Sleep Tight

Chapter 14

"I'm going into the woods tonight," Mary announced.

She and Blythe were sitting in the warm kitchen with its terra-cotta color-washed walls, drinking a horrendous green tea her mother claimed would reduce inflammation and speed healing. A CD was playing, something ambient, mysterious, and exotic. In the corner, a small fountain flowed soothingly over layered rocks while a scented candle burned.

Mary knew what her mother was doing-trying to create a relaxing environment to boost her immune system. Earlier she'd tried to talk Mary into visiting one of her friends-a healer who worked with crystals and heated rocks. Mary declined. She wasn't going to discount the benefits of such a strategy, but she felt the subject of such healings had to have a measure of faith and mental participation-something Mary didn't have the patience for. She had too many other things on her mind.

"You're going into the woods when it's dark?" Blythe put down her mug-one she'd made years ago. It was thick and heavy, with a burnt-umber glaze. "Why not wait until daytime? Do you FBI agents always have to do everything in the dark?" She reached across the table and gave Mary's hand a gentle squeeze. "It doesn't make sense, sweetheart. And why do you want to go at all?"

"It's strange that you and Mrs. Portman have never seen anyone coming or going. That means whoever is visiting the site doesn't want to be seen, which makes me think they have to be visiting at night. And yes," she said with a smile. "FBI agents like the dark. We're a gloomy bunch."

"Don't go," Blythe pleaded. "Not where Fiona died."

"I have to."

"It can't be good for you. I don't like to think about you out there, especially by yourself." That thought seemed to make up her mind. "If you're going, I'm going with you."

"It'll be cold and possibly muddy in places," Mary warned, appreciating her mother's offer. Not that she was afraid to go by herself, but the company would be nice.

"Look at these." Blythe held out hands with square, damaged nails and skin that was dry and prematurely wrinkled from years of working with clay. "I play in the mud all day long."

"This will be your first FBI stakeout," Mary joked.

They cleared the table, blew out the candle, went to their rooms, and changed into outdoor clothes and sturdy boots. It was getting dark by the time they convened downstairs.

Mary handed her mother a miniature flashlight and another small device. "It's a thermal scanner. It can detect a temperature change from over a hundred yards away. Push this button-" She demonstrated. "The reading is seventy-one, which is the temperature of the walls. Now point it at me."

"Ninety-eight point six," Blythe said. "That's amazing. Aren't these the things used by parapsychologists?"

Leave it to her mother to ask a question like that. "Yes, but we're looking for living, breathing human beings."

Blythe looked around as if she were missing something. "What about night-vision goggles?"

"Unfortunately, I left those at home."

"I was kidding."

"I actually have a pair," Mary said, laughing. "With the scanner, we won't be able to see what it's picking up. We can only determine the location."

With their flashlights off and stashed in their pockets, they headed out the kitchen door, through the backyard and side gate. The street ended in a cul-de-sac. Where the yellow sign said dead end, they continued down a dirt path people used to cut through a ditch in order to get to the adjoining street. At the bottom of the ditch Mary swung to the left, toward the woods. She plunged ahead, into the darkness.

"No flashlights," Mary whispered as her mother collided with her from behind.

"I can't see a damn thing," Blythe whispered.

Mary pulled out a key chain with a tiny orange squeeze light. Holding it toward the ground, she pressed the soft button. It created a small glow of light around her feet. "Hang on to me."

"I feel like Nancy Drew." Blythe grabbed her arm, and they began moving slowly through the woods, Mary keeping her eyes and ears tuned for anything unusual. Darkness was almost complete when, minutes later, they reached the area where Fiona had died.

"There it is." Mary directed the small glow of light on the cross.

"I can't believe I never knew this was here," Blythe said, peering at it. "Who's taking care of it? And why?"

"That's what I want to know. People leave crosses and flowers where people have died in car wrecks, but the secretive nature of this memorial makes me suspicious."

Mary found a spot beneath the curved branches of some bushes where they could wait and see if anyone made a nighttime appearance.

Blythe switched on the thermal scanner and began monitoring the readings, turning it in different directions. The temperature hovered around fifty-five unless she pointed it at the sky. In that case, it dived below zero.

They soon discovered that fifty-five wasn't too cold for Minnesota mosquitoes. Mary tried not to slap too loudly.

Fifteen minutes into their vigil, Mary heard something moving through the leaves. Blythe trained the heat detector in the direction of the sound, where it registered a temperature above one hundred. Mary's flashlight picked up the glowing eyes of a raccoon or possum.

"People say they've seen coyotes in these woods," Blythe whispered. "Sometimes in the winter I hear them at night. It's so eerie. They sound like people- like tortured souls."

"Mom, we're going to have to be quiet."

"Oh. Sorry."

Mary patted her back. "That's okay," she whispered.

They stuck it out for two hours. By the time Mary checked her watch and announced that Anthony would soon be stopping by, their teeth were chattering and their legs were stiff.

Thinking about Anthony reminded Mary of that afternoon in the pub. Had she read him wrong? Had he been slightly flirtatious? No, she thought, quickly dismissing the idea.

Silently they got to their feet.

Blythe, who continued to keep an eye on the scanner, suddenly pulled in a tight breath and tugged Mary's sleevse. Mary looked down at the readout in her mother's hand. Pointing away from them, in the opposite direction of the cross, it read 98.6.

Human.

They dropped back to the ground and stared at the glowing green numbers. As the person came nearer, their ears began to pick up the sounds of movement- the shushing of leaves, the snagging of thorns on cloth. A beam of light cut through the branches, bouncing off tree trunks and a mist that had moved in.

Mary was aware of her own breathing, of her mother's fingers digging into her arm.

The person stopped.

A beam of light moved in front of them, illuminating the cross.

Slowly, silently, Mary reached inside her jacket pocket, her fingers wrapping around the leather flip-open case that held her ID. Afraid the person was getting ready to bolt, she straightened.

"Stop!"

She held up her ID. The beam of light shot in her direction, blinding her.

"FBI!"

The light was extinguished. The person backtracked in the direction he'd come, crashing through the underbrush.

Mary followed, turning on her high-powered FBI-issue flashlight as she ran. Behind her, Blythe shouted.

Thorns ripped at Mary's jacket. Ghost halos from the doused light blinded her. Unfamiliar with the path, she soon realized the person she was chasing had her at a disadvantage. Two minutes later, she'd lost him and was forced to give up.

With cold air burning her lungs, she turned and headed back to where she could see the light cast by her mother's flashlight.

"Look," Blythe said.

On the ground lay a bouquet of red roses.

Also illuminated in the pool of light was part of a footprint that appeared to be from a fairly large boot. Mary crouched beside it. "It looks like a man's nine or ten. Here-" She passed the flashlight to her mother. "Hold this." While her mother held the light, Mary pulled a camera from her pocket and took a quick series of photographs. Finished, she stowed the camera and picked up the bouquet of roses by a single stem.

"What are you doing with those?" Blythe sounded concerned.

"I might be able to lift prints from the cellophane."

"They don't belong to us." She was using a tone Mary remembered from childhood when most of Blythe's moralizing came by way of heavy suggestion or opinion. "I think you should leave them by the cross."

"Really?" Mary asked, hoping this didn't turn into a battle. She had no intention of putting the roses back.

"I feel bad about this. Does it matter who's visiting wanted to put dowers there. What's wrong with that?"

"He ran away."

"I'd run too if I came upon someone hiding in the woods right where a sixteen-year-old girl had been murdered."

"Come on," Mary said, heading back toward the house.

"You aren't going to leave the flowers?"

"No."

"But, darling. Think about it. Taking them is like… like grave robbing."

Mary stopped and turned around. "Do you always have to be my conscience?"

"Isn't that what a mother does?"

Mary sighed. "Okay, I'll bring them back. After I check for prints. How's that?"

"Much better."

When they reached the house Mary asked Blythe if she had any superglue. "And the heated tank I used to keep my lizard in. Do we still have that?"

She already knew the answer. Her mother never got rid of anything.

Wearing latex gloves, Mary arranged the cellophane-wrapped roses carefully in the reptile tank she'd positioned in the center of the kitchen counter. She squeezed superglue onto a small dish fashioned from aluminum foil. That she placed in the bottom of the container, which was then sealed tightly with plastic wrap and packing tape.

"Now we wait." Mary plugged in the heater cord. "Years ago somebody discovered that the heated vapors from superglue make fingerprints appear on hard-to-dust objects. And since I don't have any fingerprint powder…"

As they watched, smoke gradually filled the sealed peared on the green cellophane.

"Now I feel like MacGyver," Blythe said.

Mary carried the tank outside and unsealed it so the vapors would evaporate. Back in the kitchen, she lifted the cellophane-wrapped roses from the tank. She'd been able to capture several clear prints. "Who says I can't cook?"

The problem with the superglue method was that the prints couldn't be lifted and transferred to a slide or card without the aid of fingerprint powder. Mary ended up cutting off squares of cellophane, which she carefully taped to index cards. She was just finishing up when the doorbell rang. She checked the wall clock. Almost nine. Anthony.

Mary answered the door.

"Superglue?" he asked, stepping inside. He removed his coat and tossed it over a chair, excited at the prospect of a clue. "Did you find some prints?"

"It's nothing to do with the case," Mary quickly explained, gesturing toward a sitting area in the living room as she attempted to divert him. She didn't want him to know what she'd been up to.

But the smell of glue was overpowering, and he followed his nose into the kitchen, where Blythe was putting a bouquet of flowers in water.

"Those are the foulest roses I've ever smelled. He leaned forward to examine the prints on the index cards. "What's going on?"

"I'll let Mary tell you," Blythe said. "I'm freezing." She hugged herself and rubbed her arms. "I'm going upstairs to take a hot bath."

When she was gone, Anthony grabbed Mary's hand. "You're cold, too. What have you been doing?"

Mary pulled away to turn on the teakettle. "Would you like some hot tea?" She was wearing a bulky wool sweater, and her cheeks were bright red from the outdoors. On her feet were thick socks. She looked vibrant.

"Sure," he said.

She retrieved two cups and placed a tin of tea bags on the counter between them. "Help yourself."

He poked through the supply, passing on the florals and herbals to settle on Earl Grey. "Go on. I'm still waiting for an answer."

She hesitated, prepared to say something elusive. But then she thought about the occasions in the past when she'd evaded his questions only to later regret her silence. She didn't want to push him away anymore.

She briefly, told him about the person in the woods, and the site where a sixteen-year-old girl had lost her life years ago.

"Your friend."

"Yes."

Once she got started, she didn't stop. She told him about the birthday party. She told him about Fiona and about how she'd found her in the woods. It all came pouring out.

At the end, he said, "Jesus. You were only a kid yourself."

"It was a long time ago."

"Time doesn't always mean that much when you're dealing with something traumatic."

She began to bustle around, as if suddenly embarrassed by how much of herself she'd let him see. The teapot was ready. She focused her attention on pouring steaming water into his cup, then hers.

"I still don't understand why you're investigating a closed case," he said.

The subtle disapproval in his voice set her on guard. "I'm not investigating it. I'm just curious, that's all."

"What about the current homicides?"

"I've worked several cases at a time before. I'm not being negligent, if that's what you're implying."

"I simply think it's a waste of time, energy, and focus. And I'm not sure it's healthy."

She crossed her arms. "Earlier today you wanted to know why I'm tense when my sister's around. It's simple and easy to explain: A buddy of hers killed my friend." She looked over her shoulder, in the direction her mother had gone. Upstairs water was running. "All these years," she whispered, looking deadly serious and terribly sad. "All these years I've suspected that my sister may have put the idea in his head, however unintentionally."

Anthony wasn't impressed. "You were a child. You've dealt with enough juvenile cases to know children often create their own reality, often misread something that has happened, especially when a high degree of fear is involved."

"I know that. I realize that. But Gillian hated Fiona. She despised her. And Gavin would do anything for my sister, including killing someone he knew was making her miserable. Even if that isn't the case, her betrayal has been an ongoing saga. She visited the bastard in prison. She helped him get a job and a place to live when he got out."

"He's out?"

She lowered her mug. "Released a couple of months ago." She looked at him, waiting for a reaction.

"Shortly before the girls began disappearing," Anthony said thoughtfully.

"Handy, isn't it?"

"Do you think there's a connection?"

"I haven't found anything to substantiate that idea. But if you're asking about my gut feeling, I'd have to say I think he may have something to do with it."

The extra heat in her voice made him pause. "Emotions can skew a person's perspective."

"I know. I hate this guy, and I would like nothing more than to see him back in prison where there's no chance of his hurting anyone again. And," she admitted, "I'm afraid every piece of evidence I look at is colored by those feelings."

Anthony nodded, taking it all in. "The person in the woods. The person who put up the cross. You think it might be this-what did you say his name was?"

"Gavin Hitchcock."

"You think it might be Gavin Hitchcock?"

"Doesn't it make sense? He got out of prison two months ago. Killers often go back to the scene of the crime. He never got the chance because he was arrested right after her murder. So now he can finally return and relive that day, even put up a shrine. And what about the roses? Red roses. It makes sense to me. Does it make sense to you?"

She was looking at him with a desperation that he'd never seen in her before. She wanted to be reassured that she hadn't lost perspective the way agents sometimes did when they were too close to a case.

"The roses could very well be a coincidence," he said slowly, "but what you're saying makes sense. It's a solid theory."

She let out a relieved breath.

"But you can't allow yourself to be sidetracked by this old case. You have to follow the clues from the new homicides, then see if they intersect with this Gavin Hitchcock."

She fully agreed. She'd been trying to do that all along. "The killer's in control of the game. He hasn't left much of anything, at least nothing he doesn't want us to find. Wakefield might not understand how in control he is, but you do."

Anthony knew what she was thinking. The cases where there were no clues, and the killers had never been caught. Those were the ones that haunted them.

He had another concern. "Have you said anything to anyone about Hitchcock?"

"Only Gillian. But his name is on the suspect list, and he fits the profile."

Thank God she'd understood the dangers of mentioning his name to people like Wakefield and Elliot Senatra, Anthony thought.

"Because of the lack of clues," Mary went on, "tantalizing information about Hitchcock could turn this investigation into a witch hunt. As much as I hate Hitchcock, I don't want that to happen."

"No."

Mary's thoughts flashed to an image of Charlotte Henning tucked into a body bag.

"My worry," Anthony said, putting voice to the concern foremost in both their minds, "is that the killer is stalking a new victim at this very moment."