The Burying Place

'We'll contact the authorities down there today and see what we can find out.'

'See if they have any unsolved murders in the area that match our MO,' Maggie told him. 'And get them our DNA report to run through the state database there.'

'I'm on it.'

'What about the car he stole last night to get away?'

'It's a Cadillac. The owner left it unlocked. People are too damned trusting around here.'

'Any hits?' Maggie asked.

'No, nobody's seen it yet.'

Maggie nodded. 'We're getting closer to this asshole.'

'It feels that way.'

'Any prints inside the van?'

'We're still checking,' Guppo said. 'It doesn’t help that the thing went for a swim.'

'You heard that the nine one one call was a fake, right?' Maggie asked. 'He deliberately lured us away.'

'Yeah. You know what that means?'

'It means he was going after the kid. This guy's got a hard-on for Kasey.'

'That could help us,' Guppo said. 'Do you have people watching her house?'

Maggie nodded. 'Yeah, she doesn’t like it, but I've got a black-and- white on the other side of the highway.'

'Well, maybe we don't want to scare him away,' Guppo suggested. 'Maybe we ought to be using her as bait.'

Maggie shook her head fiercely. 'No way.'

'I'm just saying—'

'I told you, no. We're not risking that girl's life. She's a cop, a wife, and a mother. I want to scare this guy a hundred miles away from her.'

'Whatever you say,' Guppo told her, but his round face frowned.

'I'm going back to City Hall,' Maggie added. 'I'll take Kasey with me. I want to get a photo of the van out to the media. That may jog some memories.'

'We've still got a few hours left out here,' Guppo said.

'OK, check in when you're back. I have to see Stride this morning out on the Point. I also want to see if we can find anything more on this Nick Garaldo.'

'Is that the young guy who went missing over the weekend?'

'That's him. He still hasn't turned up. It's been two days. I'm going to stop by his apartment and see what I can find.'

Guppo gestured at her bangs. 'You're seeing Stride, huh? You tell him about the hair?'

Maggie shrugged. 'You really think he'll notice?'

Stride drove into Duluth on the northern route that took him through Hermantown and across Miller Hill. As he headed down the sharp slope into the streets of downtown, he could see the harbor and the giant swath of Lake Superior filling the valley. White waves surged against the beach. A gray layer of clouds made the brick city buildings look old, as if time had frozen here in some extreme winter decades ago.

He took the overpass over Interstate 35 and continued through Canal Park to the lift bridge that led to the ribbon of land known as the Point. He followed the road toward his cottage and found that he was having trouble breathing. His chest felt heavy. As he reached his driveway at 33rd Street, he slowed to a stop and inhaled deeply with his mouth open, until his lungs relaxed. He lowered the window and could hear the thunder of lake waves on the beach on the other side of the sand dune. He was home.

He pulled into his driveway, but rather than go inside, he hiked over the dune to the lake, where it was wild and blustery. A seagull hung motionless over the beach, lofted by the gusty currents. The sand was littered with driftwood rubbed smooth by the water. The wispy rye grass quaked, and the pines swayed with casual elegance. He continued down the slope to the long stretch of sandy beach. The surging waves rose out of the lake in long, silent shadows and then fell back in a fury of thunder, surf, and mud. In the calm between waves, he heard the hiss of bubbles breaking and saw thousands of exposed silver flecks skittering down the beach like frightened stars, as if they were running for cover.

Stride couldn't put it off any longer. He climbed back across the dune and up the rear steps of the cottage and let himself inside. Everything was as he had left it, except for the dust on the surfaces and the musty smell of air that had been shut up for weeks. The house had a funereal quiet. The only noise was his footsteps on the uneven floorboards. He went like a visitor from room to room, reacquainting himself with his possessions. When he went into the master bathroom, he detected a trace of the floral soap that Serena used and a lingering hint of her perfume. She had been here, but she was gone now. Just like himself. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, but no one stared back at him.

It happened again. The constriction in his chest. The sensation that his lungs were struggling for air. He held on to the sink as lightheadedness washed over him and made him dizzy. A vise tightened around his skull. When he looked in the mirror again, his skin was pasty and damp with sweat. His eyelids were dark hoods over his eyes. He ran water in the sink and splashed it on his face.

He needed something to drink. Slowly, he made his way through the cottage's great space into the kitchen and found a can of Coke in the refrigerator. He opened it and set it on the counter and then reached up to the top shelf of a cabinet for a large glass. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing. His hands were wet. He took the glass between his fingers, but it slipped from his grasp.

It fell.

He fell with it.

Goddamn.

He was high above the water again. His body shot like a bullet from the bridge, knifing toward the harbor. The night air became a searing whistle in his ears. Three seconds, that was all it took. Three seconds to realize he was about to die, three seconds to hammer into the bay. His nerve ends erupted with agony. The hard, cold water became his tomb. His mind drove him into the deep jaws of the bay, over and over, and each time his body rocketed through the air, he wished that the impact would kill him once and for all. He could almost hear the words forming in his chest.

Kill me.

Stride was on the kitchen floor when he awakened. Broken glass surrounded him, some shards as pretty as diamonds, some large and deadly like arrowheads. Crimson trails oozed from the cuts on his arms. His shirt was dyed with stains from the blood that dripped down his cheek and neck, where the eruption of glass had sprayed his face. He spread his hands wide and watched the smears as if the blood were coming from a stranger's body. The cuts didn't sting. His leg, the leg he had broken in the fall, didn't throb. He was numb.

On the floor, he saw a pointed shard with edges as sharp as a razor. So sharp they could slice through tissue like a surgeon's knife. He picked it up and rubbed it between his fingers. The glass glinted in the light. He squeezed his fist and saw the veins in his wrist bulge like twin lengths of rope. If only the fragments had cut him there, opening him up like a fountain. If only he hadn't awakened at all. He didn't want to live like this.

Chapter Twenty-five

'Where did you go last night, Valerie?' Serena asked.

They sat in front of the fireplace in the lobby of the Sawmill Inn in Grand Rapids. Valerie wore a conservative gray suit, with her blonde hair pinned up. She stared at the fire with an uncomfortable expression and refused to meet Serena's eyes.