked Chris, who had just entered the kitchen. “I can have a candle, I'm old enough.”

He was right, thought Ronnie, he's no longer a baby. “Okay, honey, you can have a candle but be very careful.”

“I will,” he said. “Just don't give Meredith one. She's too little.”

“No, I'm not,” said his sister, joining the three of them. “Too little for what?”

Greta lit a large decorative candle, set it on the counter, then lit three smaller ones.

“Here, Christopher, go put this in the hallway. Set it on this,” she said, handing him a small plate.

Chris left on his mission and Meredith reached for a candle. In the light Ronnie saw amazement in her little girl's eyes and felt a pang of sadness that they never just turned off the lights to show the kids the simple magic of candlelight.

“Be careful with that, honey,” said Ronnie. “And don't let the wax burn you.”

Meredith took her candle and left the room, walking with the book-balanced-on-the-head precision of a fashion model. Ronnie lit a few more candles.

Greta took one. “Have you ever written by candlelight?” she asked Ronnie. “I think I'll go write a letter.”

She left for her room, the flickering aura guiding her down the hall. Ronnie warmly accepted the joy of such a small thing as the lights going out, re-revealed to her by these three youngsters. She lit a candle for Ty, hoping he'd arrive soon.

On the ten-minute ride to the hospital, Ty offered to tell Baxter his whole story as soon as the dust settled. The two men shook hands.

“They're probably going to arrest both of us now,” Baxter said matter-of-factly.

Ty sat back in the passenger seat. “Let 'em. I'll bury them with lawyers.”

Ty borrowed Baxter's phone and tried his house. Unaware of Ronnie's latest message, he wanted to get permission to come home. His plan was to quickly check on Mac, then get a cab to Snohomish. His home phone responded with a fast buzzing but no ring.

“No answer?” asked Baxter.

Ty shook his head. “Phone's out of order, probably the storm.”

Wind and rain swept across their car, and in the distance they saw flashes of lightning.

At the hospital entrance, Ty climbed out. Baxter leaned over. “You watch out, Ty. Don't spend too much time here, they'll be coming for you.”

Ty tapped the roof. “I owe you, John. A lot. Thank you.”

Ty closed the door and Baxter drove away. Ty looked around the parking lot for police cars and entered the hospital. Although visiting hours had officially ended, Ty charmed the nurse at the desk into letting him upstairs to see his injured companion. At the nurse's station on Mac's floor, an older nurse told him Mac was in a coma but was probably going to survive. As Ty entered the room, all he could see was a mass of bandages. Mac's arm and legs were in traction, a tangle of wires and tubes tracing in and out of him. Ty glanced at the old man in the other bed, whose wide open mouth revealed that half his choppers were MIA.

Ty slid the sole chair over to the bedside. That oddly pressing need to see Mac was finally satisfied and he no longer felt the yearning when he thought about Ben. The old man was the bigger problem now, and not just because Ty might have to leave home that night to help search for him.
Great. I worm my way back in, only to leave again.
But it was for Ben. Ronnie would understand.

He gave Mac another couple of minutes, then stood, gently touching a plaster-covered leg. “See ya, friend.”

Ty moved to the door.

“Ty.”

It was the faintest whisper, almost as if the word had come not from a mouth but directly from a mind. Ty turned around, thinking his ears were playing tricks on him.

“Ty.”

Ty walked over to Mac and realized that in the mass of wrappings Mac's left eye was now slightly open.

“Mac? You awake?”

Mac's lips moved but no sound issued.

“What?” Ty asked gently.

“Home…”

“Listen, don't try to talk. You're pretty weak.” Ty leaned close.

“Home…”

“Home? No, you're in the hospital, but you'll be—”

“Go…home…”

“Go home?” Mac was on the edge of consciousness and Ty didn't want to strain him. “Home? I'm going home.”

“Now. Ben says…go home…now.”

“Ben? He's missing, Mac. Ben's miss—”

“Ben's gone.”

“Huh?”

“Ben's gone.”

Ty felt something emerging and it was scaring him. “Ben's…gone?”

“Came…here. Talked…to…me. Says…go home. Now.”

“Ben told you to tell me to go home now?”

“Now. He said…Oh-Mah…he's there…your house.”

The blood drained from Ty's face as the cryptic words began to take on a terrible meaning. “Ben told you Oh-Mah was at my house?”

“Yeah…go home…now…”

T
y stared intensely at the bandaged face, trying to decide if what Mac was saying was true. Was it the delirium of a badly injured man or could Mac have somehow been given an urgent message by their old Indian friend? Their friend who, if Ty's interpretation was correct, was now beyond these earthly bounds. It was crazy, not possible, but somehow felt real. Ty turned, walked quickly out of the room and toward the elevator. Suddenly he stopped.
I need a cell phone.

He looked back at the nurse's station and weighed the risk of asking one of them to loan him their cell phone, but he feared calling attention to himself. He noticed a door that said Nurse's Lounge and entered. It was an empty locker room. He frantically pulled open locker doors, and after four he found a purse. No phone. He searched five more open lockers and bingo, found a wallet, keys, and a phone. He put the phone in his pocket and cracked the door to the hall. A doctor and nurse were coming, so he pulled back and looked for a place to hide. Nothing. He braced for them to enter. He quickly rehearsed some excuses for being in there, but they passed by. When their voices vanished, he looked out again and the coast was clear.

Crossing to the elevator, he took out the phone and dialed his house. Again he got the fast ringing. He called the operator to confirm a malfunction as the elevator doors opened on the lobby.

Just as he stepped out, the corner of his eye caught dark blue, and he quickly made a turn to avoid the two Bellevue cops who had just rounded the corner. Ty dodged into a vacant waiting room and waited a moment. Mac's faint words sounded like cannons now. He carefully peeked around the corner and saw no one. Then he calmly but quickly walked out the front door, his eyes sweeping the area for any police.

He was met with a driving rain. Fortunately the entrance wasn't brightly lit, so he stood in the shadows for a moment, his mind spinning for solutions. A man came out the front door and passed him, on his way to his car. Ty followed him. As the man fumbled with his keys, Ty tapped him on the shoulder.

“I'll give you five hundred dollars to take me to Snohomish.”

The startled man quickly got in and drove away.

He spotted an elderly couple in the parking lot and reworked his approach as he walked toward them. The woman was holding an umbrella and helping the old man, who appeared to have just gotten out of treatment.

“Excuse me,” Ty opened,“this sounds a little crazy, but I have a dire emergency in Snohomish and can't wait for a cab. Will you take five hundred dollars to drive me there?”

Looking slightly stricken, they climbed into their car with muttered apologies about having to get home.

“A thousand?” said Ty, upping the ante.

They drove off and Ty stood in the parking lot, the rain now coming down hard, arrows of lightning strobing off the clouds and the city terrain.

When Carillo arrived at his department only to phone the Bellevue Police Department and discover that Ty Greenwood had somehow gotten out of a locked interrogation room and simply walked out of their building, he went berserk. Tired and frustrated, he had fewer answers now than this morning when he'd arrived at that horrific scene. Carillo wanted Greenwood to be involved because he fit better than anything else he had. Carillo had concluded that because of the bizarre nature of the van deaths, and the lack of conclusive physical evidence, the crime had required a very concerted effort, and to him that meant high-end organization. And money. Lots of money.

Now, armed with few hard facts and even more simmering rage, Carillo decided that Christmas or not, he had some hard questions to ask Ty Greenwood. He was also worried that the case was slipping from his fingers. Now everyone from local law to the FBI to Homeland Security was involved, and he didn't want any of them to solve
his case.

Two miles from the Greenwoods' home, the Charnstrom family had vacated to Hawaii for two weeks and their residence was empty. So Jeff Wilson, the high school senior next door, availed himself of all the cool bachelor amenities their pad had to offer, mainly the liquor cabinet and hot tub. All it took was jimmying a window and voilà.

Now stewing in churning one-hundred-two-degree water with his current girlfriend, Snohomish High head cheerleader Kari Keelock, Jeff was in hog heaven. After he had assured her that they wouldn't be electrocuted by lightning and that not wearing a bathing suit was okay, Jeff and Kari sipped his neighbors' Black Jack and Coke in the nude and dug the light show overhead. After half an hour of soaking, Jeff—with the help of his friend Jack Daniels—worked up the nerve to slip his tongue in Kari's mouth, then immediately began working south.

Having never performed oral sex, Jeff found a willing test subject, and as his head went under the water, the spa jets sounded like five Niagra Falls. When he came up for air, Kari's dreamy look told him he was on the mark. He took a deep breath and went down again.

Just as Jeff reacquired his target, Kari suddenly jerked violently, her knee connecting with his jaw. Choking, he started for the surface when something amazingly strong grabbed his neck and held him down. Fighting for all he was worth, Jeff didn't sense Kari was there anymore and in his confusion thought she might have hired a bunch of guys to drown him.
But why?
Jeff never found out and Kari couldn't tell him, for in seconds her broken body lay sprawled on the lawn, as his floated face down in the bubbling, steaming water.

And their slayer moved on toward his goal.

F
ive minutes had passed and Ty was losing his rationality as his desperation grew. He knew Ben had a strong spiritual side, despite his joking that too many years in Hollywood had made him a pale imitation of a real Indian. Ty also had the powerful awareness, stirred by more than just Mac's words, that Ben was in fact dead and that his warning was real, truly issued from beyond the mortal plane. Ty's mind spiraled with the surreal, mystical, and hard reality questions posed to him in the last few minutes. He knew he had to get home immediately.

For the second time that day, a mystical vehicle came to Ty, a miracle from on high, a message of deliverance handed him by powers he hadn't absolutely believed in until today. In this case it was a beat-up '87 Chevy Cavalier. A nurse got out, slammed the door, and ran inside, leaving the car idling five steps from Ty. He didn't stop to question why, he just acted.

Walking deliberately to the Cavalier, he opened the door and settled into the seat. Seconds later a Bellevue Police cruiser pulled in behind him. Ty's eyes were riveted to the rearview mirror. After a few seconds the two officers got out and walked toward the hospital's door. Ty put the Cavalier in gear and drove away as if it were his own.

With eyes alternating between the road and the rearview mirror to assure he was leaving the parking lot without detection, Ty gunned the car toward the on-ramp and onto the 405 north. He kept his speed to around seventy, a little faster than the flow, but not enough to bring the Washington State Patrol down on him. Then he dialed 911 and told the operator a group of armed men were attempting to break into his home. The operator asked if he was physically at the residence and he said he was. When the operator gave his address and it was completely unfamiliar, he remembered he was using a stolen phone. Then she informed him he was not being truthful because her computer showed the cell phone from which he was calling had just handed off to a relay identified as located in north Bellevue. After arguing for a few moments, Ty apologized for the deception, explained it was a borrowed cell phone, and convinced the woman there was a genuine emergency. She informed him she was relaying his actual address to the sheriff's department and that a squad car would be dispatched immediately.

Ty tried the house again. Same busy signal. Another call to Ronnie's cell phone also went unanswered.
Probably in her purse, or worse, in her car.
The downpour increased as he rolled north, the Cavalier's wipers feebly rubbing waxy streaks across his field of vision. Ty cursed his crappy stolen Chevy and threatened to sell his own Chevy Suburban in retaliation. He looked at his watch in a passing light. At this pace the trip would take him twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes. He decided he would run any lights he could.

The Greenwoods' neighbor, Ken Harrison, had almost forty emus on his property and they were honking away, frightened by the lightning/thunder combos striking every thirty seconds. The electrical outage be damned, the Harrison house was blessed with its own power in the form of a NorthStar fifteen-thousand-watt, twenty-five horsepower generator. The family had just finished Christmas dinner without missing a beat and were now moving into the family room to watch a laser disc presentation of
White Christmas.
Daughter Cindy furrowed her brow. “Hey, listen,” she announced.

Ken complied for a second. He heard his generator thrumming quietly from the side of the house. He continued loading the huge disk into the player.

“I hear my generator. That's all.”

“I know, Dad, that's what I mean.”

Kathy Harrison looked quizzically at her husband. “Cin's right,” she said. “It's like somebody threw a switch on the birds.”

Ken wanted to watch the movie, not investigate why his large birds were suddenly model citizens. “Maybe they just got tired of complaining.”

“I'll go check,” said younger daughter Jill, who started heading toward the back door.

“No way,” Ken said, hitting play on Der Bingle and company. “We're watching the movie, young lady. Stay right where you are.”

It was so black on the road leading to the Greenwoods' home, Carillo was beginning to wish he hadn't come. Having heard the call from the department to respond to the Greenwoods' emergency, he radioed in, acknowledging he would respond to the so-called urgent plea for help. Now that he was here, a power outage wasn't something he'd planned on. Christmas wasn't that big a deal for Carillo, but the insane events of the day had caused him to miss all the football and for that he was fuming.

Creeping his car along in the sheeting rain, guided only by sparks of lightning and the glow from his headlights, he finally arrived at the Greenwoods' driveway to find it blocked by a temporary chain-link gate.

“Fuckin' asshole,” he muttered.

He remembered the long driveway and was mad that he'd left his house without a hat.

The rain blasted him as he got out of the car. Clutching at his jacket, he found the end of the metal fence and squeezed his way between it and a tree. His feet and legs were instantly soaked by wet ferns just as a ragged strand of galvanized steel tore his sleeve.

“Fuck!” he yelled, now furious that he'd ventured all the way out here. What he would never admit to himself was that he was probably driven less by his suspicions of Ty Greenwood than by his hatred of wildly successful people.

Navigating in the dim glow of the rushing clouds, Carillo found the driveway and headed toward the house. So much inconvenience only heightened his anger, so Ty Greenwood the escaped killer was going to feel every cut of his whip. Carillo felt a thrill when he visualized arresting Greenwood, then both cuffing and shackling him to enhance his humiliation in front of his family.

Arriving at the plaza between the house and garage, in the darkness and downpour Carillo could just make out the large wooden awning that extended ten yards from the front door. He headed for it. As he did, movement caught his eye—the vague shape of what appeared to be someone walking at the edge of the yard, seventy or eighty feet to his left.

“Hey, you, stop! Sheriff's officer!” he yelled in a command that was overly dramatic, dialed up to overcome the rain and wind as well as soften any resistance. But the person vanished behind the house, and that infuriated Carillo because he knew the guy heard him.

“Fuckin' dickhead!” No civilian was going to disobey his order.

Carillo headed quickly for the corner of the house, sure it was Greenwood playing games with him. As he rounded the corner, he saw the shadowy figure moving ahead of him, halfway to the next corner. What seemed odd was the size. The huge house was throwing off his yardstick…but he could swear the shape of the person seemed too big. He chalked it up to the darkness playing visual tricks.

He shouted another order to comply and the figure suddenly turned and came back toward him. Carillo put his hand around the stock of his holstered gun to show he meant business and advanced to meet the man with his game face set. But the scale of the house was really far bigger than he'd gauged, because as the shadow man got closer, he seemed to get impossibly larger. It was then Karl Carillo realized, too late, that it wasn't a man at all.