timed it right and no one had been at the rest area, these woods would have absorbed the victims’ screams.
“Ganza should be able to figure that out,” Tully said.
But as he looked around he wondered how difficult a job it would be. Outdoor crime scenes were always challenging and this one was days old, contaminated by the birds and other predators. Pools of blood that seeped into the ground would need to be dug up. Leaves and debris would have matted on top. The wind may have blown away fabric and hair.
Tully remembered Gloria Dobson’s face—or rather what was left of it—in that dark alley. If pieces of her had been splattered and left here on the tree bark or stuck to blades of grass, Keith Ganza and his technicians would find it.
“I don’t think he killed her here,” Maggie said. “It’d be too far to drag her body back. He had to take her someplace where he could bring a vehicle close.”
“Maybe she didn’t make it this far into the woods.”
He tried to imagine a pursuit and found himself looking for broken branches, skid marks in the mud, a drag line. He remembered it had rained the other night, not hard but enough to disrupt evidence. Did it rain here, too?
He glanced at Maggie and saw she was thinking along the same lines. She was scanning the path they had taken.
“Why would he take on two? And how was he able to do it? Did he plan it or was it an impulse that got terribly out of hand?”
“Either way, we’re dealing with one sick bastard.”
Maggie stared up at the streamers of intestines. Ripped and ravished by the birds, they still looked to Tully too much like human guts. The large intestine retained its dark red color, the small a grayish purple.
“The average small intestine is twenty feet long,” Maggie said, and he knew she wasn’t spouting off trivia. Then she added exactly what Tully was thinking. “He’s done this before.”
Tully took three steps for a closer look. He agreed. The streamers were intertwined on the low branches of the maple tree like someone would hang a strand of lights on a Christmas tree. It took some time and effort and expertise. This wasn’t the chaotic frenzy of a madman, ripping and tossing.
Maggie’s phone started ringing. She glanced at the caller ID and answered, saying, “You’re not going to believe what we found.”
But the person interrupted her and Maggie went quiet, listening, her eyes darting around before settling on Tully.
After a few seconds she whispered, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
CHAPTER 68
Cornell had talked them into holding him another night in jail. He insisted he had some valuable information for Agent Tully. Only problem was that Agent Tully, he was told, was out of town and couldn’t talk to him until Monday morning.
The wafer-thin cot was softer than the pavement and a blanket—hell, he didn’t even need a blanket it was so much warmer in the holding cell. He tried his best to not let them know that this inconvenience was like a vacation. Although not quite a vacation. He missed not having a shot or two of whiskey. And the headache was not a picnic, but the food was lukewarm and he even got a couple rec hours in the TV room.
It had been so long since he’d watched TV he didn’t recognize any of the celebrities or pundits. Though Cornell had never been much interested. Reality shows—what a bore.
Tonight a thin, washed-out druggie had control of the remote and Cornell knew not to challenge the man. Glassy-eyed and leather-skinned, this guy looked like he had climbed out of a Zombies-R-Us ad. And for some reason the guy appeared fascinated by cable news. No channel surfing, no checking sports scores or weather.
The next show was supposed to have a feature on the fires and that caught Cornell’s attention. So he sat patiently. What else did he have to do? Oh, that was another thing—the drug zombie kept the volume to a whisper, so Cornell spent most of his time reading the crap at the bottom of the screen.
He pulled up the chair closer to the TV just as an interview started. Two men were identified at the bottom of the screen as Jeffery Cole, journalist, and Wes Harper, private firefighter for Braxton Protection Agency. Cornell was so busy reading, it took him a minute to look at the two guys and when he did he couldn’t believe it. Without a doubt he recognized the guy from the alley. The guy who had poured the gasoline.
CHAPTER 69
Maggie had turned down Tully’s offer to drive her to the hospital. Someone needed to wait and secure the crime scene until Ganza’s crew got there. Besides, it wasn’t the first time her mother had attempted suicide. In fact, Maggie had lost track of how many times Kathleen O’Dell had tried to kill herself.
The first time it was sleeping pills. Then pills and alcohol. Five years ago when Maggie was in Nebraska, working a case, Kathleen decided to use a razor blade for a change of pace. Her therapist at the time called the cuts hesitation marks. After all, if she was really serious she would have cut vertically, slicing the veins open instead of across.
It had been three years since her last attempt. Julia Racine had been there that time, too. At a restroom sink in a Cleveland park, just before a rally for a religious organization.
Later Maggie asked Racine what it was that she said to convince her mother to stop. Racine told her, “I said I was already in a shitload of trouble with her daughter and maybe she could give me a break.” Of course Kathleen had laughed at that. She could relate. For the last twenty years she had felt like she was in a shitload of trouble with Maggie, too, because she had constantly let her down.
Maggie realized that ever since her father’s death, her mother had exchanged and swapped out her addictions like they were fashion trends, from Johnnie Walker to Valium to sex, then religion and health food and back to Johnnie Walker. The other day when Maggie walked in on her mother trying to get rid of Patrick, she recognized the signs that her mother was drinking again without needing to smell it on her breath.
When Maggie finally got to the hospital, a nurse in the ER directed her to intensive care. In intensive care a unit secretary told her she’d need to wait for the doctor and pointed out a lounge at the end of the hall. In the lounge, Maggie found Julia Racine.
Her sweatshirt had so much blood on it that Maggie thought Racine had been injured, too. Even when she realized it all belonged to her mother, when Racine looked up, Maggie asked, “Are you okay?”
It was the first time she had caught Racine speechless. The younger woman simply nodded and ran her fingers through her hair, leaving it more spiked than usual.
She shrugged and said, “I hate hospitals.”
CHAPTER 70
Sam knew she had done the right thing, telling Agent O’Dell and Patrick about Wes Harper. After Jeffery’s fit in her driveway last night something still nagged at her. Especially after she listened to a couple of his voice messages. The time stamps with him asking her to meet him at the shop fires last night were long before Sam heard the sirens while at the restaurant. How did Jeffery always know so far in advance?
After her mother and Iggy were in bed, Sam had plugged in the tape from the warehouse fires and started reviewing the footage, wanting to make sure it was Wes Harper in the crowd. That’s when it all seemed to come together. Harper was the firefly, and somehow he’d been getting messages to Jeffery. Maybe Jeffery didn’t even know it was Harper. Whatever was going on between the two of them, Sam was glad she’d shared the film footage with Agent O’Dell.
She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell Jeffery about Harper. Even when he called her, excited—saying they were
