12th of Never

Chapter 67

I HEARD THE psycho killer say to the head of the FBI’s San Francisco field office, “I’d like to have my hands free.”

“I don’t think so,” Ron Parker said. He took a panoramic look around the steep, heavily wooded terrain.

Fish said, “I know you think I’m going to run, but really, I want to read. My paperback is in the van. It’s a great story and I’m dying to find out what happens.”

“Tell you what: when you get back to your cell, I’ll be sure to get that book to you. That’s if you show us where you buried Sandra Brody.”

We were caravanning again, this time on foot. I stayed behind Fish, my hand on my gun. I could imagine that freak in the orange jumpsuit breaking free, zigzagging through the scrub, and bullets missing him, flying into the trees. It wasn’t so hard to believe that Fish might want to get shot out here rather than wait twenty years for his walk to the death chamber.

But if Fish was anticipating “suicide by cop,” you couldn’t tell from watching him. He chatted with Ron Parker, told Ron that he was a happy person. That he had been a happy baby, and hardly ever experienced doubt or frustration.

Parker asked, “So what made you kill those girls? What made you cut off their fingers? I really want to know.”

“If I told you, you’d judge me.”

“Try me,” said Parker.

“I might be willing to tell Lindsay.”

“No. You won’t,” said Parker. “She’s not that interested in your twisted facsimile of a mind.”

“See? I knew you’d judge me,” Fish said brightly.

I thought of the way Fish had tortured his victims for hours or days before finally strangling them or stabbing them to death. All those young women had been loved by their friends and their families. I thought about their mothers, and tears came into my eyes.

I clamped my lips together, using the back of my hand to dry my eyes. I was thinking of Julie. I couldn’t bear to think of losing Julie.

I heard Fish say, “Hey, Ron. I recognize that rocky outcrop. I climbed past it and turned left at the top of the ravine. There’s a trail up there that goes off to the east.”

We crossed a brook and dug our hands into crumbling earth in order to climb up the side of the ravine. We turned left at the rocky outcropping and continued east on a deer path.

Fish, looking as pale as the underbelly of a trout, said to Parker, “It’s been a while since I’ve been here, but see that tree limb that looks like an elbow? You’ll find what you’re looking for under that.”

The dogs snuffled but didn’t alert. The guards shoveled dirt, but only uncovered roots and stones. Fish suggested that they try just a few more yards up the trail, and they did. After some digging, a shovel hit something that caused interest.

Parker hiked up his pants cuffs and squatted near the hole. He reached in and removed a bone from the freshly turned earth. Then he pulled out a skull—with antlers.

Fish laughed.

“I don’t think I had anything to do with killing that. But I can’t say for sure.”

He called out to me, “Lindsay, I haven’t been here in a long time, you know?”

Fish had manipulated all of us to get his outing in the woods. I was mad at myself for letting Ron Parker waste my time. As we hiked back to the road, I called Joe to get an update on our baby girl, but he didn’t answer the phone. I left him a message to call me, and a few minutes later I called him again. Still, Joe didn’t answer.

Fish was walking backwards, talking to me, telling me he was as surprised as we were that we hadn’t found Sandra. “I’m not so sure what I remember. You know, being in a coma for two years is a big deal. In fact, I’m not sure if I ever knew Sandra Brody or if I just got her name from you.”

He was screwing with my head.

I thought maybe God was messing with me, too.