Nowhere Pure, page 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“If you’re right,” Callaway said as he and Cole approached the front door of Tiffany Glover’s house, “those girls are lucky the killer wasn’t there when they showed up.”
Along the drive from the nuclear silo to the Glovers’ home in Lockridge, where both of the teenage girls who had discovered the body—Tiffany Glover and Ginny Weiss—were with their parents as they told their stories to the police, Cole had considered just such a possibility. Had the timing been different, those two girls might have run into the killer while he was going about his routine, or maybe even while he was hanging the body.
If they had, Cole thought, I have a feeling we’d be investigating four murders instead of two.
The Glovers’ home was a sprawling estate hemmed in by acres of pecan trees. Gardens bursting with color flanked the white stone walkway that led from the gravel parking lot to the front door, where an English bulldog lay curled in a rocking chair, lazily licking its lips as it watched the agents through half-lidded eyes.
Callaway’s boots knocked hollowly against the steps as the two agents ascended the porch. The dog lifted its head, its jowls dangling as it regarded the strangers with curious, sad eyes, and then sank down onto the cushion again with a disappointed grumble.
Cole cleared her throat, composing herself for the conversation ahead, and grabbed hold of the door’s lion-head knocker, striking three times before stepping back.
Callaway turned his face toward Cole but kept his eyes on the door. “You think maybe he was there?” he asked in a low voice.
“The killer?” she asked.
“He could have been hiding in that back room, waiting for those girls to clear out before he left. Hell, he could have been sleeping when they arrived, for all we know.”
Before Cole could respond to Callaway’s speculation, the door opened, and a gray-haired man dressed in slippers, pajamas, and an AC/DC t-shirt stepped out. He gave the agents a flick of his hand—a wave, by the look of it—before clapping his hands at the dog.
“Come on, Butler. Let’s get some chow.”
The dog seemed reluctant to leave his perch. He rose, stretched his neck out, and then, after a long moment of indecision, tumbled down to the porch, his claws ticking on the boards as he approached his master. One acorn-brown eye peered up at Cole in passing, as if curious to know whether she would be joining him for his morning chow.
“It’s very important we keep him on a routine,” the man said almost apologetically as the dog ambled across the threshold, showing no urgency despite the promised meal. “It does bad things to his digestion if we don’t.”
Cole nodded, uncertain what to make of this disclosure. Once the dog was safely inside the house, the man suddenly seemed to remember something, and he looked squarely at the two agents for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve completely misplaced my manners. Everything’s mixed up right now.” He put out his hand. “Avery Glover.”
“Agent Cole,” Cole said, shaking the hand. “This is Agent Callaway. Is Tiffany your daughter, then?”
Avery nodded. “That’s right.” He stepped back and opened the door wider. “By all means, please come inside. The sooner we get this whole business behind us, the better.” He let out a world-weary sigh and began leading the agents down a tiled hallway.
At the end of the hallway, they entered a dining room with a crystal chandelier that caught a beam of sunlight from one of the several skylights, shattering the light into a multitude of shapes that clung to the plastered walls. The table below this chandelier was empty, but at the far end of the room, on sofas and upholstered chairs facing a hearth of mortared stone, sat several people, including two teenage girls and a pair of police officers.
It’s more like a palace than a home, Cole thought, marveling at her surroundings. She had been in fancier homes before, it was true, but not many. She almost expected to see servants coming and going with trays of food and to hear the rattle of carriage wheels on the cobblestones outside as a noble guest arrived.
“The FBI are here,” Avery announced. “Hide the drugs.”
One of the police officers smiled wryly and rose, setting aside his coffee mug and the saucer beneath it. “Right, then,” he said, clearing his throat. “We’ll get out of the way.” He turned back and gave the girls a paternal look. “Next time you have an idea like that, just leave well enough alone, eh?”
The girls said nothing, and the two officers passed Cole and Callaway, nodding politely. Cole turned her attention to the two girls.
The first thing she noticed was how unusual of a match they made. The girl on the left was golden-haired, with a patrician nose and bright eyes the color of tropical waters. The girl on the right, on the other hand, had brown eyes and brown hair, and there was an unhealthy-looking pallor to her skin.
Perhaps more striking than the contrast in physical characteristics, however, was the contrast in the two girls’ attitudes. The one with the golden hair kept her head raised, one eyebrow arched haughtily as she studied the two agents, while the dark-haired girl sat slumped in her chair, her eyes downcast and her head hanging as if a great weight were bearing down on it.
How are these two friends?
Cole was about to introduce herself when the golden-haired girl spoke up.
“How long is this going to take?” she asked. She glanced at Avery. “You said we were almost done, Dad.”
Avery smiled conciliatorily. “Shouldn’t be much longer, sweet. Isn’t that right?” His eyes flicked to the two agents.
“We can’t make any promises,” Cole said. “We have to be thorough, and that may take some time.” She felt no need to placate this entitled young woman who was so clearly used to getting her own way.
The golden-haired girl—Tiffany, apparently—sighed and rolled her eyes, then began examining her nails, which gleamed with a fresh coat of pink paint. “Hurry up, then. What do you want to know?”
“Why don’t you start by telling us what happened?” Cole suggested. She was doing her best to keep her cool, despite Tiffany’s behavior. It was far from easy.
“Just like we told the police officers,” Tiffany said with a shrug. “We went down there, we found the body, we got out and called the police. That’s what happened.”
“What brought you there in the first place?” Callaway asked, easing himself down into a chair.
The two girls exchanged a glance.
“It was a dare,” Tiffany said. “I dared Ginny to go down there. I didn’t really think she’d do it, to be honest, but she did.”
“Why the silo?” Cole asked. “Had you been there before?”
Tiffany was silent for a few seconds. “I guess I just thought of it because I drive by it all the time, and there’s that little sign by the road. Plus, we’re studying the Cold War in history class, so I thought it’d be fun to take a little field trip.” She smiled, but there was something hollow in the expression, and Cole had the impression that Tiffany was simply putting on a front to hide how shaken she had been by the discovery of the body.
Growing up in a house like this, Cole thought, I’m sure she’s used to keeping up appearances. Probably doesn’t know how to admit how scared she was.
“How’d you get in?” she asked.
Tiffany looked confused. “We opened the door and went down the stairs. What do you mean?”
“Government sites like that silo,” Callaway said, “are kept locked as a rule. They can be quite dangerous, especially without adequate lighting, and there’s no telling what condition the structure is in after decades of disuse.”
“Maybe I can pick a padlock.”
“It was unlocked,” Ginny said, lifting her head as she joined the conversation for the first time. Her voice was heavy, her eyes troubled.
“That’s it?” Cole asked. “You just walked up to it and found it unlocked?”
“The padlock was still on it,” Tiffany said, taking over again. “But it wasn’t clipped together, you know? I just had to pull it out of the way.”
Cole leaned back, unsure what to make of this information. The fact that the silo had been unlocked suggested the killer may have been planning to return, assuming he wasn’t already in the silo when the girls arrived. Or he may have wanted someone to discover the body, though Cole did not think this was particularly likely. Had the killer wanted the body to be found, he probably would not have hidden it beneath the ground.
But where had the killer gotten the key? Or had he cut off the original padlock, then installed his own?
There was a metallic ringing nearby as the dog—Butler, Avery had called him—gobbled up the last of his chow. He came toddling over and paused, looking glumly from face to face as if waiting for instructions.
“When you went inside,” Cole asked the girls, picking up the thread of the conversation, “did you notice anything on the floor? Any footprints, scuff marks?”
The two teenage girls exchanged another glance. Tiffany shook her head. “Nothing like that. I wasn’t really paying attention to the floor, to be honest.”
As Tiffany spoke, a shadow passed over Ginny’s face, and the dark-haired girl looked down, her long hair hiding her eyes.
“What about you, Ginny?” Cole asked. “See anything unusual?”
“I told you; we didn’t see anything,” Tiffany said, sounding offended that Cole would ask Ginny the same question.
The tone of Tiffany’s voice rankled Cole, but she kept her anger in check. “I think Ginny can speak for herself,” she said.
Now, everyone was watching Ginny, waiting to hear what she would say. She looked up, met Cole’s eye for a brief moment, and then shook her head again.
“I didn’t see anything,” she murmured. “Just like Tiffany said.”
Tiffany smiled triumphantly. “See? I told you.” She leaned back and arched an eyebrow as if to say, Do you have any more useless questions?
A man cleared his throat nearby, and Cole turned to see Avery standing a few paces away, checking his watch. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but Tiff’s got cheerleading practice in fifteen minutes. Think we can wrap this up? She really hates to be late.”
Cole was about to remind Avery that a murder investigation was a bit more important than cheerleading practice, but Callaway touched her arm, distracting her.
“We completely understand,” he said, rising. “We’ll come back another time.”
Cole was fuming as Avery led her and Callaway back to the front door. Avery waved and closed the door behind them and then Cole turned to Callaway.
“What was that about?” she demanded. “Ginny might know something.”
“She might,” Callaway said, “but she ain’t telling us in front of her friend. No sense pulling a tooth before it’s loose.”
Cole had never heard this particular expression before, but she thought she got the general idea. Still, it was frustrating to be pulled away when she knew Ginny might have some crucial piece of information to give them.
They had almost reached the car when a voice called them from behind. They turned around to see Ginny. She was fidgeting with her hands, and she cast an anxious glance over her shoulder in the direction of the house.
“Tiff’s telling the truth when she says she didn’t see anything,” Ginny said. “She wouldn’t lie about that.”
Cole nodded, waiting. She didn’t think Ginny had come after them just to vouch for her friend’s honesty.
Ginny sighed. Then, as if coming to a decision, she looked Cole square in the eye. “But I did,” she said. “After we saw the dead woman and when we were starting to run away … I saw this crack in the wall, like there was a door there but I didn’t notice it before—and there was a faint light glowing from the other side.”
She paused to swallow hard. Her eyes took on a haunted, far-off look.
“There was a shape in that doorway,” she said. “And a face too. I only saw it for a second, but I think …” She took a shuddering breath. “I think that face was smiling.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The man who thought of himself as the Dragon braided the rope together, smiling as he recalled the two teenage girls who had surprised him at the site of his previous kill. They had been so afraid, so deliciously terrified, and his only regret was that he had not found some way to get his hands on them too.
Many times throughout his life he’d been told that dogs could smell fear, and he was no different. It was a pungent odor that took some getting used to, but the Dragon did not enjoy the smell for its own sake but rather for what it represented.
Panic. Loss of control. The acknowledgment that he, the Dragon, was the one with all the power. Oh, how he itched to feel that power again.
Be patient, he told himself. Your chance will come again soon.
For now, he had simply to prepare himself, and so he went on looping the rope upon itself, taking his time as he gave his mind free rein to fantasize about past exploits.
Soon the knot was finished, and the Dragon tossed the rope casually over his shoulder. He looked around at the empty desert, which shimmered and wavered in the unrelenting heat, and became aware of just how hot he was, perched at the top of the shaft with his legs dangling over the ladder. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and his heartbeat pulsed almost painfully in his temple.
If you’d gotten lost in your head a little longer, you might’ve fallen right down the shaft, never to be heard from again.
As amusing as the thought was (he often enjoyed thinking about mortality, even his own), it was no fitting end for the Dragon. First, he had to become immortal, and only then could he die. All he had to do was take a few more lives.
And he already knew who the next one would be.
Crouching, he grabbed hold of the ladder and sank from the sun’s harsh glare, submerging himself inside the cool, comforting darkness below. He had a flashlight clipped to his belt, but he did not click it on. He knew his way by feel.
No need to spoil the fun.
At the bottom of the ladder, he paused to sniff the air. He loved the darkness, loved the way the earth surrounded him like a mother’s protective womb. He could breathe easily down here with no fear of prying eyes.
This was his home. His world.
For now, it was his alone, but soon he would get to share it—temporarily, of course. But it was a big deal, nonetheless. He did not often have guests.
Moving down the lightless tunnel, forsaking the sunny world high above, he hummed to himself and listened to the resonant notes reflected off the sides of the passage. A smile creased his lips. He would have to return to the outside world soon, he knew, but first he had to make sure everything was ready.
After all, it was only polite to set the table when one was having company.
After a while, he found himself in a large, vertical chamber. He descended to the lowest floor, where he moved about, searching for somewhere to tie the rope. This required the use of his flashlight—not even the Dragon could see in the dark, after all—so he set it on the ground and pointed it away from himself, letting the beam’s reflection cast a soft glow over his surroundings.
Soon, he spotted what he was looking for, and he began securing one end of the rope. He left the other end dangling like a spider, ready to capture the first unsuspecting prey that came along.
It would not be long now.
With a smile, the Dragon stepped forward and lovingly ran his fingers along the rough fibers of the noose.
Everything was ready. All he had to do was pick up his guest.
CHAPTER SIX
I sure hope the killer wasn’t as careful this time as he was nine months ago, Cole thought as she and Callaway pushed through the pair of swinging doors that led into the hospital morgue, whose smell of chemical antiseptics didn’t quite entirely mask the underlying scent of blood.
We need a win here, something to point us in the right direction.
As necessary as it was to be there, Cole felt a simmering uncertainty rather than any sense of excitement at what they might learn. Though she was far past the point of squeamishness (she would have quit or been fired long ago if she’d been unable to handle being continually around death), morgues always took an emotional toll on her. Seeing lifeless bodies spread out on cold, metal trays, it was clear that whatever lifeforce—the soul, the spirit—that had animated the body was long gone, leaving behind only a decaying shell.
The only saving grace, she supposed, was that these shells, lifeless as they were, could still testify to what had happened to them even weeks, months, or years later, and solving these riddles was a big part of what drove Cole.
She just hoped Nicole Beck had a message for them today.
A radio was playing “Sympathy for the Devil,” and the forensic pathologist, Dr. Frank Isidore, was singing under his breath as he washed his hands in the sink, religiously scrubbing the nails with a small brush. Apparently, he had not heard the agents enter because as he turned, tearing off a paper towel to dry his hands, his bushy eyebrows shot up over the rims of his round spectacles.
“That was fast,” he said. “The body’s hardly cold, and here you are, no doubt looking for me to answer your every question.”
Cole smiled. She enjoyed Frank’s unflappable sense of humor. “You mind turning the radio down?” she asked. “It’s a little distracting.”
“See?” Frank said as he reached for the stereo’s volume knob. “There’s your first question, and you’ve only just arrived.” He picked up a bottle of soda, took a swallow, and then screwed the cap back on.
“So,” he said, gesturing at the corpse on a nearby table, covered by a white sheet. “I’m told she was found in a nuclear silo, is that right?”
Cole nodded. “That’s right. A couple of teenage girls went down there on a dare and found more than they bargained for.”
“Not the first time it’s happened, either,” Callaway added. “Another victim was found in a similar location last year.”
