manifests.
Boldt leaned his head out as the car backed up and addressed a stunned Millie Wiggins, standing in her driveway beneath an umbrella with rain cascading from its rim. “Only our most difficult suspects,” he informed her. He thanked her and got the window up. The headlights spilled over her, throwing an enormous shadow against the garage door.
“You see? We didn’t need her,” Flemming protested, repeating an argument he had beaten to death. “You knew you had the right woman.”
Flemming’s silent rage terrified Boldt; he was glad to have the man talking. By his own admission, for six months Flemming had attempted to piece together any evidence that might lead him to the Pied Piper, while at the same time continually compromising the public investigation. Now that Boldt had done his job for him, the man seemed hell-bent on handling the Crowleys in the same manner he had handled Anderson. The end justified the means. Boldt, who understood such reactions, who empathized with them, found himself defending the suspect’s rights and wondering how far Flemming might go-if he too might end up a victim if he crossed the man.
In the name of probable cause, Boldt had just tricked Flemming into buying himself a second witness, and both men knew it, perhaps Flemming even understood it, though he was difficult to judge. Millie Wiggins, and Liz along with her, could place Crowley and Boldt in that car. Both women had taken good long looks at Flemming.
“Cross over to I-5 on 145th,” Boldt said. “There’s an on-ramp off Fifth Avenue.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Flemming warned, letting Boldt know that he understood everything. “If you fuck this up, if you can’t find this place, I’ll pull her eyelids off and drip battery acid in them until she talks, until she tells me where I can find my daughter. And if you even
Pressured into an alliance of which he wanted no part, Boldt found himself an unwilling passenger. He might as well have been handcuffed and in the backseat himself.
The interminable drive north on I-5 left Boldt referencing the FedEx manifests and plotting delivery routes for March 25 on or about twelve noon, creating small boxes on the map with arrows to the appropriate location. Darkness outside, darkness inside, the rain obscuring the windshield, his own fears obscuring his efforts.
Boldt decided to speak directly to the issue. There were questions to answer and he had no way of knowing if he might be around to hear them later. Without backup, anything could happen. He said to the driver, “According to Hale, the Hoover Building thinks you may be working for the Pied Piper.”
“Hale knows?”
“He’s been spying on you ever since your girlfriend disappeared and your bank account grew.”
The big man nodded, a man defeated. “The money-cash-was deposited in five-thousand-dollar amounts into my account. She,” he said, pointing toward the backseat and their prisoner, “knew it would appear that I had misplaced loyalties, that I wouldn’t be able to explain the deposits. And of course I wouldn’t have been able to. So they had my child, and my career. I sent Gwen away the minute they got our child. Told her not to surface. Believe me,” he added, “she’s under so deep no one will ever find her unless I’m involved.”
“She could support your story. You just might get yourself out of this.”
“It’s Stephanie I care about, not me. Stephanie first. The rest comes later. The rest hardly matters.”
“Yes, I know,” Boldt replied.
“You?”
“No money. Just my child.”
Flemming confessed, “They had me use E-mail to supply the information they requested. I tried to trace it back to a source, but they knew their stuff: bogus accounts, bogus credit cards paying for those accounts.”
“So they knew when to pick up and leave.”
Flemming nodded again, though reluctantly and with a heavy heart. “I misled and delayed the investigations as best I could. When it got away from me, I sent off a warning and they packed it up.”
“Me?” Boldt asked. “Did you give them me? Was it you who IDed the local cop to go after?”
“It was.”
The road whined, the wipers lapped at the water. “I’d like to apologize for that, but I can’t,” Flemming said. “I did what I thought I had to do.” He admitted softly, “I worked constantly to ID them. If I had managed, it would have stopped right there. I would have seen to that, as we will see to that tonight,” he said, stealing a glimpse at the prisoner in the rearview mirror. “You’re a better cop than me, Boldt. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I want to hear how you could volunteer another person’s child,” Boldt whispered hoarsely.
Flemming said nothing.
“You gave them my daughter.”
“And I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” he admitted. He switched the wipers to high. The rain was too loud to think.
Boldt knew intuitively that following Anderson’s murder Flemming had settled on killing the Crowleys as the only form of justice. Perhaps it was only by seeing such a thing in another that Boldt could exorcise it from his own thoughts, but he wanted no part in it. Death was too easy for the Crowleys and Chevalier. A life sentence in a maximum facility where the inmates would not tolerate any crime to do with children seemed a far more appropriate sentence. Boldt wanted this done legally, correctly. He wanted Millie Wiggins on the stand, and Chevalier in manacles; he wanted Daphne called as an eyewitness to Lisa Crowley’s baby-selling. He could see the logical steps toward conviction. He continued to plot delivery times onto the map.
“So?” Flemming asked, a while later, shattering the monotonous grind of the wipers and interrupting a bass solo on the radio.
“Four delivery trucks servicing Skagit the twenty-fifth. At noon, two were on lunch break, two still delivering. I have one truck delivering at 11:37 and again at 12:12. The second truck made drops at 11:51 and 12:19. Two stretches of road to search for a house that sits up a slight knoll, a tree directly outside.”
“How many miles of road?” Flemming asked.
Boldt took rough measurements. “Twenty to thirty, all together.”
“It’s too much.” Flemming told their hostage, “You could simplify this,” studying her in the rearview mirror. But as did Boldt, Lisa Crowley assumed the driver intended to kill her no matter what she did; Flemming had played his cards far too early, not thinking anything of it. She had only her husband to sacrifice by cooperating. She would not talk, unless Flemming resorted to torture. Perhaps not even then. In a way difficult for Boldt to grasp, he felt sympathy for this woman, his daughter’s abductor. After weeks of wanting her dead himself, he had agonized for the better part of the last hour over his strange association with her, an us-against-them mentality directed at Flemming and including Lisa Crowley. Nothing surprised him any longer; there was no room left for such luxury.
CHAPTER 81
The small brick town of Mount Vernon, Washington, spread out almost entirely on the eastern banks of the Skagit River, had served as a timber course for the better part of half a century, until every stand of old-growth forest had been cut to the ground, stripped of its branches and skidded and floated to the mills. Throughout the winter the river pushed against its banks, swelled by weeks of rain or unseasonable snowmelt from the east, sometimes jumping and driving the residents to band together in a pitched and fevered battle, lacing together lives in a way only shared disaster can. For millennia, those same seasonal floods had driven silt and topsoil out across the surrounding plains, fertilizing and enriching the soil. Combined with the mild season offered up by the Pineapple Express ocean currents, it made for thousands and thousands of acres ideally suited for the cultivation of bulb flowers. Little Holland, the area was called. More tulips were produced here than in any spot on earth.
Boldt tracked the second hand of his wristwatch. Flemming drove Boldt’s selection for the most likely route
