A Cold Dark Place

Chapter Thirty-six

Monday, 11:30 P.M, Copper Beach, Washington

When Emily and Christopher got within ten yards of the cabin's front door, a porch light-a floodlight, no less-went off like a paparazzo's camera. Flash! They blinked back the sudden, silent explosion of brightness. Who was that? Their eyes had barely adjusted to the flash when a figure, the silhouette of a man, appeared in the doorway, then disappeared.

"Come on in," a voice called out from somewhere in the pool of light. "I've been expecting you"

It was a familiar voice: the voice of a thousand cheap documentaries with prison interviews over which he presided whenever a pretty producer would call. It was Dylan Walker.

"Put your hands where we can see them, Walker." Christopher used his don't-mess-with-me voice. It was a far cry from the tough voice he'd use on a garden-variety suspect.

For a cop, Dylan Walker was the unholy grail.

"Why should I?"

Walker lingered for a beat before turning his back and sauntering farther into the cabin, out of view. It was as if he hadn't a care in the world and loved the attention of two guns pointed at him. "You arrest me," he called out. "You shoot me in the back. Either way, you'll never see your daughter again."

Both guns pitched in front of them, the two went up the steps. Emily knew that if Jenna wasn't there-and she knew that possibility was next to nil-then only one person would know where Jenna was. The man who would be king of the serial killers was the only one who could save her daughter.

Dylan Walker was a man without compassion.

Emily, just behind Chris, whispered, "We're going in."

The wind howled behind them. Chris gave a slight nod, as if to say everything would be fine.

"Stay close," he said.

She wouldn't have it any other way. He always could read my mind, she thought.

The pair stepped out of the windy night and through the open door. Sand moved under their feet like fine grit sandpaper. A carving of a seagull on a piling crouched in the space next to the doorway. Dead houseplants lined the entryway, a kind of graveyard of neglect that indicated no one lived in the cabin full-time. Neither could see Dylan Walker just then. Flames crackled through the driftwood logs in the river rock fireplace that went from the floor to the ceiling like a stone temple, hollowed by fire. It was a cozy scene.

Cozy for a serial killer.

Walker appeared, coming out of what Emily was certain was the rental's tiny kitchen. She'd been there. She knew. Dylan Walker held a beer and a gun.

"Thirsty?" he asked. "I have some Doritos, too"

Christopher almost shook his head at the remark. "Maybe you're blind and you don't see the guns here? Drop yours now."

Dylan shrugged at Christopher, but addressed Emily. "Maybe you don't know how to have a good time? Do you, Emily? I mean, you haven't had a good time since Reynard Tuttle went down. Since Kristi Cooper." He set the beer on a lamp table and grinned. "Didn't you shoot Tuttle right here?"

Emily stayed mute. She wanted to speak, but she was fighting the memories he was callously flinging at her. Walker pointed to a spot on the worn pine floorboards. "Still stained."

Emily glanced at Chris who kept his weapon punched toward Dylan. Then, almost reluctantly, she cast her gaze downward. The wood floor was scuffed and scratched, but its color was golden, a perfect Swedish finish. There were no stains. No blood. By the time she looked over at Walker, she knew he'd gotten what he'd wanted. His self-satisfied grin told her everything.

"Made you look," he said.

"You're a real piece of work, Walker," said Christopher.

"Oh, you really scare me"

"I mean to "" Christopher's mouth was a straight line of anger.

Dylan laughed and patted his firearm. He backed into a chair, stretching out his sinewy legs to meet a tattered, upholstered ottoman.

Emily tried to gather her wits. She willed her heart to slow its rapid pace. Where is all of this going? The scene was surreal with the three of them, guns drawn at each other in a bizarre stalemate. She and Chris both knew that if Jenna and Nick weren't in the cabin with Walker, they could be anywhere. The man with the perfect body and piercing, cold eyes was the only one who knew just where that could be.

"Where's my daughter? Where's Nick Martin?"

"Not here, if that's what you're asking. Look around"

With Chris covering her, Emily moved swiftly from the main room, to the kitchen, to the single bedroom. A window was open and she could hear the roar of the Pacific, but no sign of her daughter. Why is this happening? Why is God doing this to me? Emily fought to push all of the things that spoke to her being a mother to the back of her consciousness. Let the cop take over, she thought. Let the cop find the girl.

"Last chance. Where is she?" Emily's gun, once more directed at Dylan Walker, wavered just a little. She moved her finger on the trigger.

Chris looked at her with abject horror. Not again, Emily. "Let's keep cool here, Walker," Chris said, though his words were really meant for Emily.

Walker knew it.

"Tell that to Ms. Rambo"

Emily didn't say anything. She let Christopher take over. She knew she'd lost her perspective just then. She was a mother more than she was a cop.

"Let's all stand down, all right?" Christopher asked, his voice cool and commanding. "No one needs to get hurt here."

"Good idea. If I get hurt, Jenna dies. So I'm game. And if you don't think I can keep a secret, you don't know me at all. But I'm willing to talk. Maybe. Just point your guns to the floor" Dylan lowered his gun slightly, his eyes fastened on his adversaries, who both ignored his request.

Emily had wanted to kill Dylan Walker for all that he'd done. But trumping all of that, of course, was Jenna's whereabouts. Her safety. Sucking up to a monster could save her. It was the only thing she could do. But there was another presence in the room ... Kristi Cooper. Emily knew that Kristi was the reason for this horrific reunion.

"Where is she? Where is Jenna?"

"At first, I thought the Tuttle shooting was a godsend," Walker said, ignoring her question. "You'd killed an innocent man. I'd gotten away with something. Your murder of Tuttle made mine a perfect crime-"

"The shooting was an accident."

"Incompetence, I'd say. But you call it whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Where's my daughter?"

"Poor Kristi. And now, poor Jenna. I won't ask you again, lower your weapons"

Christopher moved toward Dylan, just a step or two. Just enough to let him know that he was unafraid.

"Where is your son?"

The words brought a smile, but Walker said nothing.

Christopher pushed harder. "Are he and Jenna together? If you're here ... and they are off somewhere, doesn't that leave you without the prize?"

A blank look came over Walker's face. "The prize?"

"Your son. All of this is about him. The smuggling of your semen? The babies by Tina and Bonnie. All about your legacy, right."

Walker let out a long insidious laugh. It was the kind of laugh that chills a body to the marrow, Freon in the bloodstream. An evil laugh that had nothing to do with anything being amusing. "For all of your reading about serial killers, all the stupid classes you've taken for your somewhat checkered career, you don't understand me one bit."

"I do" It was Emily this time. "I get you. You're all about control and power. That's why you pick on young girls, trusting women. You like to be in charge, don't you?"

"Ooooh," he said, "I like it when you act smart"

"Don't patronize me, Dylan. I know you. I can see through you. You're nothing but a guy who thinks the world revolves around him. You're a narcissist."

Walker laughed again, this time it was brief like a release of gratification.

"As if that label would sting a little," he said, sitting back. "I'm a narcissist because I look good. People like me. Women like me"

"Not this one," she said. "Now, let's give this up. You can be reunited with your son. I can find my daughter. You can go quietly and safely."

Walker looked confused. It was the first time he'd seemed out of sorts, as though what Emily said finally touched a nerve. Finally she was able to penetrate the facade, the mask.

"You don't get it, do you?" he asked. "You don't understand me like Bonnie did-"

"Before you killed her?" Christopher cut in. The fire crackled and sent embers across the pine floorboards.

Dylan Walker was agitated. The coolness of his demeanor was draining before their eyes. "Like Bonnie did. She was smart. Fat, but smart. Weak, needy, and smart. My favorite combination. She knew I was a mimic. She knew I didn't care one bit about her or anyone. Nick included. I didn't care whether any of them took their last breaths. That made her want me even more" The heinous grin returned, but this time it seemed fake. Practiced. Bravado.

"Where is Jenna Kenyon?" Christopher asked.

Just then, without warning, a shot pierced the small space of the cabin. Almost on instinct, Emily checked her own gun. Had it gone off? Had she pressed the trigger when she hadn't meant to? She wondered if that's what happened years ago with Reynard Tuttle. Had that been a serious misstep or an accident? All of that passed through her mind as the realization came that it was not her gun that had fired and that Dylan Walker had not been shot.

Dylan was standing, having jumped to his feet, his gun in his hand. Smoke curled from its shiny black barrel. Emily heard the sound of a body falling, a heavy thud. She turned.

Christopher Collier was on the floor, blood oozing from his chest. His life draining from his body, one red drop at a time. He was so pale; he looked like one of those Elizabethan courtesans, all white with a gash of red for his mouth. The blood was flowing. In the split second of the shot to the realization that Dylan Walker had shot Christopher, Emily Kenyon let her guard down. She could have fired back at Dylan, but she didn't. She'd been trained to do so. Officer down! Fire back! Stop the shooter! Everything she knew from the police academy failed her. The knowledge was there. The skill, too. But when she learned how to deal with a cop shooter, she hadn't been a mother.

She hadn't needed to know where a serial killer had stashed her daughter. The only link in the chain of evidence to save Jenna was the evil force with the gun pointed at her.

"What did you do?" She dropped to her knees and held Christopher.

His breathing was labored. His handsome face, pallid. "I'm going to be all right," he said. Christopher's voice was soft, but he tried to show confidence.

"Of course you are," Emily answered, not sure who was lying just then. Her? Him? Both of them. She blinked back her tears. "We need to get medical attention here"

"Not so fast" Dylan Walker now stood by the doorway. "Aren't you forgetting something?" He hesitated. "Someone?"

Jenna.

Emily pointed her gun. Walker smiled at her and in doing so, it rushed through her mind that he'd never been handsome in his life. Evil like that never could be. His features were symmetrical, classic, and well proportioned. He'd been likened to a "Greek god" by magazine writers who fantasized for their readers what being with the ultimate bad boy, the King of the Serial Killers, might be like. The sexy mix of danger and good looks. So damned stupid. But just then, he looked hideous, a twisted kind of handsome.

"I'm going to leave just now. You can call 911. Detective Collier just might live. You might be able to find your daughter. You stop me. Shoot me. Whatever's going through your mind right now, isn't going to happen. Because if you stop me, you'll never find her."

Emily knew he was right. She pressed her palm against Collier's heaving chest. She'd stopped the syrupy red blood flow. For now

Walker scanned the room, surveying his work. He seemed so satisfied that it repulsed Emily all the more. As he walked toward the door, red clay particles fell from the soles of his shoes.

"Please," she said, "where is she?"

"In the dark," he said. "Just like Kristi." His gaze was the dead-eyed stare of a shark. "She's alive, for now. But remember poor Kristi ... she waited for someone to find her."

Anger and fear converged. Emily thought she might lose control and just lunge for him. Instead, she pleaded.

"Please"

"Jenna Kenyon. Kristi Cooper. Two peas in a pod. Pretty girls. The kind I like to-"

"Just shut up," she said, finding her voice, breaking his rhythm. If he had meant to hurt her deeply, he'd done so. The wound was deep. "I want my daughter and Christopher needs a doctor. Now."

Dylan stepped backward, once again that dead, cold stare fixed on her like the scope of an assault rifle. "I'm going now. If I stay, your daughter will be just like Kristi, a bag of bones in the dark somewhere. That is, if they ever find her. Remember they've never found Steffi or Brit."

Emily closed her eyes to shut out Dylan's words. When she opened them, she focused on Christopher. She leaned closer. The color of his face was slightly better. She could feel the faint warmth of his breath against her cheek. He wanted to speak, and he fought for it. "Let him go. We'll find her." His voice was a rasp. Emily gently squeezed his hand, telegraphing that she believed him; she trusted him. Despite the gunshot, despite the turmoil of the moment, Christopher Collier was what he'd always been-calm and direct. He lived up to every promise he ever made.

"I hope so," she said, her voice a soft whisper. She brushed his wavy hair with her fingertips. If there was a better man, a stronger and gentler man, she'd never known him in her life. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she tucked her chin down to wipe them from her face.

When she looked up, the door was open, and Dylan Walker was gone.

She punched 9-1-1 on her phone's keypad.

"We're going to be all right," she said as the call went through. "All of us. Walker's not going to get what he wants"

Deep down, she wasn't so sure. She told the dispatcher where she was, and she uttered the words that no cop every wants to say: "There's an officer down .. ." She gripped Chris's hand and told him once more to hang on, help would be there.

"You're going to make it, Chris."

He nodded.

The bars on her phone flickered and the call to help was gone. She'd told the dispatcher all she could. Emily Kenyon sat on the floor and cradled his head in her lap. The fire crackled, the overstuffed sofa beckoned. But everything about the scene was wrong for the events consuming her. It was not a romantic getaway for two. It was a crime scene redux. Reynard Tuttle. Christopher Collier. God, please help me. Help me. Help Chris, she thought.

A whisper from Christopher stopped her prayer.

"I have an idea where Walker is," he said.

Emily wasn't sure if he was delirious or not. His eyes were hooded and his voice weak. "Closer," he said.

She pressed her ear to his warm mouth, nearly grazing it.

"The red clay. I've been there . .

"Where?"

"Red-"

Nothing more came from his lips. Chris slipped into unconsciousness.

"Where?"

But nothing.

Emily felt for his pulse. Nothing. She was panicking and could no longer tell if she was feeling her own heartbeat or his.

"Chris! Don't leave me!"

Again, nothing.

Emily tried harder. She shook him. Was he breathing? She felt a puff of air flow from his lips. Last breath? God, no! Finally, she felt the thump, thump of his heart. It was weak, but steady. She wanted to cry. It was more than her missing daughter, as if there could be any more. It was also this man, this gentle, smart, and caring man that seemed so vulnerable and so much in danger.

It passed through her mind and she fought it: Was this all her fault?

"Don't leave me," she said, her words desperate and loud, as if the volume of her concern could snap him out of the darkness. The clock above the fireplace inched later and later.

Emily heard the roar of a thunderclap and the pounding of gale force winds off the roiling Pacific. But the evenness of the noise indicated something else, something so welcomed. It was the answer to a prayer and proof that the dispatcher had taken down all the information. Emily placed Christopher's head on the floor and ran toward the door and began to flash a message to the pilot by flipping the switch to the floodlights.

She didn't use Morse code. Just a quick succession of light and dark to signal the message that could save Chris Collier: "We're here!"

A hospital helicopter landed on the wide beach in front of the cabin and two EMTs and a nurse were on the ground and in the cabin in less than a minute. Within five minutes, Emily and Chris were onboard; she saw their cars parked just down from the cabin, a bright light pouring from the picture window facing the ocean.

It was silly and she knew it, but Emily wished she'd thought to turn off the lights.

The helicopter lifted and was sucked up into the black sky.

"Officer, you need to be belted in," an EMT, a man of no more than twenty-four, told Emily as she hovered over the sagging frame of a man she cared deeply about, a man who was there in harm's way for her.

For her daughter.

"I'm not letting go of Christopher. You understand?"

The young man acquiesced. There was no messing with Emily Kenyon right then.

"All right," he said, "I'm going to pretend I didn't notice."

"You do that. And you tell your pilot to get to the goddamn hospital as fast as he can"