which Tuttle had been without his little sign. Tuttle had never been violent in his life. He'd never hurt a soul. Crazy, his family said, didn't make him a kidnapper and a killer.
There was no wrongful-death suit from the Tuttles, however. The reason for that was cruel and simple. Tuttle, as a mentally ill man, had no worth. The loss of his life could not be equated to future earnings of any kind. It was as if he didn't exist.
After she'd killed him, Emily Kenyon never allowed herself to think for one second that he'd been anything but a killer.
Crazy or not, he did it. Because if he didn't, then that meant his blood was indelibly on her own hands.
But that was before. Now she had doubts that gnawed at her soul.
Emily turned off the highway toward the Pacific, and the tourist community of Copper Beach. The sun had dipped into the ocean, but even at high noon, it would still have the dark gloom that makes the water and sky a seamless wall. Copper Beach had been platted in the 1980s as Washington's great answer to the coastal communities that brought retirees with fat pensions. Two golf courses were built. Tribal land nearby also factored into the plans. In Washington, gambling was illegal. But Native American tribes who owned vast stretches of the state operated as sovereign nations. Tribal casinos would soon spring up. It was the yin and yang developers had long dreamed about: Wonder bread communities on the coast with the naughty fun of the bad-influenceneighbor just down the road.
One problem. The weather. Washington wasn't California, or even Oregon. Rain kept the place from really taking off. As Emily drove though the town, motels and saltwater taffy shops competed with moped rentals and sad old horses that had never seen better days-Sea Nags-hired out for beach rides. Alongside the road beach houses were draped in necklaces of fishing floats and flanked by chainsaw effigies of New England fisherman wearing yellow slickers and spinning ship's wheels. Sand dunes threatened the roadway. Despite the ocean's waves crashing against driftwood, the world outside her car seemed so silent. So lonely. Emily Kenyon thanked God that Christopher Collier was right behind her. Following her. How familiar it all felt.
She remembered the heavy tangle of driftwood that lined the beachhead and protected the road, wooden limbs clawing into the damp marine air. The stream of light from her perpetually-on high-beam headlights brought the snags and roots to life.
A last turn, and Emily was almost there. Adrenaline, the drug of working cops, skydivers, and mothers in search of their endangered children, pulsed. It nearly flooded her system when she saw it. A black mailbox carried the number on its silvery weathered driftwood post: 4444 COPPER BEACH ROAD. She pulled over and kept the car idling until Christopher opened the passenger door and slid onto the seat.
'You drive like a maniac,' he said. 'I could barely keep up with you'
Emily faked a smile. 'That's because you drive like someone's grandpa'
Christopher shrugged and allowed her the upper hand. He cracked the window. The car was warm inside. 'You ready to do this?' he asked.
'What about backup? Did you call the local blues?'
'Nope. We don't need them. We're just doing a little surveillance.'
'What if we're wrong and she-they aren't here? What if Walker's playing some kind of mind game?'
'There's no what if on that one. He is. He's got to be ''
Emily opened the door; the soft ping of the warning sound faded into the stormy air. 'Let's go'
The cabin had been remodeled in the years since they'd both been there. People with money had taken the place with the idea they'd be able to turn it into a bed and breakfast. They'd had intermittent success. During his drive from Tacoma, Christopher had contacted the owners, now living in Seattle and the place was vacant. It was not owned by Walker's cousin after all.
'Worst investment we ever made,' the gruff-voiced man said. 'The place is cursed. Can't keep it booked more than half the season. Go ahead. Have a look around. If you like it, I'll make you a deal on a rental.'
That would never happen, of course. The Seattle detective could think of nothing more unlikely than vacationing at the scene of the Tuttle shooting.
'Key's under the gull by the front door,' the man had said.
Chapter Thirty-six
Monday, 11:30 P.M, Copper Beach, Washington
When Emily and Christopher got within ten yards of the cabin's front door, a porch light-a floodlight, no less-went off like a paparazzo's camera. Flash! They blinked back the sudden, silent explosion of brightness. Who was that? Their eyes had barely adjusted to the flash when a figure, the silhouette of a man, appeared in the doorway, then disappeared.
'Come on in,' a voice called out from somewhere in the pool of light. 'I've been expecting you'
It was a familiar voice: the voice of a thousand cheap documentaries with prison interviews over which he presided whenever a pretty producer would call. It was Dylan Walker.
'Put your hands where we can see them, Walker.' Christopher used his don't-mess-with-me voice. It was a far cry from the tough voice he'd use on a garden-variety suspect.
For a cop, Dylan Walker was the unholy grail.
'Why should I?'
Walker lingered for a beat before turning his back and sauntering farther into the cabin, out of view. It was as if he hadn't a care in the world and loved the attention of two guns pointed at him. 'You arrest me,' he called out. 'You shoot me in the back. Either way, you'll never see your daughter again.'
Both guns pitched in front of them, the two went up the steps. Emily knew that if Jenna wasn't there-and she knew that possibility was next to nil-then only one person would know where Jenna was. The man who would be king of the serial killers was the only one who could save her daughter.
Dylan Walker was a man without compassion.
Emily, just behind Chris, whispered, 'We're going in.'
The wind howled behind them. Chris gave a slight nod, as if to say everything would be fine.
'Stay close,' he said.
She wouldn't have it any other way. He always could read my mind, she thought.
The pair stepped out of the windy night and through the open door. Sand moved under their feet like fine grit sandpaper. A carving of a seagull on a piling crouched in the space next to the doorway. Dead houseplants lined the entryway, a kind of graveyard of neglect that indicated no one lived in the cabin full-time. Neither could see Dylan Walker just then. Flames crackled through the driftwood logs in the river rock fireplace that went from the floor to the ceiling like a stone temple, hollowed by fire. It was a cozy scene.
Cozy for a serial killer.
Walker appeared, coming out of what Emily was certain was the rental's tiny kitchen. She'd been there. She knew. Dylan Walker held a beer and a gun.
'Thirsty?' he asked. 'I have some Doritos, too'
Christopher almost shook his head at the remark. 'Maybe you're blind and you don't see the guns here? Drop yours now.'
Dylan shrugged at Christopher, but addressed Emily. 'Maybe you don't know how to have a good time? Do you, Emily? I mean, you haven't had a good time since Reynard Tuttle went down. Since Kristi Cooper.' He set the beer on a lamp table and grinned. 'Didn't you shoot Tuttle right here?'
Emily stayed mute. She wanted to speak, but she was fighting the memories he was callously flinging at her. Walker pointed to a spot on the worn pine floorboards. 'Still stained.'
Emily glanced at Chris who kept his weapon punched toward Dylan. Then, almost reluctantly, she cast her gaze downward. The wood floor was scuffed and scratched, but its color was golden, a perfect Swedish finish. There were no stains. No blood. By the time she looked over at Walker, she knew he'd gotten what he'd wanted. His self-satisfied grin told her everything.
'Made you look,' he said.
'You're a real piece of work, Walker,' said Christopher.
'Oh, you really scare me'
