Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

Savich started to rise, but Sala grabbed his arm.

“No, I’m okay. Let me show him. I heard you speaking to Sherlock on your cell. It sounds like you need to get back to her. Oh, and Savich, whoever this guy is, you know he’s got to be bat-crap crazy.” Sala rose slowly, testing out his feet and legs. No more pins and needles, no more cramping. He frowned a moment. “I know I’ll never forget that girl’s laughter. I bet she’s as crazy as he is.”

Savich remembered the man he’d seen waving to where he stood in the upstairs window. Had that girl been standing at that window?

Tommy said over his shoulder, “Don’t worry about Sala. Gwen has some medic training. She’ll keep an eye on him. Sala, when we’re done here, the chief’s deputy, Charlie, said he’ll take you to the local doc and get you checked out, get your scalp stitched up.”

Ty walked away to answer her cell. She turned back after she’d punched off. “That was Hanger, calling from the lake. He and his sons have already found more bones from at least six people, he estimates. He’s going to take all the bones to Dr. Staunton to give to the FBI.” She paused, drew a deep breath, looked from Flynn to Savich. “I don’t see any other explanation. It has to be a serial killer using Lake Massey to disappear his victims.”

Savich saw panic in her eyes before she quashed it. He said easily, “It seems the likeliest scenario, but, Chief, one step at a time.”

Ty looked back out over the lake. “A serial killer. It’s tough to thi

nk there might be one of those monsters anywhere near this beautiful lake.”

Flynn said, “Savich, I know you and Sherlock are up to your earlobes in alligators, so we’ll drop you off.”

Ty came to attention. “What alligators?”

Savich said, “We had a home invasion three nights ago, and we still haven’t caught the guy.” Because Sherlock hadn’t been sure of it, he didn’t tell them the man might be in Willicott.

14

* * *

TY'S COTTAGE

WILLICOTT, MARYLAND

SATURDAY NIGHT

Ty clicked her beer against Sala’s. “Here’s to a fricking toilet paper rod.”

“May Charmin rule the world,” Sala said, and they drank. “You know what’s amazing?”

“As a matter of fact, I think I do. Everything was spotless, but he missed a fricking empty roll of toilet paper that probably has his fingerprints on the roller bar, and like that”—Ty snapped her fingers—“he’s busted.”

“You nailed that one.”

“A huge hunk of luck for the good guys.” She toasted him again, and they drank.

Sala said, “If the killer was one of Octavia’s clients, he’ll be in CODIS. He’d have been arrested, fingerprinted, probably gotten jail time.”

They were sitting together on Ty’s back deck facing Lake Massey, each holding a Coors, looking at the lake glistening beneath a half moon and a dazzling display of stars casting diamonds on the still, dark water. House lights across the lake began to wink out as tourists and book festival fans hung it up for the night. Every time a light went out, the starlight display over the lake became more brilliant.

Sala looked over at the chief. “Imagine you’re camping out in an abandoned house. It’s time to hit the road, so you’re careful cleaning up after yourself. You don’t want to leave anything for anyone to find, even though you doubt anyone will come looking through the house for years. You and your girlfriend—yes, I think that mad laugh had to be the killer’s girlfriend—both of you pick up every single hair, wipe down every surface, scrub the bathroom. You’re thorough. When you drive away, you’re pleased with yourselves for a job well done, your plan perfectly executed. No one will ever find Octavia Ryan. Her body will be eaten by the fish, and her bones will lie on the bottom of the lake forever. As for Porto—” He swallowed, couldn’t help it. “He’ll die of thirst, tied up in a closet.” He felt her hand lightly touch his arm, for comfort, for reassurance that he was alive and here with her, that it was over. He drew a deep breath and leaned back in the wooden deck chair, closed his eyes. He’d survived because of Savich.

They fell into a comfortable silence. Ty heard night sounds she was used to—crickets chirping, the movement of small animals in the undergrowth, the gentle lapping of the water against her dock, the rustling of tree leaves in the night breeze, sounds that soothed and comforted.

Sala took another drink of his beer. His throat still felt razor dry. No, don’t think about those hours in the closet. Put it behind you. Focus, like Savich said. The headache is fine. It means you’re alive.

Ty said, “I like the bandage over your forehead. Looks rakish, like a badass pirate.”

He lightly touched a fingertip to the large adhesive bandage. “Dr. Staunton is good. I didn’t feel a thing when she stitched me up.” He paused, then said, “I can’t stop thinking about this. Why didn’t Octavia recognize his voice?”

“You weren’t conscious for very long. What, a minute or two? She probably did recognize him, once they were on the lake.” Ty sipped her beer. “I wonder if his girlfriend was with him when he came to your cabin.”

“I don’t know. I never saw her, and forensics couldn’t help us. They only found the window he broke in through, some of my blood on the floor, and our smashed cell phones.”