Be Still Page 5

  Nash nodded.

  As Dale turned back around and stuck his boot through the mangled window, there was a quick flash of light, a blur of movement, and he yanked his head back just in time to miss it. A foot-long piece of the broken glass came flying at him from inside the bathhouse, and the stranger—arm extended downward from the throw—turned and dashed into a hallway.

  The glass sailed between Dale and Nash and went right toward a group of tourists, narrowly missing them. It shattered on the cement, shards exploding in all directions. People screamed, ran.

  Now things had changed. There was no doubt anymore. The mysterious stranger hiding his face behind a cinched-sweatshirt had less-than-noble intentions.

  And he’d attacked.

  Dale quickly drew his Smith & Wesson Model 36—a small, snub-nosed revolver—and looked at Nash, nodding toward the gun, indicating that he was armed and Nash was not.

  “Stay back,” he said.

  Nash shook his head no.

  Dale did have time to argue. He hopped over the broken glass and crossed into the building. Nash followed.

  Inside, the bathhouse was dusty and neglected. It must have been closed down for a long time. They were in what would have been the lobby area, covered in tiny tile, white and black, arranged into a decorative pattern. The walls were marble and matched the color of the tiles—white with black streaks.

  Dale came to a stop and held up a hand, signifying for Nash to do the same. He listened. Echoey footsteps. In the distance. And coming from above.

  They took off, going through a doorway past the reception area. Dale jumped over a collapsed, broken cabinet, and saw a stairwell to his right. He dashed up the marble steps, which were slippery smooth and scalloped in the center from decades of use.

  On the second floor, Dale rounded the corner. More debris. More dust. Gun at the ready, he moved past doors with health equipment from a forgotten time—porcelain tubs and metal pipes and vents and odd apparatuses. All of it very Victorian-looking. God knew what it was all for.

  He looked back. He’d lost Nash.

  Footsteps ahead. Closer now.

  There was a doorway with a sign above that said MEN’S. He dashed across the hall, through the doorway …

  And found an endless expanse of doors.

  It was a massive changing room, which was divided further into a massive collection of smaller rooms—veneered wooden walls that went three-quarters of the way to the ceiling, small doors every few feet. They must have been changing rooms and perhaps personal relaxation spaces during the spa’s time of operation. But no matter what their original purpose was, one thing was clear: aside from the occasional door hanging from its hinges, all of the dozens of doors were closed.

  A hundred or so small, closed rooms.

  Any one of which the stranger could be hiding in.

  Well, now… Dale thought.

  He inched his way into the room, tightening his grip on the Model 36. His boots crunched on the debris strewn on the tile floor—the same small tiles that had been in the lobby, arranged in a different pattern.

  He approached the first door, stuck his free hand on it…

  And swung it open, sweeping his gun over the tiny room beyond.

  Clear.

  He looked out over the expanse of short, wooden walls before him.

  That’s one down, he thought. And a shitload more to go.

  Hand on the second door. Pushed it open. Swept the gun. Clear.

  Third door. Open. Clear.

  Fourth. Clear.

  A sense of defeat filled him. While he was clearing these dozens of rooms, the stranger was most likely long gone, having tip-toed out, laughing under his breath at Dale.

  It was with these thoughts that Dale put his hand on the fifth door and pushed.

  Only to have it swing back at him.

  It struck Dale head-on, and he stumbled back.

  There was a rush of movement, and the tiny man hopped out of the changing room, swinging his clasped hands like a club. They caught Dale across the jaw, spinning him around and sending him into the wall.

  He hit hard and fell to the tile.

  He shook his head, clearing his vision, and quickly looked up to the opposite side of the room, bringing the Model 36 up at the same time.

  There was just a glimpse of the stranger as he disappeared around the corner.

  “Dammit!” Dale said, scrambling to his feet.

  He bolted across the room, all the tiny, wooden doors flying past him in a blur. He rounded the corner and saw the figure at the end of the hall. He leveled the Model 36 at him.

  And then quickly lowered it.

  It was Nash, not the stranger.

  Nash was panting and shaking his head with a disappointed look on his face.

  “Look,” he said, pointing to an open window.

  Dale bounded over and came to a quick stop. His boots squeaked on the tile. He looked out the window.

  Directly below was the roof of a utility shed, which would have been the stranger’s means of escape. Farther past that, the stranger was halfway across a grassy zone of the Promenade, almost to the brick walkway. He stopped and looked back to the bathhouse. His face, such as it was—the sunglasses and tiny bit of exposed skin—looked right at them. He raised a gloved hand, fluttered his fingers, and turned back around.

  He slipped into the crowd and disappeared.

  Chapter Ten

  Merle Higgins had his hands behind his back as he looked out the window. Dale could see red and blue police lights through the glass, from the squad cars parked on the street beyond. Higgins was in his green park ranger uniform, and when he turned back around, Dale saw that Higgins’ his face had the same grouchy expression that it had since Dale met him five minutes ago.

  But Dale had quickly realized that Higgins’ grouchy look wasn’t aimed at Dale personally. Like Dale’s boss, SAC Walter Taft, Higgins was just a grumpy old fart. But unlike Taft, whose grouchiness was explosive and triggerable, Higgins had the more subdued variety. The I-only-have-X-number-of-months-until-I-retire variety. Indeed, in those five minutes Dale had known him, Higgins had told him that he was three months away from retirement.

  He’d mentioned this twice already.

  Dale and Nash were seated across from a desk in the main space of the Hot Springs National Park administration building, the building they had been about to enter when they had taken off after the small man who'd been spying on them. This was not the headquarters for law enforcement rangers, like Higgins—rather it was the headquarters for the park on the whole—but it had become the central hub for the federal side of the serial killer investigation. As such, the office space around them was filled with a mix of people in standard civilian clothes, interpretive park ranger uniforms, and law enforcement park ranger uniforms.

  Higgins stepped away from the window. Sighing. He had white hair, thinning with old age, dark eyebrows, and a big round nose. He was a large man. Not huge, just kind of round. He looked a bit like a cartoon walrus.

  “So you’re supposed to be some kind of history expert, eh?”

  His slow, grumbly voice was rather walrus-like as well.

  Dale was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. "That's what they tell me.”

  Higgins sighed again, lumbered closer to the desk, and opened a drawer. He took out two file folders and dropped them in front of Dale.

  "Maybe you can make sense of this, then. Find some sort of damn connection. As best we can tell, the first victim is meant to emulate the Cleveland Torso Murderer.”

  Dale drew the folders closer and opened the top one. Nash leaned closer and looked, and Higgins plodded around the desk and stepped behind them.

  As soon as Dale opened the folder, he was greeted with an image of a torso.

  Dale exhaled and looked away. “Holy shit…”

  “Mmm hmm,” Higgins said, standing behind him.

  Dale looked at Nash before turning back to the fol
der. Nash had his eyes right on the image. There was no expression in his face. Dale wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  From the moment Dale had considered bringing Nash on the case, he’d had his reservations. Surely there would be no one better to help him look into the mind of a serial killer than someone who was a serial killer in every way except the actual killing part. Yet Dale also considered that bringing Nash on might have been a reckless move on his part. He knew Nash would never actually hurt anyone, so that wasn't a concern. His concern was that exposing Nash to the realities of his dreams might send the guy spiraling further into the darkness of his fantasies.

  Nash had enough problems. Dale didn't want to make them worse.

  Dale also wondered, had he brought Nash onto the case for his own reasons? Was he doing this truly because he thought Nash could help, or was he doing this so that he could bury a hatchet, get closure to a dark chapter in his life? He couldn’t be sure at the moment, and it was something to ponder.

  But as Dale watched Nash blankly stare at the gruesome image, he reminded himself that whatever help he could get in stopping another senseless slaying like this was a good thing.

  Dale looked back to the photo. A woman’s torso. Decapitated and legless. Wearing a T-shirt and underwear. Lying in a pool of blood.

  “Her name was Paula Willet,” Higgins said. “She worked in one of the spas. General labor—cleaning, office work, that sort of thing. Killed at the spa, in the basement with all the pumps. So, that’s federal property, a federal crime. She lived in a trailer park north of town. Had troubles with drugs.”

  “Drugs, huh?” Dale said. “ Maybe her dealer?”

  “HSPD tells us that not too many methamphetamine dealers leave notes behind when they knock somebody off.” He pointed a finger toward the folder. "Keep flipping.”

  Dale flipped through some more gruesome images of Paula Willet’s torso, and came to an image of crude handwriting written with brushstrokes.

  That was written on the wall of her trailer’s kitchen. In the girl’s blood.

  “Elliot Ness…” Dale said. “He’s been dead for almost twenty years.”

  “And how does he connect to someone who chopped up Willet?” Higgins said.

  “Well, Hot Springs had speakeasies and strong connections with gangsters like Al Capone and Lucky Luciano during prohibition. And since Eliot Ness is most famous for being the incorruptible law man fighting Al Capone with his Untouchables, that might seem like the obvious connection. But I think there's something more subtle.” He flipped back to the images of the body, leaned in close, squinting. “These marks on the skin … chemical burns?"

  Higgins nodded, his tired, old eyes opening a bit wider. “Well, yes, but how the hell did you figure that out from one photo?”

  “Not only did The Cleveland Torso Murderer cut people apart, just like this,” Dale said, pointing to one of the images of Paula Willett’s torso. “But the killer put a chemical treatment on some of the victims skin.”

  "My god," Higgins said, shaking his head.

  Nash leaned in closer, looking at the images. Then he glanced up at Higgins. “And the Elliot Ness bit of the message is how you knew this was related to the Torso Murderer?”

  “That’s right,” Higgins said. “But don’t ask me how. One of my guys figured out the connection.”

  Dale filled in the details for Higgins. “When the murders happened, Eliot Ness was the director of public safety for Cleveland, which put him in authority of the police department. And since the victims were low-income individuals, Ness burned down the shantytown where the killer was finding them.”

  Dale opened the second folder. There were no photos on top, just papers. “No images of the second victim?”

  “Well…” Higgins started and scratched his chin nervously. “She was just found this morning, about 5 AM. That’s why it was such late notice when we reached out to you. The second victim, Jenna Mancini, would’ve died some time late last night, but no one found her till this morning. The body was on the back side of the businesses on the private half of Central Avenue. Behind the Italian restaurant where she worked. When our photographer got there … he couldn’t do it. He left. Said he’d be back later.”

  Dale pulled out the first folder again. "The same guy who took these photos?”

  Higgins nodded.

  “It was worse than this?”

  Higgins nodded again. “He eventually came back. Got the pictures. They're still developing. But … I think it would be better for you to go take a look for yourself anyway.”

  “Fair enough," Dale said. "But here's the problem. The BEI’s a consulting agency, and protocol requires me to have a federal liaison to begin a case. Last I heard, the ISB agent, Greg Fulton, isn't here yet.”

  Higgins shook his head. "He's not.”

  “Hmm…” Dale said and looked around the room. He was anxious to get started on the assignment, and there was no indication of when Fulton would arrive. He looked around the room. “A ranger could be my liaison for the time being. Mind if I take one of them off your hands until Fulton arrives?”

  Higgins hesitated in that same grumpy-old-near-retirement sort of way. “Well, I don’t see why not. Of course, I’ll have to find a volunteer. Which might be a chore. And then there’s the paperwork, which I’ll—”

  Dale hopped up on the nearby desk. He stuck a pair of fingers between his lips and whistled.

  Loudly.

  Everyone going about there work stopped what they were doing, stared in disbelief at the stranger standing on one of the desks.

  “Excuse me,” Dale shouted. “The name’s Dale Conley. I’m with the DOJ. I’m sure you’re all aware of the serial killer in town, and I’m sure you all want to catch him just as badly as I do. I’m looking for one law enforcement ranger who’s willing to join me right now to help find the bastard.”

  A tall ranger in the back waved.

  “Well, I sure would like to lend a helping hand.”

  Dale gave him a finger pistol.

  “Done.”

  He hopped off the desk.

  The man approached. He was about six-foot-two and had a loping gait, a bit clumsy. He smiled broadly. To his side was a boy of about five, clenching his hand.

  “Ernie Plunkett,” the man said, offering his free hand.

  Dale shook it.

  “Dale Conley. And this is my expert consultant, Nash Harbick.”

  Plunkett looked down at the boy and smiled bigger.

  "And this is Ricky,” Plunkett said. He had a northern accent. Minnesota or Wisconsin, perhaps. “Say hi to Agent Conley and Mr. Harbick, Ricky.”

  Ricky gave a small wave then hid behind his father's leg, peeking out with one eye.

  Plunkett had large ears, receding hair, and a big, wide smile, which, coupled with the overall friendliness and slight homeliness, made him look rather like a gregarious toad.

  “I was going to have the next couple days off. I’m sure Connie—that’s my wife— will be disappointed, but she won’t mind since I’ll be helping to catch the killer. Everybody in town is just worried sick, don’t ya know?” He turned to Higgins. “Is this okay, boss?”

  Higgins shrugged, and turned, walked away.

  “Whatever.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After Ventress let out another disgusted groan, Nash wondered how the woman was going to get through the rest of this little trial she had set up. If Nash was going to tell the full story of what had happened in Hot Springs that led to Dale abducting Mira Lyndon, there were plenty more details to be shared.

  And Ventress already looked like she was going to explode.

  Every time Nash mentioned one of Dale‘s actions there was a scoff or a sigh or a toss of the hand or a rubbing of the temples. And with each of these reactions, her tension seemed to ratchet up a little bit more.

  She was annoying Nash. Her attitude was both icy cold and boiling hot at the same time, and it was very evide
nt that she felt like she was above everyone else in the room.

  Nash really wanted to see her in pain.

  “So that’s how Ranger Plunkett got mixed up in all this?” she said. “With Conley making up his own rules on the spot. Jumping on a desk, for Christ’s sake. After, I might add, chasing someone through the Grand Promenade, creating panic in a tourist town already on the edge due to a roaming serial killer. The person you and Conley chased down was probably just another tourist himself. Idiots.”

  Nash chuckled. “I don’t think most Hot Springs tourists keep their binoculars trained on the front entrance to the NPS office. Or try to impale strangers with a huge shard of broken glass.”

  He responded with some attitude this time. Earlier, he’d hated himself for shrinking beneath Ventress’ authority so much, and as her questioning continued, he realized that her supremacy was just as much feigned as it was real. And he wanted her to know that he’d caught on to her.

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Harbick,” she spat and turned to Fulton. “Of course, Conley would never have had a reason to bring Plunkett on board if you’d shown up on time. Care to explain yourself?”

  Fulton sat taller and straightened his tie. “Thanks for finally giving me a chance to speak.”

  Ventress scowled at him.

  “I got here as fast as I could. Had to finish up in Bozeman,” Fulton said. His voice was deep and silky smooth, the perfect complement to his tailored suit and immaculate grooming. “I was only a day behind Conley anyway—if the guy could have just waited on me. As I’m sure you know, the ISB resources can get stretched thin at times.”

  “Excuses sound best to the numbnuts who’s giving them, Fulton,” Ventress said. “And because of your ineptitude, Conley pulled Plunkett into the case.” She whipped around to Taft. She was evidently through with Fulton already. “I thought your agents always have to be paired with another federal agent.”

  “That’s technically true,” Taft said. “But sometimes other federal law enforcement officers who technically aren’t special agents fill the void.”