“Doesn’t sound much like your father,” Myron said.
“Not like him at all,” she agreed.
A few minutes later, they arrived at the cabin. Myron had a hard time believing that Adam Culver, a man he had gotten to know fairly well during his time with Jessica, would want to vacation out here. The man liked to gamble. He liked the ponies, the roulette wheel, the blackjack table. He liked action. His idea of a quiet time was a Tony Bennett concert at the Sands.
Jessica got out of the car. Myron followed. Her posture was arrow-perfect. So was the walk, something Myron had always loved to watch in the past. But there was an unmistakable teeter in her step, as though her legs were not sure they could sustain the lovely torso over the long haul.
Their footsteps creaked on the steps of the wooden porch. Myron spotted plenty of dry rot. Jessica unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
“Take a look,” she said.
He did. He said nothing. He could feel her eyes on him.
“I checked his charge card,” she said. “He spent over three thousand dollars at a place in the city called Eye- Spy.”
Myron knew the store. This was definitely their handiwork. Three videocameras were sprawled across the couch. Panasonic. All with mounting material, so they could be hung up somewhere. There were also three small television monitors. Also Panasonic. The kind you might see at a high-rise’s security station. Two VCRs. Toshiba. Lots of cables and wires and stuff like that.
But that stuff wasn’t the most bothersome thing he saw. Alone, those electronic goods could have meant one of several things. But two other items-items that drew Myron’s eye and held it like a baby near a shiny coin-changed everything. They were the added catalyst. They completed a mixture that was far too noxious to be ignored.
Propped against the wall was a rifle. And on the floor next to it, a set of handcuffs.
Jessica said, “What the hell was he doing?”
He knew what she was thinking. The dead girls found near here. The television images of their battered, decayed bodies hovered above them like the most haunting of ghosts.
“When did he buy this stuff?” Myron asked.
“Two weeks ago.” Her eyes were clear, controlled. “Listen, I’ve had time to think about this. Even if our worst fears are true, it doesn’t explain anything. What about the picture in the magazine? Or Kathy’s handwriting on that envelope? Or the phone calls? Or for that matter his murder?”
Myron looked at her. He knew she was seeking an explanation-any explanation but the one that stared them straight in the face. “Are you okay?” he asked.
She crossed her arms under her breasts, a hand on each elbow, as if she were hugging herself. “I feel,” she said, “unanchored.”
“Can you take more?”
Her hands dropped to her sides. “Why? What is it?”
He hesitated.
She exploded. “Goddamn it, don’t coddle me!”
“Jess-”
“You know I hate that protect-the-little-lady bullshit of yours! Tell me what the hell is going on!”
“Kathy was gang-raped by some of Christian’s teammates on the night she disappeared.”
Jessica looked as if she’d just been slapped with an open hand. Myron reached out. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Just tell me what happened. Everything.”
He did. Her clear, controlled eyes went blank, lifeless. She remained uncharacteristically silent.
“Bastards,” she managed. “The goddamn bastards.”
He nodded.
“One of them killed her,” she said. “Or all of them. To shut her up.”
“It’s possible.”
She paused, thinking. Then the eyes came back to life. “Suppose,” she began slowly, “that my father learned about the rape.”
Myron nodded.
“What would he do?” she continued. “How would you react-if it was your daughter?”
“I’d be enraged,” Myron replied.
“Would you be able to control yourself?”
“Kathy is not my daughter,” he said. “And I’m still not sure I can control myself.”
Jessica nodded. “So maybe, just maybe, that explains this whole setup. The electronics, the cuffs, the rifle. Maybe he was using this hideaway, deep in the woods, so he could grab a rapist and exact a little private justice.”
“Kathy was gang-raped. There were six of them. This place looks built for one.”
“But,” she continued with the hint of an eerie smile, “suppose my father was in the exact same position we are in now.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Suppose he knew the name of only one rapist. Maybe this Horton guy. What might he do then? What might
“I might,” Myron said, “kidnap him and make him tell.”
“Exactly.”
“But it’s a hell of a reach. Why would I videotape it? Why would I need cameras and monitors?”
“Tape the confession, make sure no one comes down the road, I don’t know. You have a better scenario?”
He did not. “Have you gone through the rest of the house yet?”
“I didn’t have a chance. The realtor brought me here. He practically burst a blood vessel when he saw this stuff.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I knew all this was here. That my father was a private investigator working undercover.”
Myron made a face.
“Hey, it was the best I could come up with.”
“And he bought that?”
“I think so.”
Myron shook his head. “I thought you were a writer.”
“I’m not good with spur-of-the-moment. I’m a lot better with the written than the oral.”
“Based on past experience,” he said, “I’d have to disagree.”
“Nice time,” she said, “for a come-on.”
He shrugged. “Just trying to keep things loose.”
She almost smiled.
“Let’s look around,” he said.
There wasn’t much to search. The living room had no drawers or closets. Everything was in plain view-the electronic equipment, the handcuffs, the rifle. The kitchenette held no surprises. Same with the bathroom. That left the bedroom.
It was small. The size of a guest bedroom at a beach house. The double bed took up almost the entire room. There were reading lights on either side of the bed, attached to the wall because there was no room for night tables. No dressers either. The bed was made with flannel sheets. They checked the closet.
Bingo.
Black pants, black T-shirt, black sweatshirt. And worst of all, a black ski mask.
“Ski mask in June?” Myron said.
“He might have needed it to kidnap Horton,” she tried. But her tone would not make the leap.
Myron dropped to the floor and looked underneath the bed. He saw a plastic bag. He stretched out his hand, grabbed it, and dragged it along the dust-blanketed floor toward him. The bag was red. The initials BCME were emblazoned across the front.
“Bergen County Medical Examiner,” Jessica explained.
It looked like one of those old Lord and Taylor’s bags, the kind that snapped closed on the top. Myron pulled it
