It caught fire, followed by smoke-so much of it. He had never burned one in the car before, and he had not counted on this. His other small fires had been more ceremonial, and those had been set with the flames of votive candles. He batted the air in front of his face. Smoke was slipping past him to his partially opened window. Eyes filled with stinging tears, he dared to open all the windows until, at last, the smoke had cleared and the picture was burnt to ashes.
His eyes were also clearing, and now, in peripheral vision, he noticed another car in the passing lane had come abreast of him and kept pace with him. Through his side window, Paul Magritte glanced at this other driver.
And Mallory looked back at him.
Her head was sharply turned to one side. She was facing him with no thought of the road ahead, and the young detective held this pose for so long-it unnerved him so badly-his hands tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening. She stared at him for miles and miles.
14
The campsite was near an abandoned gas station, and one toilet had been promised to be in working condition. However, the owner had not inspected his property in years, and now he renegotiated the amount of money agreed upon one month ago when the trip was first planned. Today’s price, the owner said, was “Not one red cent, and God bless you all.”
This time, the news media had the affair catered with microwave ovens emitting the smell of reheated pizza to lure the campers and federal agents into the interview zone. But best of all, the most enterprising network crew was unloading Port-O-Potties from a flatbed truck-even better bait that neatly solved the problem of the dysfunctional toilet. As each plastic closet was set upon the ground, a waiting line of parents quickly formed in front of it.
A field reporter stood before a stationary camera, preparing to say his new opening line one more time. Yesterday, he had reported from the Road of Lost Children, but today he said, “This is John Peechem reporting from the Road of Graves.” A cameraman pointed out that he was smiling when he said it that time, too. They did a retake with a more somber expression. And then the lens panned a group of young men and women with the letters FBI emblazoned on their jackets. “This hasn’t been confirmed yet,” the reporter said to his microphone, “but the agents might be looking for body parts.”
A less expensive handheld camera pointed at the caravan’s only children. Brother and sister stood hand in hand, awaiting their turn at one of the big green closets. Standing behind them, their father carried a roll of toilet paper, tearing off sheets and handing them to Peter and Dodie. A reporter was approaching this trio, fair game in the Port-O-Potty zone, when the little boy put up one hand to ward the woman off, saying, “I bite reporters.”
End of interview.
Dodie rocked on her heels and toes, and then she hummed. Louder now. Her father picked her up in his arms and never noticed that his child was pointing to the ground and the shadow of another man.
Click.
Mallory sat in a folding chair near a car that was not her own, fingers flying across the keyboard of a laptop computer that was not hers, either. Christine Nahlman sat down on a neighboring campstool, not offering any conversation, only keeping quiet company with the detective as she watched some of the younger agents search the caravan vehicles. Others were invading tents.
“It’s a waste of time,” said Mallory, never taking her eyes from the laptop. “The perp doesn’t t ravel around with little hand bones. He digs them up along the way.”
“Well, he’s got one hand that we can match up with a fresh corpse.”
“Not anymore. He’s got no use for it.” Mallory looked up at the search in progress. “That’s just Berman’s idea of busywork, a show for the reporters.” She turned her eyes back to the glowing screen in her lap. In sidelong vision, she saw the FBI agent stiffen, and then lean far forward.
There was incredulity in Nahlman’s voice when she finally said, “That’s my laptop.”
Mallory nodded as she scanned a state map of graves. “I liked the early pattern you developed in Illinois. It was a good start.”
“That’s my computer.”
“Well, you left it on the seat of your car.”
“My locked car.”
Mallory waved one hand to say that these little distinctions were un- important. “Geographic profiling won’t predict a kill site-not in this case. When he kills a parent, it’s a crime of opportunity.”
“You broke into my car, stole my laptop-government property.”
“I’m the criminal?” Mallory was not good at mock innocence. “Y o u used a little girl to bait a serial killer.” Ah, bombshell. Annihilation was her forte. The agent looked as if she had been kicked in the gut.
“That was never the plan,” said Nahlman when she found her voice again.
“Back in Oklahoma, you knew what was going to happen before the boxer decked your boss. I saw you arguing with Dale Berman-but you didn’t s t o p him.”
“I’m just one agent, not even the-”
“You let him draw a target on Dodie Finn.” Mallory leaned close to the woman, the better to cut out her heart. “Fr agile, isn’t s he? I found the psych evaluations-Dodie’s FBI file. Federal agents interrogated a little girl who belonged in a hospital. They wouldn’t even let her father visit. And why? Because they knew she’d tell them anything-anything -if they would only let her go home. But Dodie had nothing to give them. Dodie is crazy.”
And now-a little fear.
Mallory only glanced at the lineup of reporters out by the road. “I promised them an interview for the six-o’clock news,” she lied, and then opened her pocket watch, though she knew the time to the hour and the minute. “It’s almost showtime.” The implied threat of ugly disclosure hung in the air between the two women.
“Dale Berman personally guaranteed Dodie’s safety,” said Nahlman. “Two agents on her all the time. That’s why I-”
“He lied. He does that a lot. Berman wanted a serial killer-a kid killer-to believe that Dodie could give up something important. Well, she can’t.” Mallory stared at the screen for a few moments of silence, her best imitation of self-righteous indignation. “Better to sacrifice Dodie than Paul Magritte, right? You’d never risk any damage to your best witness-even though the old man’s got it coming.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why does your boss run sloppy background checks? I’m not going to do his job for him. And one more thing. I’ve seen the FBI files-all of them. You never got any credit for your work. The forensic techs who do your grave digging-they think old Dale’s got a crystal ball.” Mallory scrolled through the maps and data. “No one but your boss has ever seen this material.”
“You do a poor imitation of Agent Berman. That’s his style,” said Nahlman, “pitting people against each other. And he does it better.”
“You think I care about your little relationship problems?” Mallory touched the eject button on the agent’s laptop computer, and a disk came sliding out. She held it beyond Nahlman’s reach, saying, “I only came to steal.”
So inattentive were his watchers that Dr. Paul Magritte never feared being missed, though he had driven fifty miles from the campsite to find solitude in this church. Rice grains crunched underfoot as he climbed the short flight of stone stairs. The large wooden doors were unlocked, but, upon entering, he sensed that no one, not even the priest, had remained after the ceremony. A large vase of white blooms graced the altar, and some flower girl had strewn the aisle with rose petals. He pictured a small child in this task, taking slow toddler steps toward the great stained-glass window in advance of the bridal procession. He hoped that this union would be fruitful. If the earth could not restore the lost children, it would at least be replenished.