“Nothing. Never mind.” She glanced at Tanner. “You happen to like Emmylou Harris?”
Tanner took a moment to reply. “I can pretend to.”
“Good enough. Friday night, a club in the Valley? Chicken wings and beer?”
“Sounds good, Killer.” He held up a hand before she could protest. “C.J., I mean. See how fast I learn?”
She thought about Adam, her three years wasted with him, and the year of loneliness since. “Faster than I do, I hope.”
Then they were outside, under the bright stars and the setting moon, and a rumpled man in a rumpled jacket was reaching out to take her arm. “Officer Osborn, I’m Detective Walsh.”
She recognized his voice. “You interviewed Adam.”
“Not my finest hour. He snowed me.”
“He’s good at that. Got me to marry him.”
“At least I didn’t go that far.”
The SWAT team moved past, carrying Adam on a gurney. They put him aboard the big chopper that sat not far from the warehouse, its rotor blades glinting like the wings of some fantastic insect.
“How’d you find me?” C.J. asked. “Where is this place?”
“Foothills near San Dimas. As for how we got here-you know the old joke that goes, ‘We’re from the federal government, and we’re here to help you’?”
“Yes?”
“This time it was no joke.” Walsh turned serious. “Listen, I hate to tell you this, but your problems aren’t over. There’s someone else who may be after you.”
“The Hourglass Killer,” C.J. said.
“You know?”
“I know. God, I have the worst luck with men.”
Walsh smiled, but there was no humor in his voice. “This wasn’t luck. He selected you deliberately. There seems to be a history.”
C.J. stopped.
“What?” she breathed.
“Did something happen to you as a child? Were you ever threatened, menaced? Because this man…” Walsh let his words trail off, and C.J. knew he could read the answer in her face.
“The boogeyman,” she whispered so softly that only Tanner, standing beside her, could hear.
“What was that?” Walsh asked.
She shook her head. “How close are you to nabbing him?”
“We were close,” Walsh began, “but-”
“He outmaneuvered us.” Tanner picked up the thought. “It was my operation, C.J. I let him slip away. I’m sorry.”
She was barely listening. Part of her was in the crawl space of her parents’ ranch house, gripping a kitchen knife while a stranger’s tread vibrated through the floorboards.
“This isn’t the time for pointing fingers,” Walsh said. “Bottom line is, he’s been killing for years-decades. He has some kind of fixation on you. And as Deputy Tanner indicated, he’s still at large.”
C.J. hugged herself against a chill, but when she spoke, there was no tremor in her voice.
“Not for long.”
PART THREE
59
Gavin Treat, the Webmaster. Bluebeard. The Hourglass Killer.
These were some of his names, but of course he’d had so many others through the years. The San Bernardino Stalker, the Pied Piper of Taos, the Mojave Strangler. In Dallas he had been the Night Shadow, and in the high country of Colorado he had been the Forest Trail Murderer. An incident in New Orleans had given him a sobriquet he especially liked-the Angel of Death.
These were names bestowed on him by himself or by the media. Then there were other names given to him by his victims in their last minutes or hours. Freak, psycho, piece of shit-the words people used when pain and terror had driven them past all calculation into the realm of pure emotion.
He cherished those names most of all. They were badges he wore with pride. Medals of honor, ribbons bedecking his chest, notches in his gun.
He wondered what name Caitlin Jean Osborn had for him. There must be one. He had traumatized her as a child. Such experiences, even if repressed, were never wholly forgotten.
He would like to ask her what she called him in her private thoughts. Perhaps he would. Soon.
His laptop computer-wired into the AC power to save the battery, connected to the Web via a cell phone using an ISP shell account-displayed the video image of Caitlin’s bedroom. The clock on the computer screen read 12:01 A.M. The Webcam was still running. The bedroom was visible in real time.
It was empty, as it had been all night. But Caitlin would have to return home sometime.
And he was patient, as patient as a trapdoor spider lying in wait for its prey.
He had waited sixteen years for his second chance at her. He would not give up now.
“You sure you want to do this?”
C.J. shut her eyes briefly, fighting off a wave of fatigue. “I’m sure.”
“You don’t have to. We’ll catch him eventually. It’s not necessary for you to put yourself in jeopardy.”
Her eyes opened, and she faced Morris Walsh. Because she knew he was only trying to be kind, she kept her voice level. “First of all, I won’t be in jeopardy. I’ll be safer than I’ve ever been. Isn’t that right, Rick?”
Tanner, seated at the far end of the table in the Parker Center conference room, hesitated only a moment before answering. “The way we’ll be covering your house, there’s no way he can get past us. He’ll be spotted no matter what he tries.” He swiveled toward Walsh. “We’ll have infrared sensors, long distance mikes, telescopic lenses trained on every door and window.”
“Plus they’ll be watching the live feed on the Web,” C.J. said. “They can see me in my bedroom even with the curtains closed.”
“Maybe,” Walsh persisted, “but it’s still unnecessary.”
“Wrong. It’s very necessary. We have to stop this guy.” C.J. glanced at Detective Cellini, seated next to her. “You’ve read parts of his journal?”
Cellini nodded. “And the forensics crew found news clippings in his bureau. Some of them were taken from newspapers that aren’t even in business anymore. He’s been doing this for a long time-twenty years, we’re guessing. The body count by now…” She let the statement trail off unfinished.
“He can’t get away this time,” Walsh said.
C.J. refused to accept that argument. “Why not? He’s been getting away for two decades.”
“But now we know who he is. We know his name. We have his driver’s license photo, his social security number.”
“Until he changes his name, gets fake ID, a new birth certificate, a new SSN. Come on, Detective. This man is smart. He’ll know how to lose himself. He’s probably got it all planned out. He might be on his way out of state right now, with a new identity, a new face.”
Walsh spread his hands. “Well, if he’s left town, your plan won’t work anyway.”
“It might.”
“If he’s not watching your house…”
“He’ll be watching, even if he’s fifty miles away. Look, you told me he took his computer with him when he fled. He can hook into the Internet from any phone line.”
“He doesn’t even need a phone line,” Cellini said. “His phone bill gives no indication he was using dial-up. Most likely he’s gone wireless. He probably uses a cell phone as a modem, with the cell account under another name.”
“Any way you look at it”-C.J. plowed ahead-“he can monitor the Web site. That’s how he’ll watch the house even if he’s nowhere near. And when he sees me in the bedroom…”
“He’ll come after you,” Walsh said. “If he’s as obsessed as you think.”
“Detective, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind for sixteen years. I’m betting he feels the same way about me. If he sees an opportunity to get me, he’ll take it.”
Walsh lowered his head in resignation. “You’re determined to go through with this?”
“Of course I am.”
“Then let’s get it done.” He looked at Tanner. “How many officers will be undercover at the scene?”
“Twenty LAPD, including Metro’s D Platoon. Fifteen Sheriff’s, including Pardon’s SWAT squad and yours truly. Plus technicians to set up the surveillance, and EMTs on standby.”