There's so much land out there by the Tolt: private, public, private usage, timber lease, water district, you name it." She seemed to be floating up the stairs barely noticing them. Boldt was beginning to wonder whether he would make it.
She reached the door first. She held it open for Lamoia and waited for Boldt. "You all right?" she asked.
Boldt nodded, too winded to speak. Embarrassed. "When Matthews nailed it down that it was Tegg for sure, it occurred to me we should try-"
"His wife," Boldt answered, interrupting.
It annoyed Lamoia. Boldt explained his reasoning as they turned right, then left, and Loraine unlocked the door to room 700A for them. "We know Tegg is originally from Vancouver. He later studied here, married here, and stayed here. if he didn't buy the land, then maybe his wife bought it or inherited it." "Exactly," Lamoia agreed. "One name?" Loraine asked. She switched on the lights. The room had a long counter and several oversized signs explaining who was properly served by the assessor's office. In the center of the space allotted to the public was a long table. Against the near wall was a slanted shelf holding three-foot-by-two-foot leather-bound tax maps of the city and King County. According to the gold lettering, they were made by the Kroll Map Co.
Along the far wall were a half-dozen computer terminals and more signs explaining how to use them. The computer screen warmed. Loraine stood ready at the keyboard. "I did this for one name?" She hit several function keys, changing the menu. "Okay, okay. Lay it on me, and let's get out of here before I get a permanent case of the creeps. "You did this to save a woman's life, Boldt wanted to say. You did this to stop a man who has gone mad with a scalpel.
Lamoia handed her a piece of napkin with some writing on it.
"Peggy Schmidt Tegg," Loraine read off, typing it in. "just Schmidt," Lamoia corrected. "Peggy Schmidt. This is the info off of her DMV slug-her driver's license. We're hoping like hell she uses her maiden name as her middle name, otherwise we've got to dig up a marriage license."
Loraine protested, "I don't have access to any marriage licenses, John Lamoia. Don't go asking me to get that as well, 'cause that's the second floor, and I've got nothing to do with those people. You want that, you're just gonna have to come back tomorrow."
"Tomorrow's too late," Lamoia said, meeting eyes with Boldt. "No kidding?" Loraine asked, looking up at Lamoia, the seriousness of the situation sinking in. "Schmidt," he directed her, pointing to the keyboard. "What else could that be but a maiden name?"
"Some other kind of family name," Boldt suggested, hoping he was wrong. Lamoia's face tightened. They both looked on as the woman typed in the name and issued several menu-driven commands. "Here goes," she said.
The screen went blank. Boldt felt a sickening depression overtake him. He was exhausted, hungry, and now he was stuck in a dead end. "Don't get all stinky, lover," she said to Boldt. "This thing can be slow."
The screen filled with a long list of Schmidts, starting with Alfred. "Next page," Lamoia instructed. "I know."
Screen after screen of Schmidts. Dozens of names. "There!" Lamoia said. He pointed to: Schmidt, Priscilla. "That could be her."
Loraine's painted nail ran across a line to a box that was a jumble of dozens of capital letters and numbers. "Legal description of the property," she said. "John, read it off for me, will you?"
She jumped out of her chair. Boldt followed her over to the row of bound maps. She selected the one for King County-North. "Read slow now, lover," she said.
Lamoia read the first coordinates. Loraine found the corresponding latitude number on the edge of the map. She turned to page forty-two. She located the same number here. "Next," she said.
Lamoia read off the next number. Spreading her fingers like the points of a drafting compass, Loraine found this number as well. Her fingers closed in on each other, each representing a grid coordinate. There were dozens, hundreds, of boxes representing land parcels, each with a name inside. Most read Hollybrook-one of the largest timber/paper companies in the Northwest.
Boldt heard himself say, "Come on. Come on," as he watched her fingers come together. She moved her finger out of the way, and there was the name: Schmidt. "Skykomish River quadrangle," she announced. "Snoqualmie National Forest, Tolt Reservior. Bingo!""We're there?" Lamoia asked incredulously. "We're there?" he repeated excitedly. She answered, "I'll make you a photocopy, lover. I'll put you in her backyard."
Pamela Chase drove as if she were on her way to a fire. She reached the unpaved county road that accessed Tegg's farm, lost the back end of the car in a skid, and nearly put the car in the trees. He had tried to drug her' She couldn't get over that She had swallowed one of the Valiums, but had managed to snag the other in her teeth. It was in his front yard now. She was driving fast, not only to reach the farm quickly, but to beat the Valium. It was already taking effect: Her anxiety level had lessened noticeably in the last few minutes-her fingers were no longer welded to the steering wheel; she was no longer grinding her teeth. The more relaxed she felt, the more terrified she became. He had said that he would call her in the morning, but what for? He acted like he owned her, as if she were one of his trained dogs. She felt dirty. She felt foolish. How had she allowed herself to be carried along by him for so long? What kind of person was she?
Not the kind of person to condone a heart harvest, she answered herself. She intended to put an end to that, but quick!
She pulled in to the farm and shut off her car. From the Quonset hut came the ferocious barking of the dogs.
Sight of the small turn-of-the-century cabin and its accompanying sheet-metal Quonset hut gave her a renewed sense of the extreme seclusion of this place. She was glad for his dinner party: She wouldn't want him to catch her out here.
She left the car and approached the cabin slowly, despite the urgency she felt. Her feet floated along. The Valium, subtle in its approach, was difficult to resist. Confusion reigned, for she still wanted to believe in him. That belief had given her several years of happiness. By coming here, she hoped as much to disprove her suspicions as prove them. She couldn't get him out of her mind-it was as if he were right here with her, disapproving of each step she took toward betrayal. She could hear his arguments. He could be so convincing. She glanced over her shoulder nervously. The clouds were breaking up; there was a moon out tonight. A black-and-white patchquilt played over the meadow. She caught herself staring; she was feeling impossibly good.
The spare key was missing. Why would he remove it? Unless ... She found a rock and smashed it through the window. She had to hurry. The Valium was taking hold. "Things work out for the best," a voice inside her called. "Relax." She tried her best to ignore it. The glass shattered into the kitchen. She reached through the hole, knowing where to find the release, but nicked her forearm in the process. It hurt, but it didn't bother her. The door swung open. To a stranger, the cabin might appear abandoned, the spare amount of leftover furniture from another era. A former hunting cabin, perhaps. Tegg had kept it looking this way intentionally, to discourage trespassers from breaking in. He was paranoid about trespassers discovering the basement lab-the ad hoc surgical suite-though she didn't know why. She had never seen another soul anywhere around here.
Although the recovery room they used was in the cellar next to the surgical suite, he could be keeping this woman in any of the bedrooms. She decided to search the cabin top to bottom.
Unless he had fixed them, the upstairs lights didn't work. She tried them. He hadn't fixed them. He kept a flashlight at the top of the cellar stairs. She banged her way through the kitchen and found it, switched it on. She moved quickly through the rooms on the first floor. Nothing. No one.