SHERIFF DAVE MOORE HELD UP HIS HAND, HALTING his officers. Ahead of him, young, freckle-faced Deputy Ron Mackey pressed against the peeling siding of the old house. His white knuckles gleamed against the black grip of his gun.
Dave crept closer.
“They’re inside,” Ron whispered. “The dog that attacked her is there. It’s huge. I think I can shoot it without hitting the girl.”
“Where are the rest of the deputies?” Dave asked.
“Said they missed the turnoff. They’re on their way.”
Dave advanced and pressed against the other side of the doorway. “Are you sure it’s a dog, not a wolf?”
Ron nodded. “It’s white with long fur. Big head. Yeah, I’m sure.”
Dave clenched his teeth, then made an effort to relax his jaw. “I’m going to take a look. If the dog moves, shoot it.” He nodded at the EMTs waiting in the parked ambulance, signaled the rest of his deputies to draw their weapons, pulled out his own, then peered around the corner.
The corpse sprawled on her back. The canine lying between Dave and the body raised its head and stared at him.
Dave lowered his gun and stepped through the door. “Winston?”
“Move left, Dave. I haven’t got a clear shot!” Ron said.
“Put your gun away.” Dave approached the dog. Winston didn’t stand to greet him. Dave paused midstep and stared at Winston’s stretched-out rear legs, then turned and looked through the door. He could see a trail of broken and bent grass. He squatted down beside the dog and stroked his head. “Easy, Winston, easy. I need to help her.”
“Dave, the dog’s a killer!”
“Winston didn’t hurt anyone,” Dave said. “He’s guarding the body.” Winston nudged Dave’s hand. Dave moved past him and knelt. The girl’s face was ashen, eyes closed. She wasn’t much older than a child. He touched her throat, feeling for a pulse he knew wouldn’t be there.
He jerked his hand away.
“She’s alive! Get the EMTs in here right now.” He stood. “Dre,” he called to Deputy Andre Arceneaux, waiting outside the door. “Secure this place. Ron, get Gwen Marcey on the phone. This is her dog and her coat on the girl. Get someone to call this in to dispatch, now, only medical staff. Move!”
The emergency medical team burst into the room, but froze at the sight of the dog.
Dave bent over Winston. “It’s okay, big fella, they’re here to help.” Straightening, he waved the medical staff over. “Go ahead. Don’t mind the dog.”
The team swarmed over the girl. Dave moved out of their way and stepped outside.
Their rescue efforts hopefully wouldn’t compromise the crime scene too much.
Several deputies trotted up and gathered around Dave. “Sorry we’re late,” one said.
“You stay with the girl.” Dave pointed as he spoke. “You”—finger jab—“get out to the county road and keep anyone out who isn’t supposed to be here. You”—another jab—“call the vet and let them know about Winston.”
“No phone reception here,” Ron said. “But dispatch was able to get through to Gwen. I mean her daughter. She said her mom left to look for a body, came back, screamed at her to lock all the doors, tore through the house looking for something, then took off in the car. Does that make sense?”
“For Gwen, yeah.” Dave raised his head at the sound of yet another vehicle. A clean but battered white 2001 Audi A4 emerged from the snowberry bushes, careened into the field, and slid to a stop between a patrol car and ambulance.
Gwen jumped out and raced over to Dave. “You found her . . . I thought it was Aynslee . . . And Winston . . . and I ran . . . Dispatch said . . . He returned . . . Couldn’t find my car keys . . .”
Dave took her arm and led her away from the gawking Ron. He dropped his hand. “Take your time.”
Gwen looked into his eyes. “The girl . . .?”
Dave nodded. “They’re working on her now.”
“I thought it was Aynslee.” She shook her head.
Dave jerked his head back. He replayed his first vision of the girl in his mind. “Maybe the hair?”
She nodded. “I thought . . .” She tried to go on, then held up her hand and walked a few paces away. After a few minutes, she blew her nose, wiped her face, and returned. “I left Winston . . .”
“We found him guarding the girl.”
“He’s—”
“Fine.”
“That . . . that . . . I can’t think of bad enough words to describe the man who did that to that child.” Gwen waved her arms. “Then he hit my dog! I need to get him to the vet.”
She started to walk toward the building, but Dave restrained her. “I’ll get one of my men to take care of it. I need you to tell me what happened.”
Gwen turned her back to him and stood motionless for a moment. Her hair had grown since the last time he’d seen her. She absently ran her hand through the short blond waves, pausing when she met a chunk of tree bark and plucked it out. Pyrenees fur dusted her muddy jeans.
She turned. Smeared mascara under her eyes made her look like a homeless waif. He looked away quickly, remembering the day he’d met her. His dad had caught her stealing apples from a neighbor’s orchard. It turned out she’d been living in their barn for who knows how long. Dad brought her home for a real meal. She’d stayed with them for the next five years. She’d never spoken of her life before that day. At least not to him.
“Okay,” Gwen said.
Dave pulled out a notepad and pen, then nodded to her.
“Winston found the cranium yesterday, as you know. When I encouraged him to take me to his treasure trove, he brought me here, then he brought me the girl’s sandal. That’s what made me look in the house.”
“Was the girl conscious when you found her?”
“Briefly.”
“Did she say anything?” He waited, pen hovering above his notebook.
“Uh. Just a couple of words. ‘Stay. No, remember six twenty-five.’ ”
“I wonder what that means.”
“No clue. She nodded when I asked if her name was Mattie.”
“So, we’ve found the missing Mattie Banks.”
“The girl abducted yesterday from Missoula. Looks like she’s experienced a pretty rough life. She was probably hooking, which made her a high risk.”
“An easy target.”
“Are you going to interrupt me? I thought you wanted—”
“Sorry.” He knew better than to smile.
“Are you going to look for her folks?”
Dave couldn’t read her expression. “We’ll try.”
Gwen folded her arms. “She’s young, very young. She looks about Aynslee’s age.”
“I figured a runaway or throwaway.” Dave watched her face carefully. Gwen might have a knee-jerk response to throwaways, children forgotten by society who ended up on the streets. Or dead. Gwen had been lucky; she could have ended up like Mattie.
A muscle tightened in Gwen’s jaw, and she glanced away. “Yeah, well . . .”
Dave waited for her to continue, but she just stared off into the distance. “Gwen?”
“Sorry. Got to thinking about something else. I didn’t notice track marks on her arms, but she may be into prescription drugs.” Gwen’s voice was husky. “I haven’t looked at mug photos for a while, so I didn’t recognize her.” She pulled a pencil from her pocket and tucked it behind her ear. “The unknown suspect—”
“Unknown suspect? You’re talking FBI-eze. You’ve been gone too long.”
“You’re interrupting again. Okay, the slimeball used control, of course, and demonstrated organized behavior, tying her up with rope or cuffs that he brought with him. Her wrists and ankles are abraded. Maybe he even used some drug to further subdue her.”
Dave grinned. His dad had trained her well.
“He returned.” She checked her watch. “At 0917. Winston chased him off, but the suspect hit him with his car . . .” She swallowed.
“You saw his car?”
“No, I fell trying to keep Winston from getting hurt. Fat lot of good that did.” She kicked a pinecone. “The bushes over there and the way the road dips kept his car out of sight, but I heard it. It sounded like a gas engine, not electric or diesel. Unfortunately, we all drove over the same route, but maybe you’ll get lucky with tire tracks. About Winston—”
“We’ll get him to the vet. Is this where Winston found the skull?”
She nodded. “There’s a buried body, or body parts, next to the house.”
Dave opened a fresh page in his notebook. “Speculation?”
“I think my dog has a broken or dislocated hip—”
“I mean, speculation on this crime.”
“Yeah, so, uh, he used the house as a kill site, with that grave indicating at least one dump site . . . You know I’m not a profiler?”
Dave looked up. “I know.”
“So why are you asking me?”
“Two reasons.” He held up his index finger. “Number one, you have good insight. Number two, we don’t have a profiler. We’re lucky to have Dre.”
“Is that the guy with all the tattoos?”
“Yeah. Andre Arceneaux. A lateral transfer from Spokane, but originally from West Monroe, Louisiana. Don’t let his tattoos and piercings throw you. He was an undercover agent for Ouachita Parish.”
Gwen opened her mouth, but Dave was on a roll.
“We’re lucky he took a couple of forensic classes last year. That’s all people think about anymore. They watch TV, all those crime shows, and they think it’s really like that. Case solved in an hour minus commercials, using the latest scientific gadgets. A CSI team waiting for our call, trained and ready. When my dad was sheriff, no one questioned him about forensic science.”
“But your dad—”
“Not three days ago, Mrs. Post called. Stray dogs killed a bunch of chickens. She wanted me to do DNA tests on the blood.” Dave violently swatted a deerfly buzzing near his head. “DNA. Chicken blood. This is Copper Creek, Montana!”
Gwen cocked her head and narrowed one eye. “So did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“The DNA on the blood?”
He folded his arms. “You. Are. So . . . Just finish giving me your thoughts about this case.”
Gwen slowly turned in a circle. Dave followed her movements and tried to view the scene through her eyes. Patrol cars lined the field next to the house. One officer unrolled cadmium-yellow tape, boldly announcing Police Line—Do Not Cross in block print, from tree to tree. Methodically, he created a path to the grave before circling the house. The pine-covered mountains crowded in on three sides. The driveway dropped to the county road to their left. A faint dirt track, or logging skid trail, continued past the house toward the mountains. Rusty barbed wire, looped between gray posts, enclosed a sloping upper field. Most of the fence lay snarled in the tall grasses. The crackle of radios and the rushing stream provided the only sounds.
“If you don’t think about why we’re here, it’s actually a pretty spot,” Gwen said, still looking around. “I painted it once, put it into an exhibit with a couple of other old homesteads.”
“I remember the show. You sold every piece.”
“Don’t be too impressed. There were only five paintings.” She shrugged. “Anyway, back to here. The house was well chosen. This guy knows the area. This is a difficult location to find, especially the road leading in here. It’s overgrown and has a weird turn as you drive up.”
“Yeah. Some of the deputies were late getting here. They couldn’t find the entrance.”
“Okay. So, the killer could have a connection with a government agency like Fish, Wildlife, and Parks—or Forest Service. Possibly even law enforcement. Someone who might patrol the roads and would blend in. That’s probably a key, someone not out of place where locals inspect the drivers of every truck or car. That would also include hunters.”
Dave looked up quickly.
“Animal hunter. Elk, deer, bear,” Gwen amended. “A hunter might stumble onto this location.”
“Possible, but I think he knows the locale pretty well. An outside hunter would need maps, and this place isn’t on any hunting maps. It’s private land and it’s posted.”
Gwen took a swift intake of breath.
“What?” he asked.
“Something . . . a thought.” She waved her hand in front of her face as if swatting a fly. “Gone before I could nail it down.”
Dave stared at the overgrown road. “Somebody knew about this place. Maybe we should look at the landowner. This could be a convenient—”
“I know where you’re going, but, if you pardon the expression, that’s a dead end. When I painted this place, I got permission from the owner. Ida Mae McCandless.”
“Wasn’t she the secretary at the Congregational church?”
“Yeah. Retired now, in her seventies, a widow, and hardly a serial killer.”
“Okay, then . . .” He looked up at the distant sound of an airplane. The jet was a tiny speck in the sky.
“It’s an ideal spot for his work . . .” Gwen’s gaze drifted toward the structure. “Ideal.” She moved closer to the house.
“What?” Dave asked.
“Think about it, Dave. He abducted Mattie yesterday morning, kept her restrained and alive for almost twenty-four hours, then left. Why? He returned, but again the question is why.”
“Maybe he thought she was dead and was going to bury her. He could have needed something, like a shovel.”
“But he brought a blanket. He was prepared. No, no.” She chewed her lip. “This place is totally hidden. No one would disturb him, yet he stopped short of killing her and left.” She looked up, then squinted. “We might just have an x factor.”
“Like the television show? Aliens?”
“That’s X Files. An x factor is an unplanned . . . something that screws up the killer’s fantasy.” She stared at the farmhouse. “Not a weapon . . . His car worked just fine . . . The girl did something . . . No, I showed up after he left, so no witnesses interrupted him . . . no one. That could be it! It wasn’t a person that made him stop, it was time. Daylight.”
“Go on.”
“What if . . . what if he took a break, or noticed suddenly that the sun was coming up.”
“ ‘The light disturbs the wicked and stops the arm that is raised in violence.’ ”
“Isaiah?” Gwen asked.
“Job. Just musing.”
“I’m going to make a guess.” She bent over and pulled a blade of grass, then absently wrapped it around her finger. “He’s playing out his ritual . . . the lipstick . . . spraying her with perfume . . . whatever else.” Gwen snapped the grass in two and tossed it on the ground. “He suddenly noticed he could see her without his flashlight or lantern. He got up and walked to the door. Looked at his watch. Thought, Criminy, look at the time!”
“Criminy?”
“You get my drift. Anyway, the girl was almost dead. She’s certainly not going anywhere. Then he noticed the exposed bones. They’d be hard to miss in daylight. But he can’t kill and bury the girl and rebury the bones right away because he has a job, someplace he has to be. Maybe he even starts to dig, but realizes he needs to show up at work. He doesn’t want to arouse suspicion.”
Dave nodded. “He checks in, or punches in—”
“Or even has to leave to call in. Remember, there’s no cell reception.”
“Sunrise would be around six thirty.”
“But this is a north-south valley, so the sunrise would be somewhat later,” Gwen said. “Assuming he’d have to go home and shower, he might have to check in or be at work before eight.” “Well.” Dave shifted his weight. “That’s a lot of speculation and not a lot of elimination of suspects.”
“Hey, you’re the one who asked me for input. I’m not done. The proximity of the kill site to the dump site could mean he’s not particularly strong as it’s hard to move a body any distance, even a small one. He might also want to be near his former victims. Hmm. This reminds me of that serial killer over in Spokane about four or five years ago. He used both physical and psychological torture and liked young, slender victims.” She shook her head. “But I believe the victims were boys, and they caught him. I think.”
“Maybe he’s loose again. Bundy got away and killed several more women. I can find out if the Spokane killer was ever caught or is incarcerated.” Dave jotted a note.
“So. Okay. Bundy. Yeah.” Gwen stared off into the distance.
“Hello? Earth to Gwen. What’s going on in that brain of yours?”
“Sorry.” She pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote something.
“I assume that if your thought is meaningful, you’ll let me know. What else did you notice?”
“He’s between five foot ten and six foot, is around wood chips—”
“I thought you said you didn’t see him.”
“You’re doing it again, Dave. Bad interviewing technique. Never interrupt the witness.”
“Don’t correct me! You’re not on your lecture circuit—”
“And you’re not your dad!”
Dave’s gaze locked on Gwen. Heat rose from his chest, to his neck, then his cheeks. The silence stretched between them.
“Excuse me?” Ron approached from the house, his face pale and his hand shook as he held up a paper sack. “Is this yours?” he asked Gwen.
She looked inside. “Yes, that’s my jacket. I suppose it’s evidence now.” She turned to Dave. “My car keys are in the pocket.”
Dave snatched the bag, yanked out the keys, tossed them to Gwen, then shoved the sack into the startled Ron’s hands. “Get Dre to seal it.”
“Sorry.” Gwen looked pale. “I don’t know what got into me.”
“You’re rusty,” Dave said.
“I deserved that.” Gwen turned to Ron. “First case like this?”
Ron blushed. “First case period. I never . . .” He cleared his throat.
She gently touched his arm. “Is Mattie going to be all right?”
“She’s unconscious and, like, really messed up. The EMTs are getting ready to put her in the ambulance right now.”
A white van with a Missoula television logo painted on the side pulled up next to Gwen’s car. A cameraman hopped out of the passenger seat and began filming while a determined-looking reporter headed their direction.
Dave groaned. “Great. Ron, have someone follow the ambulance. I want to know the minute she’s awake and talking.” He moved toward the reporter, still speaking. “Get some help loading Winston into your cruiser and have someone drive him to the vet.” Dave stopped and turned to Gwen. “Winston will be in good hands.”
“I’ll take him.” Gwen started toward the house.
Dave grabbed her arm. “I need you here. We have a crime scene.”
Gwen yanked her arm away. “My dog’s hurt. I need to take care of him. And don’t forget, I’m no longer on salary.”
“I’ll rearrange the budget and squeeze the money out somehow.” Dave folded shut his notebook and started walking toward the reporter. Two burly deputies carried Winston from the house, his limp body like a giant polar-bear rug. They placed him in the rear seat of a patrol car and shut the door. Winston stared out the window, panting.
Dave reached the reporter, then turned and watched Gwen. She slipped in the car beside the dog, hugged him, then stepped out and closed the door.
Four EMTs carrying a stretcher negotiated through the narrow doorway of the house, then slid the gurney into the ambulance and drove away, lights flashing. A deputy followed in his cruiser, then the patrol car with Winston.
Dave turned to the reporter. “How did you hear about this so fast?”
The reporter stuck a microphone into his face. “I can’t reveal our sources. We were already in the area doing a story on the wolf attacks. Do you have a comment?”
“Yeah. Stay behind the police line and don’t get in our way.”
The reporter jerked her head toward Dave’s left. “That’s Gwen Marcey.”
“Yeah. So?”
“I did a feature on her two years ago. Didn’t know she went to crime scenes. Thought she just worked out of her studio.”
Dave gave a frustrated sigh. “You didn’t do a very good interview, then. Gwen’s more than a composite artist. She’s . . . You know, I’m too busy to talk to you now.”
Someone tapped him on the back. He spun around. Gwen.
“I’ll get my kit,” she said. “We can start at the grave.”
Dave nodded and jerked his head. They moved away from the probing microphone. “There’s something else you need to know,” he said quietly. “This guy’s twisted—”
“That’s obvious.”
Dave held up his hand. “I think he called in the 911 report. He said a vicious dog attacked the girl. If I hadn’t recognized Winston, we would’ve shot him.”
Gwen’s face drained of color. Without a word, she headed for her car.
Dre approached and set down his duffel bag. “Is that the Gwen Marcey you’re always talking about?”
“Yeah.”
“Is she well enough to work the scene? I heard—”
“You heard wrong. She’s fine.” Dave nodded after the retreating Gwen. “More than fine. This guy tortured a young girl and hit Gwen’s dog. He’s got no idea who he’s just tangled with.”