Suddenly Peachy stopped. John stopped, and they stopped. The beautiful terrace of Bethesda Fountain was to their right. The east bank of the lake was to their left. The dog lifted her large head, sniffing the air as if lost. Her body was tense, uncertain. John opened the scent bag and let her bury her head in the pillowcase. When she was finished rooting around in it, she dropped her head and charged up Cherry Hill to Bow Bridge.
They were now mid park at Seventy-second Street. Above them was thirty miles of woodland Ramble, Belvedere Castle, and two more bridges. To the east was Center Drive and Literary Walk. If they stayed in the mid section of the park, between the east and west sides, and traveled south, they would skirt Wollman skating rink. But Peachy headed north across the Bow Bridge into the Ramble. She followed the path as it veered up the slope. Immediately between the path and undulating rock was a stand of trees. Lampost #7413. April's heartbeat accelerated. Six months ago just north of the castle, a mentally ill homeless woman had been found strangled to death. She didn't want to discover Maslow had suffered a similar fate.
After ten more minutes Peachy faltered, lost again. She stopped, turned around three times, sniffing the air. Then, keeping the lake on her left, she found lamppost #7523, another block north. There, a large tree with a double trunk that split off again to form a third trunk held her interest for a while. She stuck her head close to the deeply grooved bark. The tree bordered the water and was surrounded by hard-packed ground. April wanted to approach, but Zumech waved her back.
"How are you doing, querida?" Mike spoke suddenly.
"Okay. I'm thinking we should have more people out here."
"How about we give the dog a few more minutes?"
The wind had picked up, agitating the leaves all around them and snaking April's hope. They had no real hint of where Brandy and David had gone. They could be anywhere. The dog looked confused, and now April doubted their brilliant idea of coming here. Peachy had brought them many blocks east of the place where they'd found Pee Wee this morning. It now seemed that working the tracker at night with a storm kicking up and David's scent as their guide-when they were really searching for Maslow-might be the stupidest idea she ever had. She didn't want to say that to Mike, however. They stood in the dark while the weather deteriorated around them and the dog sniffed the tree.
After what seemed like an eternity, Peachy lost interest in the tree and plunged south again. She retraced her own steps to Bow Bridge, crossed it, and this time took the east path toward Bethesda Terrace. It was better lighted here. April moved her feet, worrying about the time and thinking in her heart they'd made a big mistake. The wind was blowing like crazy, whipping branches around. The park was empty, and now April could see the presence of CP officers, safe and dry in their vehicles. On the park roads and off the roads, unmarked units had begun to cruise, on the lookout for Brandy and David. But the Ramble was deep and thirty miles long; people hid in the foliage there all the time. They'd have to get out of their units if they wanted to help. April put the thought out of her mind.
Ahead of them Peachy was traveling dead east now. She crossed the Bethesda Terrace, jogged around the fountain, and ran up the stairs to the Seventy-second Street crosstown drive. They had done a thirty-five-minute detour. Now she was hurrying toward Fifth Avenue and the East Side. This was way out of the way, far from where the cars were parked and where April and Woody had responded to the 911 call two nights ago. If Peachy had the scent, it now looked as if David might be headed home. He lived on Sixty-fifth Street and Park Avenue. Brandy lived on Seventy-fifth and Park Avenue. Maybe the two kids had come out, then gone home again when the weather worsened.
April checked her watch. They'd been out over an hour. It felt like four hours. She was sweating now, was tired and beginning to despair. Suddenly Peachy veered south once again, toward Fifty-ninth Street. She picked up her pace and ran down the Mall toward Literary Walk, then took the Center Drive south. In twelve minutes at a dead run, they neared Fifty-ninth Street and April could hear the comfortable clack of horseshoes on the pavement as a line of buggies headed home before the storm. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. It looked as though they'd lost him.
Sixty-three
When the rain broke free of the clouds and sleeted down on him, David had a feeling of intense exhilaration, like being at camp all over again. At camp in the Berkshires, the weather was often hot and humid. The rain would threaten scheduled activities for hours or days, then suddenly make a grand entrance with thunder and lightning during intercamp sports competitions, canoeing. In the middle of hikes, on camping trips. The rain showed up like a good friend at a boring party, disrupting the carefully planned schedules, making people run in all directions, and providing exquisite relief in the chaos it brought.
Rain on his face, on his sweatshirt, soaking his shoes had never bothered David. It meant freedom, the end of responsibility. In the rain, no game could ever be lost, no bad feelings were ever aroused, no restraint was there to hamper and frustrate him. Rain scattered everything. Now, as always, the boom of the thunder cleared the park. And the light, sound, and water show had a special message for him. The rain had come to protect him and assure him that he was right to send Brandy home. He was right to do things his own way. He was wet through, and he was given the signal-not to go home, get dry, and forget about everything bad he could do; but rather to move forward, secure in the safety of his privacy.
He knew just what he was going to do. He planned the event as a special souvenir for himself that he could savor all the rest of his life. He would lift the gate free. He would go into the cave. The shrink would be there, still alive, but helpless. He would set up his flashlight in the cave so there would be just enough light to see what was going on. He would pretend the helpless man was his own shrink. Then he would lie on top of that girl. He and Brandy had seen her on Central Park West a couple of times before. Brandy dismissed her as an ugly girl, but she always said that about everybody. Really the girl was very pretty, tiny and thin. Last night, he'd enjoyed hurting her, and making her beg for mercy.
The problem then was it had all happened too fast. Brandy got too crazy when she was high. She made a mess of everything. You had to do this kind of thing slowly, deliberately, not in a panic. From now on he would do things right. He would set it up carefully, and the shrink would be there as his witness. This time he wouldn't have to be in a hurry, for no one could frighten or stop him from doing whatever he wanted. He could take his time and enjoy squeezing the breath out of her. And he would savor knowing that someone was watching as he did it.
As he hiked purposefully in the rain, he remembered that squashing was a recognized method of killing. In American History, he'd read about the witches of Salem. They used to kill them by drowning, but also by piling stones and rocks on them until they couldn't lift their chests to fill their lungs with air and were crushed to death in their own graves. A good way to get rid of anyone. He particularly liked the idea of crushing a very pretty girl to death with the weight of his own body. After the girl was dead, he would suffocate the shrink. That would be no effort at all. The man was small and practically dead already.