Chapter 27: : Chapter 27

They ate at the island, a beer for Nash, a glass of Chardonnay for Sloan. The treat hadn’t lessened Tic’s appetite, so he made quick work of his meal before rushing outside to sniff and run.

“Let’s start with this before I get rolling. When you finish the bathroom palace, the bedroom, the porch, what’s next here?”

“Back to the main level, I think. Living room, library … sitting room, den.”

“I thought you were doing a game room. Sitting room?”

“Undecided room right now. I’m switching the game room downstairs. We’ve got the space.”

He ate a hush puppy. “Where the hell did these get a name like hush puppy?”

“It’s a southern thing, Yankee. But I just call them good. And the Seabreeze makes the best in the county. I know the chef there. His fiancé and I went to high school together, and he did some work for All the Rest while he studied, well, chefing. His hush puppies are a secret family recipe, I’m told.”

“The cod’s nothing to complain about either.”

“I was on boat duty today, and there were two guys from up your way fishing.”

“New Yorkers?’

“New Jersey.”

He gave her a long look. “That isn’t my way.”

“Sorry. They were using walleye as bait.” She shook her head. “Can’t do that down my way.”

He couldn’t imagine, just couldn’t, having this conversation with anyone a year ago. And found himself delighted to have it with her.

“Did you arrest them for the walleye offense?”

“No. Just let them know where to get the right bait. Do you fish?”

“I went out deep-sea fishing with a client. An experience.”

“Catch anything?”

“A wahoo. Yeah, an experience. I’m glad I did it, and don’t have to do it again.”

“Like bowling?”

“If I had to choose between?” He gave it two seconds thought. “I’d take the high seas.”

“Me, too. Bowling’s okay, and it takes skill, focus. I respect that. But you knock the pins down, then they set them up again. Again and again.”

He shifted to her, ran a hand down her hair. “Are you ready now?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to move off the day, and I didn’t want to dump on you the minute you moved off yours.”

“If I didn’t want you to dump, I’d be eating a grilled cheese sandwich solo. Tell me about the wall you’ve hit.”

“They haven’t taken anyone since Lori Preston.”

“That’s a bad thing because?”

“They have a pattern, and it goes back to what I’ve found at the end of May. The pattern didn’t set until Celia Russell in September, but it’s been consistent since.

“Seven people are missing that fit their victim type, and all but the first two went missing at the end of the month or within the first week at the start of the month. Not always the same day of the month, day of the week, but within that time frame. Preston edged over to the beginning of March, Tarrington start of February. The rest end of the month.”

“So they changed their pattern. Couldn’t it be whoever they hoped to take wasn’t available? Moved, died, went on vacation?”

“Can’t discount that. Which would mean they don’t have a backup. They focus on only one at a time, and have gotten really damn lucky seven times. Maybe more if we haven’t connected others.”

She blew out a breath, stabbed at some fish.

“You like the logic of patterns.”

“Well … yeah.”

“Don’t you have to consider the people doing this are lunatics? No offense to the dog.”

Since the dog currently sat hopefully at the door, Nash rose, let him in. Then got out a bully stick. Tic spun in a crazed circle, then plopped down to sit before accepting it and racing off.

“That’s a pattern.” Sloan pointed at Nash. “Feed the dog, let the dog out, let the dog in, reward the dog.”

“Or domestic routine.”

“Routine, pattern, semantics.” She picked up her wine, considering as she sipped. “Seven people are dead. It’s not possible at this point to know how long they keep their victims alive or for what purpose, but they’re not holding multiple people.”

“No. I can’t argue with that.”

“They select them, and that has to be a process, and has to be due to the one thing all seven have in common.”

“They experienced clinical death.”

“Yeah. They select on that basis, which means access to medical records or nine-one-one logs, hospital admissions. It’s possible they find the targets otherwise. News articles, social media posts.”

“Then stalk.”

She glanced at him. “Correct.”

“Not only do I occasionally watch movies or series, read books, but it follows they’d have to know their targets’ patterns, too.” Then he shrugged. “And I confirmed that by reading up a little on serial killers.”

She smiled. “Got you hooked.”

“Looks like it.”

At the sound of squeaking and running, Sloan looked around.

“Never,” Nash said, “ever buy a ball that lights up and squeaks for a lunatic dog. Especially one who figures out how to pick it up and toss it for himself to chase.”

Amused, Sloan leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’re a good dog pal.”

And the sound of Tic happily entertaining himself took more of the edge off.

“Stalking phase,” she continued. “Learning the victim’s routine, establishing the best time and place for the grab. But in Janet Anderson’s case, they couldn’t have known she’d run out to the store.”

“Watching her house, at that time.”

“So stalking became the grab through circumstance. They had to be prepared for circumstance. They may be psychos, Nash, but they’re organized and prepared. They have a place they can take them, a place, when they’re done, they can dispose of the bodies. They have a purpose.”

“What’s the purpose?”

On a frustrated breath, she leaned back. “That’s a question. If they’re fanatics, and the common denominator of the victims indicates that, it may be human sacrifice.”

“Well now. That’s a cheery thought.”

“It’s the one I keep circling back to. It could be revenge over a loved one who wasn’t saved—but they don’t go after the medical team. Detective O’Hara tells me the task force is looking into fringe cults and groups.”

“Task force? And you’re not on it?”

Since she intended to stay, Sloan topped off her wine.

“No.”

“And that doesn’t piss you off? It pisses me off.”

She toasted him, drank. “Thanks, but I’m okay with it. You’ve got three states involved, the feds, multiple jurisdictions, and none of the abductions happened on public land. The DNR has jurisdiction throughout the state, but including me added one more agency.”

“Fuck that.” Rising, he took their plates to load in the dishwasher. “You’re the one who made the connection, who found the common denominator.”

“You helped with that.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m pissed off. You handed it to them—the motive, purpose, whatever the hell you want to call it. And they exclude you?”

“O’Hara’s reading me in on a consultant basis—with approval. I’m really fine with it, but boy, I appreciate the outrage on my behalf.”

She propped her elbow on the counter, her chin on her fist. “It’s nice to have someone in the pissed-off mode I talked myself out of.”

He turned. “Why did you do that?”

“If I still worked in the Criminal Investigative Bureau, I wouldn’t have. I’d have stayed pissed off, and I’d have pushed—and hard—to be included.”

“What difference does that make?”

“A lot, it turns out. I made a big change in and for my life. A choice,” she added. “Not the big, giant, dramatic change and choice you did, but a big one. I’m not just content with it, but happier with it than I expected to be.

“This investigation’s important to me. It started with Janet Anderson because when she was taken, I felt helpless, weak, ripped out of my element. I’ve had the chance and the time to rebuild. She never will.”

“You’re in it for her.”

“For her, and now the six others I’ve found. Initially I considered making a case to bring me on. O’Hara would back me there. So would my captain. But I realized I like working it alone, my way, my time.”

She reached out a hand so he’d come back and sit.

“I like,” she added, “talking it through with you. You bring a different perspective than Joel does. I like you’re willing to listen and give that perspective.”

“Hooked,” he reminded her. “And talking serial killers is a break from tackling an unfinished basement—that’s tomorrow, and not mine. Or looking at paint samples, fixtures, and finishing the built-ins for the library that will be mine.”

“You’ve started them?”

“Barely.”

“I’d love to see.”

“Give it a day or two. Besides, I’m on my serial killer break.”

“Okay then. Serial killers escalate, and the time between kills narrows. They crave the high like any addict. But these don’t, not after those first two. They’ve stuck to that monthly hit—and in February and March even widened the time frame slightly. Or they’ve stopped. Illness, death, incarceration could account for that. Or they’ve reached their goal.”

“But you don’t think so.”

“I don’t think they can stop, no. Not on their own. They’ve succeeded. It’s possible they’re in law enforcement or have a connection there and feel the heat. So they’re lying low awhile. But that doesn’t feel right to me either. They need to do this. You don’t go through all this, the time, effort, risk, and end with taking a human life unless you need it.”

“But?”

“But if I’m wrong, and they’ve stopped, or moved on, it lowers the chances of finding them and putting them away. Anything short of that, there are seven people who’ll never have justice, whose families will never know for certain what happened to them. Loved ones who will very likely cling to the hope they’re still alive, will come home again. That kind of hope is another kind of death.”

“So what do you do?”

“Wait, and that’s horrible. Waiting for someone else to be taken, used, disposed of. Keep looking, hoping there’s some detail you, and everyone else, missed.”

Now she rose, wandered to those wonderful glass doors.

The sun had set and dusk had given way to night. Dark brought its comfort and quiet. The low, lyrical call of an owl just added to it.

“You’ve got a great horned owl nearby.”

“You see an owl?” He got up to join her.

“No, I hear it. That’s its call.”

“The one you hear in movies when someone’s lost in the woods at night?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I’ve got a barred owl, or a pair of them. They got in a hooting match, probably with your guy out there, last night. Mates, protecting their nest.”

“Mates will do that.”

“Exactly. I don’t think this is a cult, not in the traditional sense. It’s not a group—you don’t keep a violent secret with a group for nearly a year. And it could be longer. But two people? Siblings, father and son, spouses, lovers? Dedicated to this purpose and each other?”

“You’re thinking mates.”

“Another thing I keep circling back to. A parent and child there’s a power differential, even as an adult child. And eventually that imbalance would cause issues. Siblings, yes, possible, but even with devoted siblings there’s some rivalry. But mates? Spouses, lovers—if they love each other—they might establish more balance in the power structure. And sex unites.”

“That’s a big circle around from a hooting owl.”

She let out a half laugh. “Not as big as it might seem. Your owl out there? That’s the male. The female has a higher pitch. When she comes into it, they often synchronize their calls.”

“They work together.”

“As real mates do. Possibly they’ve been together for years and just found this purpose.”

He could read her fairly well now, and shook his head.

“No, you think they found each other more recently. And following your line of thinking, that makes the most sense. They saw something in each other.”

He turned to her, looked at her.

As he’d seen something in her weeks before they’d met as she’d pushed herself to walk along the lake.

“They saw something in each other,” he repeated, “and that drew them together. Add in sex, and sure, maybe a twisted kind of love.”

“It doesn’t have to be twisted. They may genuinely love each other.”

“That one doesn’t add up for me, but fine. And through that, they found another common denominator. This purpose. It’s a kind of mission, isn’t it?”

“You could…” Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah, mission works. And if it’s a mission they consider—no, believe—comes from their vision of a higher power? Fanatics again.”

“These people died, and were brought back by medical intervention, so our mission is to right that wrong? Negate that human interference?”

“Along those lines, yeah.”

“Wouldn’t that eliminate your medical types?”

“Not necessarily. Medicine, comfort, stitching wounds, mending broken bones, treating illness. You could look at that as natural. Even transfusions, transplants because that’s one human to another. But death? That’s an end. It’s time’s up. And if they think, if they believe, man’s pushed that higher power’s will aside?”

It had, he thought, a kind of horrible logic.

“So possibly using their medical knowledge as a weapon, their mission is to rectify that moral wrong. And that goes back to your human sacrifice.”

“It does. We’re ending these lives that shouldn’t continue to be lives, to honor whatever god we believe in. He or she took them, and man had no right to take them back.”

“What does that tell you?”

On a half laugh, she shook her head. “You sound like my therapist. Well, Dr. Littlefield, it tells me—if this theory is correct—they’re religious extremists, the sort who believe, absolutely, their god speaks to them, and they know his will. They believe what they’re doing is morally just. In fact, imperative. The laws of man mean nothing when weighed against the laws of their almighty.”

“Wouldn’t there be a hitch in there?” he wondered. “How about the old ‘Thou shalt not kill’? Stone tablets, burning bush, all that?”

“But in their view, their fractured view, they’re not killing. They may enjoy it, and I tend to think they do, but it’s not murder for them. They’re giving back what was taken, righting a moral wrong. Whatever they do to fulfill this purpose, mission, imperative isn’t merely just, it’s blessed.

“This works for me. It doesn’t get me over the wall, but it gives me something to push on.”

“How do you push?”

“Step-by-step. And one step is to just let it cook awhile.” She tapped her head. “You absolutely earned the hush puppies. How about taking a walk by the lake?”

“In the dark?”

She scrubbed at the stubble on his face.

“City boy, there’s a gorgeous three-quarter moon out there. And what I can see from here, a sky full of stars. Plus, the loons are back. The waterfowl,” she added at his smirk. “All you need’s a jacket.”

So he walked with her and the dog by the lake, and heard the loons call.

“I’d forgotten about this.”

“About what?”

“That sound—the loons. I remember that sound now. I remember hearing it.”

“Not in the city.”

“No. We vacationed here when I was, what, about sixteen, maybe seventeen. It’s one of the reasons I looked for a place here.”

“You stayed in Heron’s Rest?”

“Yeah. Two summer weeks Theo and I actually enjoyed. My mother’s second husband liked coming here. He actually had a cabin. He liked to hunt, fish, hike, and he’d come here a few times a year with friends.”

“You stayed in a cabin in Heron’s Rest?”

“Oh, hell no. She’d never go for that.”

He looked out over the lake with its crystal reflection of the moon, got his bearings, pointed.

“The big lake house, at about two o’clock. We stayed there.”

“The Pinnacle? That’s ours.”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s the crown jewel. Three levels, two main suites, another three bedrooms and three baths, living areas with fireplaces on lower and main floors, kitchen, bar area—kitchenette and bar on lower level. Unrestricted views of the lake, views of the mountains. Decks, porches, patios. Outdoor shower and fire pit and so on.”

He knew she had exceptional observation and recall skills, but … “You know the makeup of all the rentals?”

“Crown jewel,” Sloan repeated.

“She wouldn’t have otherwise.”

“It’s more so now than when you were sixteen or seventeen. Updated, remodeled.”

“I can promise she won’t be back. But she enjoyed boating, if I remember. Lounging on the deck, shopping, but a week was it for her. She flew back to Connecticut, and we stayed here.”

“I’m doing some math, and some memory jogging. Did you have daily housekeeping and did you bring a cook?”

“Yeah, she brought her cook—he flew back with her. Paul—the husband—he paid the extra fee for the daily housekeeping. Why?”

“Because I pitched in on housekeeping for the Pinnacle for guests that wanted daily—including fresh sheets in the main bedroom. And there was a French guy, tall, lean, about thirty-five with curly black hair, lightning-blue eyes. He gave us these amazing pastries he’d made, every afternoon. Afternoon because the guests didn’t want us there until after eleven.”

“Well, Jesus, that was Javier. He baked like a god.”

She had to laugh. “Well, Littlefield, I made your goddamn bed. I don’t remember seeing you.”

“We’d have been out by the time you got there. Theo and I, in the lake, hunting up pretty girls, hiking on the trails. We even rented bikes and rode into town a few times. We didn’t spend much time in the house.”

“This is very strange.”

“More strange because I think I saw you. I’m in the lake and look up, and there’s this long-haired blonde in little shorts on the main deck, clearing up what was probably her breakfast dishes.”

He looked down at her, passed his hand over her cropped hair. “What were you, fifteen?”

“Thereabouts.”

“I remember you, the blonde with the ponytail and little shorts.”

“And though I lost the ponytail, here we are again. You didn’t try to buy the Pinnacle?”

“No. No,” he repeated with some feeling. “It was a good couple weeks, but I didn’t want that house. I got what I wanted.”

As they walked along, he stayed quiet.

The three-quarter moon and cut-glass stars spread light, as she said. The lake breeze ran cool, but held no bite. Others walked, drawn by the water, so the murmur of voices, the occasional laugh joined the night calls.

And still strange to him, the howl of a coyote higher in the hills.

Happy with the outing, Tic stayed close, then raced ahead as they started back down the drive.

His house stood there, lights glowing, smoke curling from the chimney from the fire he’d banked before the walk.

He’d miss the fires once summer came, he realized. Yet he looked forward to the changing seasons, the changes in his home.

In himself.

“I’m not Theo.”

Sloan glanced up. “Good thing, as he’s engaged to my sister.”

“Theo’s an optimist. He always has been. Nothing could break that positive outlook of his. They sure as hell tried.”

“You’re not Theo, but you’ve got a positive outlook of your own. I said it before: nobody would have moved here from New York, bought this house, started a business from scratch without one.”

“That was more going after what I wanted than outlook. I could afford it. Afford the time, the money. If I failed? Big fucking deal. I could go back to what I did before. I’m good at it.”

“You may think that, but you wouldn’t have.”

He didn’t know why he felt very nearly angry, but he felt temper scraping at him. “How do you know?”

“Because you clearly love this, and you clearly didn’t love that. Being good at something doesn’t mean you love it. I’m good at math, but I’d rather mow the lawn than sit down and do calculus.”

It amazed him someone so insightful just couldn’t get it.

“Jesus, listen. The point is I had that fail-safe, that safety net. It wasn’t that big a risk.”

“Again, you may think that. It’s just not what I see.”

“You got pieces and parts, that’s all.” He felt his frustration building and didn’t know what the hell to do with it. “How can you understand what I came from? There’s no cruelty in your background, in your family.”

“No, there’s not. But I live in the world. More, I’m a cop, and I see plenty of it.”

“Not the same, it’s not the same. That was my world. It was Theo’s, but they never broke him.”

“How much of that’s because you stood in front of him so they couldn’t? I’m at a loss here, Nash. Are you trying to get me to think less of you because you had lousy parents? Or worry you’re going to become like them? That’s just not going to happen.”

“No. I’m not sure. I want you to understand … I came here for my own reasons. You weren’t part of them.”

“Okay.” She slid her hands into her pockets. Those eyes of hers didn’t waver but stayed steady on his. “Do you want me to take my ball and go home?”

“No.” Incensed, he turned away, dragged his hands through his hair. Nothing helped clear his thoughts so he could just say them out loud. “Let’s go inside. The wind’s starting to kick. You must be cold.”

“I’m not. I like it out here. It seems to me it’s good to have plenty of air when you want to air out. You’ve got something you want to say, so say it. If you want to slow things down or break things off, I’d rather know it now, straight out, then have you keep circling around it.”

“I’m not saying that. That’s not what I want.”

“Then stop pissing me off and tell me what the hell you’re saying, what the hell you want.”

“I didn’t come here for you.” He turned back. “I wasn’t looking for you now any more than I was years ago when I looked up and saw you standing on the damn deck cleaning up after her.

“Why do I remember that? The girl on the deck, long blond ponytail, little red shorts, a white T-shirt. I shouldn’t remember that.”

“I remember all sorts of odd things.”

“I saw you walking last fall, last winter, every step an effort. I couldn’t get you out of my head. Then you show up at my door in that damn uniform, that damn hat, and I can’t get you out of my head.”

“And you want to?”

“No. I did,” he admitted, “and I tried. Or I told myself I should. But no, that’s not what I want. I saw you on the goddamn deck, Sloan. And I saw you walking the lake. I’ve been tripping over you for years without knowing it, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it, about you, about this. You weren’t part of the plan.”

“Aren’t you the one who told me plans adjust?”

“Adjusting’s one thing, but you have to know what to do next. I don’t know what to do next. I don’t know how to handle being in love with you.”

Her breath expelled in one long exhale. “Oh.”

“It’s another fucking first. I’ve been with women, cared about them, wanted them. But I never loved one. I wasn’t sure I had that in me, considering. But I do, when it’s you. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Well.” She let out that long breath again. “Join the club. I’m president. You can be treasurer, since you’re so good with money.”

Baffled, frustrated, he pressed his fingers to his eyes. “I don’t know what the hell that means.”

“It means you weren’t part of the plan. It means I’m in love with you and haven’t known what to do about it. I’ve got a better idea now.”

Slowly, he lowered his hands. Heart skipping, he stepped to her, laid his hands on her shoulders. And he felt the world that had rocked and teetered steady again.

“Want to fill me in?”

“Nash.” With a tenderness that disarmed him, she cupped his face. “Take it. Just take it.”

She rose on her toes to meet his mouth with hers, then felt her feet leave the ground as he lifted her up, wrapped her close, held tight.

“Just that? As simple as that?”

“It won’t be, but it can be right now. I love who you are.” She held on. “That’s simple for right now. We’re both good at figuring things out. So when we need to, we will.”

“Adjusting plans along the way?”

“That sounds right to me. And I can tell you I haven’t loved before either. It’s downright scary.”

“Good. That’s good. Be scared. That way we’re starting on the same level.”

She smiled, kissed him again. And heard the two owls synchronize their calls.