Nowhere Pure, page 15
“How long will it take?”
No answer. Seconds passed.
“Ray? Did you hear me?”
“Done,” he said. “I’ve got an IP address. Looks like he’s local—fifteen, twenty minutes from where you are.” He paused. “Not that I know your location, of course.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cole said, already aware of the fact that Ray liked to keep tabs on her. His interest was persistent but harmless, and though he broke legal boundaries now and then, he had never broken any of her personal boundaries, not when she had clearly communicated to him the consequences if he did.
“Anyway,” Ray went on, smoothing over his faux pas, “the point is, he’s in the area.”
“Any chance you can figure out his identity based on his location?”
In answer, she heard the swift tapping of keys. A few moments later, Ray spoke.
“Jean Morton, fifty-eight, lives there with her son, Drake. Yellow Pages, how I love thee.”
“Drake Morton,” Cole murmured, testing the sound of the name. “And you’re sure he’s the one sending the emails?”
Ray hesitated. “Well, it’s not as if I have footage of him doing it. But he lives at that address, and from what I’m reading about Jean online, she sounds like she’s more interested in homemade floral prints and crocheting get-togethers at the local church than world domination, so I’d say it’s a safe bet.”
Cole frowned, absently looking over one of the emails. “Alright, then. What can you tell me about him?”
“Well, he’s a chemist for one. Minored in physics. Dating life is nonexistent, as is his social media presence.” He snorted in disbelief. “Jeez, man, this is the twenty-first century! Get with the program!”
Ray’s words reminded Cole of something Dr. Frank Isidore had said during the autopsy of Nicole Beck: I found traces of some chemical clinging to the skin around the victim’s mouth. Cole had asked if it might be chloroform, and Frank had said no, but he hadn’t been able to give her more information without running some tests.
A chemist wouldn’t have any trouble whipping up a chemical concoction to subdue a person, she thought grimly. The singleness piece fit too. The killer was clearly obsessed with nuclear weapons—though whether he was for or against them wasn’t entirely clear—and a man with such a singular focus might have trouble engaging in the sort of mundane conversation necessary to a dating relationship. And from what Cole knew of serial killers, there was a good chance he didn’t even want such a relationship.
“Harley?” Ray asked. “Still there?”
“Still here. How can I find this guy, Ray? Can you track his phone?”
“Already did. I can send you the GPS coordinates. Or you can just follow the signs.”
“The signs?” Cole asked, puzzled.
“For the military installation. Apparently, your boy’s at some kind of abandoned nuclear silo. And based on this picture I have from a nearby traffic stop, it appears he’s not alone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Cole drove as fast as she dared along the dark, deserted highway while Callaway checked the magazine of his sidearm and chambered a round.
“You sure this is our guy?” he asked, not for the first time.
“It all fits,” she said. “His background, his political views, everything. It has to be him.”
They had taken Richland into custody for assaulting a federal employee, so she knew he would still be there if this should turn out to be another dead end. She didn’t think it would be, however. Something inside her—gut instinct, maybe—told her that Drake Morton was too good of a match for it to be a coincidence.
“Okay,” Callaway said quietly, sighing and lowering the weapon, “then we’d better be ready for anything.”
The headlights picked up a steel fence at the side of the highway, and Cole slowed, searching for a gate. At last, she saw it, and she turned off the road. The gate was unlatched, and it opened easily when she nudged it with the bumper of the Jeep.
On the far side, Cole spotted a small building similar to the one she had seen at the silo in which Nicole Beck’s body had been found. A small SUV was parked beside it, moonlight streaming through the windows to reveal nothing but empty seats.
Cole’s heartbeat kicked up a notch at the sight of the vehicle. Wasting no time, she unbuckled her seat belt and hurried out. The door leading down into the silo stood ajar, and she hurried toward it.
“Easy, partner,” Callaway whispered from behind her. “You’ll get yourself killed, rushing in there like that.”
Cole knew he was right. Still, the idea of taking their time when they knew Drake might be down there with one of his victims—it was like sand in Cole’s teeth.
She dug into her pocket for her flashlight. “The less we risk our lives,” she said, “the more we risk his next victim’s.” She looked at Callaway and met his eyes. “I’m going in.”
He nodded, looking both troubled and on high alert at the same time. “I’m right behind you.”
Steeling herself, Cole plunged down into the darkness.
The first thing she noticed was the smell: a lingering floral scent, so faint that it dissipated after a single breath. Then her gaze fell to the tracks leading down the dust-covered steps, a set of large, work boots overlapping a smaller set of sneaker prints.
Her heart gave a sharp beat inside her chest. So, he isn’t alone, she thought. Who was his latest victim? Was that victim still alive, or had Cole and Callaway come too late?
There’s only one way to find out, she thought, gritting her teeth.
Before long, the stairs ended, and the tunnel leveled out. She searched the walls for a map or a schematic, something to indicate where she was going, but she found nothing except traces of faded graffiti. She would have to find her way without any guidance.
Her flashlight picked out a large door to her left—a blast door, by the look of it.
“What do you think?” Callaway said softly, pausing beside her. “Do we take the door or keep going?”
Cole hesitated, unsure what to do. Then, while she was standing there, she heard something from further down the passageway, a sound that might have been a muffled scream.
“This way!” she said, hurrying forward, the beam of her flashlight jogging back and forth. Her heart was galloping in her chest, and cold sweat trickled down from her armpits.
The tunnel ended, opening into a large chamber—the room in which the nuclear missile had once been housed, Cole had no doubt. It was similar to the other silos, with maintenance platforms staggered at different heights, but instead of a ladder, there was a staircase leading down. Water dripped intermittently from the ceiling far above, hitting the floor close to where Cole was standing and splashing into tiny droplets.
“He must be down below,” she whispered to Callaway in a hushed, urgent voice. Callaway started to say something, but Cole didn’t wait to hear what it was. Instead, she hurried forward, the metal platform rattling beneath her footsteps.
As she descended, following the steps back and forth, she shone the beam of her flashlight at the ground far below. If the killer was down there, she did not see him.
Had she miscalculated? Had the scream—if it really had been a scream—come from somewhere else, and she was actually heading away from the killer and his victim rather than toward them? Had there even been another option other than going through the blast door?
It’s too late to second guess yourself now. All you can do is continue on ahead.
She did so, hoping against hope she hadn’t made a terrible mistake. She could hear Callaway’s footsteps thumping heavily behind her as he kept pace with her, his breathing steady in the ambient silence.
She had descended most of the way down the chamber when she came around a corner and noticed a patina of rust covering much of the platform in front of her. She didn’t know where the water was coming from, but it appeared to have been hitting this part of the stairs for a good long time.
There was a loud metallic groan as she moved forward.
“Careful!” Callaway cried out, but he was too late. Something snapped beneath Cole, and the platform sank beneath her with a loud, rusty groan. She lurched forward, trying to grasp part of the railing that was still intact, but instead, she felt herself sinking abruptly downward.
There was a rushing of wind and then she came to a jarring halt, her ankle twisting painfully as she fell forward and sprawled across the floor. Her hand struck the ground, releasing the flashlight, which cast a rolling orb of light as it tumbled away from her.
Then she was in darkness. Lightning bolts of pain shot up her right ankle, and she winced, grasping the ankle as if to stifle the hurt. She gritted her teeth and forced herself not to cry out, as if she could still maintain an element of surprise after crashing to the ground.
Callaway, however, had no such concerns. “Cole!” he called, the concern clear in his voice as his flashlight beam scoured the ground, searching for her. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine!” she answered, groaning as she tried to move her leg. “Just a little beat up. I lost my flashlight.”
“Just hang tight. I think I can jump this.”
Staring up, Cole could just barely make out the broken platform. Callaway was standing not far from where Cole had fallen, the metal slanting downward as if intent on spilling Callaway to the ground just as it had done with Cole.
“Forget about it!” she called back. “It’s too far!” Even as she said the words, though, she wondered if Callaway would take her doubt as a personal challenge.
Please don’t be stubborn, Callaway.
She watched as Callaway backed up, measuring the distance. He moved forward at a trot, backed up again, and paused. It was clear to Cole that he was less than confident about his chances of leaping across.
“You’ll have to find another way down!” she called.
To her surprise, Callaway didn’t argue with her. “Just sit tight,” he said in a tight voice. “I’ll find a way to get to you, Cole. I promise, I’m not going to leave you.”
“I know,” Cole called back, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.
Callaway hesitated a moment longer, staring down at her. Then he turned and began to jog back up the staircase, which rattled beneath him.
As the beam of Callaway’s flashlight disappeared, along with the sound of his footsteps, a heaviness filled Cole’s chest. She was on her own. Callaway would be back, without question, but what might happen before then?
I might not be alone down here, she thought with a shudder. What happens if the killer finds me before Callaway does?
Killer or no killer, though, she wasn’t going to lie on the ground and wait for help to come. Planting one hand beneath her, she pushed herself up until she was crouched, putting nearly all her weight on her left ankle. Even just resting her right foot on the floor was enough to cause a flash of pain to run up her leg.
As she did so, she heard something—a scuffing sound, like the heel of a boot brushing against the ground. This was followed by a soft whimper, faint and almost child-like.
Immediately, Cole forgot all sense of personal pain. She peered around in the darkness, searching for the source of the whimper. It was much too dark to see … but, recalling what parts of the room she had glimpsed while Callaway had searched the room for her, she had a pretty good idea where the sound hadn’t come from.
She limped toward the flashlight in an awkward lurch, her fingers clamped tightly around the gun. The whimper came again from her right, louder this time and followed by a sharp sniff.
Hold on, Cole thought, willing that person—Drake’s next victim, she supposed—to keep her grip on her sanity for just another minute or two so that Cole could grab the flashlight.
The flashlight had rolled beneath a horizontal pipe that ran only a foot above the ground. She crouched, then knelt on her left knee, twisting and reaching beneath the pipe. Her fingers brushed something thin and plastic—a candy wrapper, perhaps—and then closed around the flashlight.
She pulled it out, turning and pointing the beam in the direction from which she had heard the whimper. As she did so, her breath caught in her throat.
A young woman was poised precariously on a steel barrel, her hands tied behind her back and her neck caught in a noose. Her heels were lifted as she strained to take the weight off her neck, and as Cole watched, those feet did a shifting, little tap-dance along the surface of the barrel, getting dangerously close to the edge.
The woman stared at Cole with a combination of hope and horror. “Help me!” she whispered.
Cole took one limping step forward—and that was when something crashed into the back of her skull.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Pain flared up Cole’s arm as her fingers were pried back, releasing their grip on the handgun one by one.
“Come on, now,” a low, almost amused voice said, followed by a dry chuckle. “Not very nice to bring a gun to a knife fight, now is it?”
Before Cole could fully make sense of what was happening, she felt the gun ripped from her hand. As her arm fell back against the cold concrete, she remembered all at once where she was and what had happened. She must have blacked out for a few moments, but it could not have been very long if the killer had only just now disarmed her.
A burst of adrenaline flooded her veins. A light was on—a work light, the kind with an adjustable base and a cage over the bulb—and in its slanting glow, she could see a long rope trailing beside her, twitching like some living thing.
She twisted around to see behind her, and she managed to glimpse a coil of rope just as it was placed over her neck.
Panicked, she slipped her hands beneath the rope just in time to prevent it from crushing her throat. In response, she heard another dry chuckle.
“Won’t do you much good,” her attacker said. “But I guess I can’t fault you for trying.”
With that, the rope began to tug at her, dragging her across the concrete. She pushed off the ground, pain flaring up her right ankle as she tried to take the pressure off her throat. Despite the effort of her hands to keep the rope from tightening, she already felt as if she were breathing through a straw.
Where are you, Callaway? she thought desperately, scrambling helplessly backward like some tortured insect. She wanted to scream his name, but she did not dare expend the oxygen. Besides, couldn’t he see the shop light? Even if he hadn’t found a way down, couldn’t he shoot the killer from up there?
Not if he went back into the tunnel, a cold voice answered in her mind. Not if he’s in some other part of the complex, perhaps so far removed that he wouldn’t hear you even if you did scream.
“I have to admit,” the man said as he dragged her along, “I’m curious. What brought you here? Was it me, the girl, the place? Was it just dumb luck, or did you really know I’d be here?”
Cole, fighting for her life, did not answer, and the man let out another chuckle.
“Not feeling very talkative, are you?” he asked. “I understand. Maybe, if you’re good, I’ll loosen the rope, and we can have a little conversation before this is all over, huh?”
At first, Cole hardly heard him, so focused was she on keeping the noose from cutting off her air. Then, as his words echoed in her mind, two realizations came to her: first, that he was curious how she had found him, and he might be reluctant to kill her until he gained that information; and second, that he seemed to believe she had come alone.
He doesn’t know about Callaway.
She felt a rush of savage joy at this realization. If Callaway returned, he would find the killer with his guard lowered, completely confident that he had the situation under control. The only problem was that Cole didn’t know when Callaway would return.
Or if he would be too late.
The pressure from the rope relaxed, and Cole flopped to the ground, striking her head on the floor. Darkness—a combination of cranial trauma and asphyxiation—swarmed her vision, threatening to blot out her senses.
Stay awake, she commanded herself. You can’t check out now.
There was a grating, grinding sound as something heavy rolled across the floor. Then Cole heard the man grunt, and a moment later, something slammed against the ground.
“There you are,” he said, sounding tired but satisfied with himself. “Your pedestal is ready. I wasn’t planning on there being two hangings, so you’ll have to forgive me for not being prepared.”
There was a beat of silence, and it occurred to Cole that the man was waiting for her to get up. Following her instincts, she decided to stay still, behaving as though she had passed out.
“Come on,” the man said with a touch of impatience. “We haven’t got all night. Actually, I suppose we do, but I’d really like to get this show on the road. I’ve got a can of beef stew on in the other room, and it’s all going to stick to the bottom if we don’t hurry.”
Still, Cole did not move. She lay on the ground and listened, trying to picture how close Drake was and what he would do. Was he holding her gun? He had mentioned something about a knife, so there was a good chance that even if she managed to disarm him, he would have a backup weapon ready.
Drake sighed impatiently. “Alright, if that’s how you want to do this.”
With a jerk, the rope went taut again. Cole felt herself dragged to her feet against her will, and she held on desperately with both hands, coughing and gasping for breath as she fought to keep her hands between the rope and her throat.
She was thrown back against a stout, cylindrical object, and the pressure eased momentarily.
Drake Morton was standing in front of her, gazing at her with an expression of both intense curiosity and something else—a hunger of some kind, though she did not think it was a hunger for her personally but rather for what she could do for him, not in life but in death. He was a burly man, large but limber-looking, veins pulsing in his arms like worms from the exertion of dragging her.
She spoke on a wave of revulsion, not knowing what the next words would be. “You get off on this, don’t you?” she asked, making no effort to hide her disgust. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?”
