"You drive like a maniac," he said. "I could barely keep up with you"
Emily faked a smile. "That's because you drive like someone's grandpa"
Christopher shrugged and allowed her the upper hand. He cracked the window. The car was warm inside. "You ready to do this?" he asked.
"What about backup? Did you call the local blues?"
"Nope. We don't need them. We're just doing a little surveillance."
"What if we're wrong and she-they aren't here? What if Walker's playing some kind of mind game?"
"There's no what if on that one. He is. He's got to be ""
Emily opened the door; the soft ping of the warning sound faded into the stormy air. "Let's go"
The cabin had been remodeled in the years since they'd both been there. People with money had taken the place with the idea they'd be able to turn it into a bed and breakfast. They'd had intermittent success. During his drive from Tacoma, Christopher had contacted the owners, now living in Seattle and the place was vacant. It was not owned by Walker's cousin after all.
"Worst investment we ever made," the gruff-voiced man said. "The place is cursed. Can't keep it booked more than half the season. Go ahead. Have a look around. If you like it, I'll make you a deal on a rental."
That would never happen, of course. The Seattle detective could think of nothing more unlikely than vacationing at the scene of the Tuttle shooting.
"Key's under the gull by the front door," the man had said.
Chapter Thirty-six
Monday, 11:30 P.M, Copper Beach, Washington
When Emily and Christopher got within ten yards of the cabin's front door, a porch light-a floodlight, no less-went off like a paparazzo's camera. Flash! They blinked back the sudden, silent explosion of brightness. Who was that? Their eyes had barely adjusted to the flash when a figure, the silhouette of a man, appeared in the doorway, then disappeared.
"Come on in," a voice called out from somewhere in the pool of light. "I've been expecting you"
It was a familiar voice: the voice of a thousand cheap documentaries with prison interviews over which he presided whenever a pretty producer would call. It was Dylan Walker.
"Put your hands where we can see them, Walker." Christopher used his don't-mess-with-me voice. It was a far cry from the tough voice he'd use on a garden-variety suspect.
For a cop, Dylan Walker was the unholy grail.
"Why should I?"
Walker lingered for a beat before turning his back and sauntering farther into the cabin, out of view. It was as if he hadn't a care in the world and loved the attention of two guns pointed at him. "You arrest me," he called out. "You shoot me in the back. Either way, you'll never see your daughter again."
Both guns pitched in front of them, the two went up the steps. Emily knew that if Jenna wasn't there-and she knew that possibility was next to nil-then only one person would know where Jenna was. The man who would be king of the serial killers was the only one who could save her daughter.
Dylan Walker was a man without compassion.
Emily, just behind Chris, whispered, "We're going in."
The wind howled behind them. Chris gave a slight nod, as if to say everything would be fine.
"Stay close," he said.
She wouldn't have it any other way. He always could read my mind, she thought.
The pair stepped out of the windy night and through the open door. Sand moved under their feet like fine grit sandpaper. A carving of a seagull on a piling crouched in the space next to the doorway. Dead houseplants lined the entryway, a kind of graveyard of neglect that indicated no one lived in the cabin full-time. Neither could see Dylan Walker just then. Flames crackled through the driftwood logs in the river rock fireplace that went from the floor to the ceiling like a stone temple, hollowed by fire. It was a cozy scene.
Cozy for a serial killer.
Walker appeared, coming out of what Emily was certain was the rental's tiny kitchen. She'd been there. She knew. Dylan Walker held a beer and a gun.
"Thirsty?" he asked. "I have some Doritos, too"
Christopher almost shook his head at the remark. "Maybe you're blind and you don't see the guns here? Drop yours now."
Dylan shrugged at Christopher, but addressed Emily. "Maybe you don't know how to have a good time? Do you, Emily? I mean, you haven't had a good time since Reynard Tuttle went down. Since Kristi Cooper." He set the beer on a lamp table and grinned. "Didn't you shoot Tuttle right here?"
Emily stayed mute. She wanted to speak, but she was fighting the memories he was callously flinging at her. Walker pointed to a spot on the worn pine floorboards. "Still stained."
Emily glanced at Chris who kept his weapon punched toward Dylan. Then, almost reluctantly, she cast her gaze downward. The wood floor was scuffed and scratched, but its color was golden, a perfect Swedish finish. There were no stains. No blood. By the time she looked over at Walker, she knew he'd gotten what he'd wanted. His self-satisfied grin told her everything.
"Made you look," he said.
"You're a real piece of work, Walker," said Christopher.
"Oh, you really scare me"
"I mean to "" Christopher's mouth was a straight line of anger.
Dylan laughed and patted his firearm. He backed into a chair, stretching out his sinewy legs to meet a tattered, upholstered ottoman.
Emily tried to gather her wits. She willed her heart to slow its rapid pace. Where is all of this going? The scene was surreal with the three of them, guns drawn at each other in a bizarre stalemate. She and Chris both knew that if Jenna and Nick weren't in the cabin with Walker, they could be anywhere. The man with the perfect body and piercing, cold eyes was the only one who knew just where that could be.
"Where's my daughter? Where's Nick Martin?"
"Not here, if that's what you're asking. Look around"
With Chris covering her, Emily moved swiftly from the main room, to the kitchen, to the single bedroom. A window was open and she could hear the roar of the Pacific, but no sign of her daughter. Why is this happening? Why is God doing this to me? Emily fought to push all of the things that spoke to her being a mother to the back of her consciousness. Let the cop take over, she thought. Let the cop find the girl.
"Last chance. Where is she?" Emily's gun, once more directed at Dylan Walker, wavered just a little. She moved her finger on the trigger.
Chris looked at her with abject horror. Not again, Emily. "Let's keep cool here, Walker," Chris said, though his words were really meant for Emily.
Walker knew it.
"Tell that to Ms. Rambo"
Emily didn't say anything. She let Christopher take over. She knew she'd lost her perspective just then. She was a mother more than she was a cop.
"Let's all stand down, all right?" Christopher asked, his voice cool and commanding. "No one needs to get hurt here."
"Good idea. If I get hurt, Jenna dies. So I'm game. And if you don't think I can keep a secret, you don't know me at all. But I'm willing to talk. Maybe. Just point your guns to the floor" Dylan lowered his gun slightly, his eyes fastened on his adversaries, who both ignored his request.
Emily had wanted to kill Dylan Walker for all that he'd done. But trumping all of that, of course, was Jenna's whereabouts. Her safety. Sucking up to a monster could save her. It was the only thing she could do. But there was another presence in the room ... Kristi Cooper. Emily knew that Kristi was the reason for this horrific reunion.
"Where is she? Where is Jenna?"
"At first, I thought the Tuttle shooting was a godsend," Walker said, ignoring her question. "You'd killed an innocent man. I'd gotten away with something. Your murder of Tuttle made mine a perfect crime-"