She heads toward her bedroom, returning with an eight-by-ten photograph. "Here it is," she says, handing it to me. "Handsome as the devil. Which makes sense, I suppose, since he and the devil were such good friends."
When I look at the photograph, a chill runs through me. Any remaining doubt evaporates. I see those electric blue eyes, as shocking and beautiful in this portrait as Peter's are in real life. "They look almost exactly alike." I nod to James. "I'm sure now. Peter Hillstead is Keith Hillstead's son."
"So, you mean . . . we know who he is? The man who killed Renee?"
Don Rawlings is asking this question. Hope is trying to dawn in his eyes, but he is fighting it, reining it in, like a man trying to lasso a sunrise. Even with the turmoil churning inside me, I manage to give him a smile.
"That's right."
I watch ten years of age melt away from him. His eyes become even clearer, his face determined. "What do you want me to do?"
"I need you and Jenny to process the hell out of that basement. And this house. If we can find fingerprints to match up to Peter's . . ." I don't have to elaborate. They understand. We know who Jack Jr. is, but knowing and proving it in a court of law are two different things.
"We're on it," Jenny replies. "Where are you guys headed?"
"Back to LA to catch this fucker."
I feel a touch on my arm. In the blitzkrieg of excitement, I had almost forgotten that Patricia Connolly was there.
"Promise me something, Agent Barrett?"
"If I can, Ms. Connolly."
"I know Peter is a bad man now. He was probably doomed the moment his father made him set foot in that basement. But if you have to kill him . . . promise me you'll make it quick."
I look at Patricia and I see what I might have become. Had I continued to sit in my bedroom, staring at my scars in the mirror. If I had not killed myself, I would have become as she is: a ghost, made of smoke, chained by memories of pain. Waiting for one good gust of wind to blow her away into nothing.
"If it comes to that, Patricia, I'll do my best."
She touches my arm, this woman of gray, and sits back down in her chair. I imagine she will be found dead in that chair one day, having dozed off and never awoken.
"Can you give us a ride to the airport, Jenny?"
"You bet."
I look at James and Alan. "Let's go and end this."
56
I 'M ON THE phone with Leo as we hurtle through the air, halfway back to LA.
"Are you serious?" he's asking me.
I have just finished filling him in on what we found at the house in Concord.
"I'm afraid so. I need you to start putting together a warrant. It needs to cover his office and his home. Flesh it out, and when we arrive I'll fill in the details."
"Right."
"Dig up a photo of Hillstead. Then I want you to have the photographs that have been culled from the sex parties compared against that, and only that."
"I'm on it."
"Good. Let everyone know what's happening. I have to call AD
Jones. We should be back in a little over an hour."
"See you then, boss."
I hang up and dial into reception. They connect me with Shirley. "I need to speak to him now, Shirley. Wherever he is, whatever he's doing. It's important."
She doesn't ask or argue. Shirley knows I do not cry wolf. Within the next thirty seconds, I'm on the phone with AD Jones.
"What's happening?" he asks.
I give him the whole story. Concord. Keith Hillstead. The basement and what we found there. Ending with the revelation about Peter. Stunned silence. Then I have to hold the phone away from my ear for a moment as he rants and raves and curses.
"So the primary shrink for our agents in LA for the last decade--is a serial killer? That's what you're telling me?"
"Yes, sir. That is what I'm telling you."
A moment of silence, then: "Tell me the plan." His outbursts are over. Time for business.
"SFPD is processing the scene in Concord. Hopefully we'll find Peter's prints in that house. Even better, in the basement."
"Prints? After nearly thirty years?"
"Sure. There's a case of prints being developed off porous paper after forty years. I also have James putting together a warrant for his home and office, which I'll finish once we arrive. Once we have the warrant, I want to hit the search like gangbusters."
"What do you want to do with Hillstead?"
I understand his question. We don't have the evidence needed to arrest him, much less convict. "I'll have him pulled in and detained for questioning while we do the searches. Between that and the house in San Francisco we should be able to turn up something that we can make a formal arrest with."
"Bring me the warrant when you get here. I'll walk it through personally."
"Yes, sir."
He hangs up. I look at James and Alan. "It's all a go. Now we just need to get this damn plane to fly faster."
When the plane lands, we hit the ground running. Ten minutes later, we are speeding down the 405 freeway. I call Leo again.
"We're in the car on our way there. Do you have the basics of the warrant ready for me?"
"All you'll have to do is fill in some specifics and print it off."
"Good."
My cell phone rings after we've pulled up to the FBI building and are heading toward the entrance.
"This is Agent Barrett."
"Greetings, Agent Barrett." The voice is clear and undisguised. I motion for everyone to be silent.
"Hello, Dr. Hillstead."
"Bravo to you, Smoky. Bravo. I have to say, I wondered if Renee Parker would ever come back to haunt me. I broke one of the commandments with her--I hadn't found you yet, but I displayed my work regardless. I just couldn't help myself. I thought after twenty-five years . . . ah well. Best-laid plans. And giving Street the locket and book, well . . . he begged me for something. And he really did deserve a token. He was such a good student. Very enthusiastic." He chuckles. "Of course, I played around with the idea of trying to pin her murder on him, but here we are. Ah well."
His voice is the same, but its tone and the way he uses it are different. He speaks with a kind of sick frivolity and a properness I never heard from him in his office.
"You know?" I ask.
"Of course I know. I just stated that I have wondered about Renee, did I not? It wouldn't have been prudent of me to wonder and not prepare for this eventuality. Of course, this changes the game for good."
"How is that?"
"Why--you know my identity. You know who I am. That means the end of me. Me and mine have always existed in the shadows, Agent Barrett. We don't aspire to the light, nor do we thrive in it. Such a shame too. Do you know how many years I had to sit and listen to you people whine, while I searched for my Abberline? The endless hours of pretending to care, and worse--having to truly help these weak and broken worms, just so I could continue my search?" He sighs. "And find you I did. Perhaps I did too well."
"It doesn't have to be that way, Dr. Hillstead. I can bring you in."
He chuckles. "I don't think so, Smoky. We'll address that in a moment. First, I have a confession to make to you. Do you remember that night with Joseph Sands, my dear?"
I am calm. His words don't anger me. "You know I do, Peter."
"Did you ever read the file? In full, I mean? Including the notes regarding his ingress into your home?"
"I read the file. Minus the ballistics report you had removed, of course. Why?"
Silence. I imagine I can hear him smiling. "Do you remember if there were any signs of forced entry?"
I am about to tell him that I am bored of this. That I want to know where he is. Something stops me. I think about what he said and try to recall what I had read. I remember. "There weren't any signs of forced entry."