Jeffery Deaver - Solitude Creek

Never rains but it pours...

‘Could have been consensual sex gone wrong, could have been intentional. We don’t know for sure. Except for this.’ He opened the folder and extracted a photograph. It was a still from a security video. The picture was black-and-white but it clearly showed a light-colored Honda Accord.

‘No tag number,’ Dance noted, shaking her head.

Sometimes it was that easy. Not often. Not now.

‘Where was it?’

‘A block from the motel where our Jane Doe died. I had some MCSO officers canvassing all the businesses around the area and one came back with this.’ Tapping the picture.

‘The connection, though?’ Overby asked.

O’Neil pulled another crime-scene picture out of the back of the folder and set it beside the Jane Doe. It was of Stan Prescott’s body.

Looking from one to the other, Dance said, ‘It’s the same pose as Prescott, same cause of death. Asphyxiation. Both lying on their backs. Both images are stark: the victims are lying in pools of bright light from nearby lamps.’

‘Why would he kill her ?’ Overby wondered aloud.

Dance offered, ‘The TOD on the Jane Doe was just after Foster leaked the info about what the unsub was wearing. Maybe she’d seen his outfit — the worker’s jacket with the logo he’d worn to Solitude Creek. And he realized she could ID him.’

O’Neil: ‘Could be why she didn’t have a phone or computer or notebook. That could lead to him. The scenario: she wasn’t from here. They met in a bar, had a oneor two-night thing. They were going their separate ways but he had to take her out.’

Dance asked, ‘But why the parallel means of death?’

‘Sadism,’ Overby suggested.

Maybe. That wasn’t, however, a question that interested Dance at this point. She had only one query in mind: was their unsub back in town, with another venue in his sights?

Antioch March was thinking of Calista Sommers.

The police still didn’t have her name. In the media, she was referred to as Jane Doe. A picture had been released. Her death was either murder or some kind of weird sado-sexual thing.

He just happened to be driving near the bar where he’d picked her up earlier in the week.

A martini for her, a pineapple juice for him.

She’d still be alive if she hadn’t been brash enough to fling open his closet in search of a robe. Modesty. That was what’d killed her. She’d have seen the outfit that he’d worn at Solitude Creek, when he’d moved the truck to block the exit doors. At that point, the announcement had not been made that a witness had seen him — so he hadn’t thought anything of it. Shortly thereafter, at the movie theater, he’d learned that the public had gotten the word. Why on earth they’d released his description he still couldn’t fathom.

The police’s disclosure not only saved him at the theater incident it had got Calista dead. As soon as he’d left the McDonald’s near the theater, after learning of Ms Agent Dance, he’d taken a drive to Calista’s motel in Carmel. Hoping she hadn’t heard the description broadcast. But no. She’d been pleasantly surprised to see him. He asked if she wanted to take a drive. And once they were under way, how ’bout an adventure? Some little no-tell motel?

‘You naughty boy...’

You’re so fucking handsome...

And then...

Sorry, Calista.

‘No, no...’

He pictured her on the floor of the cheap place, shivering as she died. The plastic bag over her head. Five, six minutes was all it had taken.

He now tucked away the happy memory and continued to one of the places he’d found a few days ago, perfect for another attack: a church reception hall.

It was astonishing to him, the number of people killed in stampedes related to religion.

Mecca. Never do Mecca.

How anybody could manage to hang on to faith after hearing about those deaths was beyond him. Thousands had died.

India was pretty bad too, crowds of hundreds of thousands. Oh, what he could do with a herd like that...

Ahead he could see the venue he’d checked out earlier. There was a church supper planned there tonight. The site was particularly good. Two exit doors that could be bound shut with flower-arranging wire. Perfect.

This also happened to be an African-American church. And someone in the area, conveniently, had been targeting ethnic facilities just like this. That meant the people would be particularly paranoid, fast to escape if there was any sign of threat.

Fast to crush their fellow congregants to save themselves.

He’d start a small fire outside, just like he’d done in Solitude Creek. That would be enough, smoke wafting in. They’d be thinking the neo-Nazis had returned and, tired of simple-minded graffiti, were now intent on doing the real thing. Burn them to the ground. March thought it would be—

But, no, what was this?

As he approached he noted a sign on the billboard out front.

Dine with Jesus Supper Postponed. Join us for Services next week. Pray for the victims of Solitude Creek and the Bay View Center.

March sighed. He guessed he should have anticipated that. The bigger venues were probably robo-calling ticket holders and cancelling shows.

He wondered if Kathryn Dance was behind this.

Maybe not behind. But involved.

Well, he certainly couldn’t leave the area just yet. So, what to do? Out-think them, out-think dear Kathryn. Well, performance venues were out, reception halls too. Maybe weddings were going on but they would probably have been moved outside — the weather was temperate enough for that.

What venue wouldn’t be closed down?

Movie theaters, but they wouldn’t work. After the abortive attempt the other day, sure, cineplexes with substantial crowds would have guards, if not police.

What else would remain open?

Ah, wait. Here’s a thought: management of hotels would resist closing, certainly on a nice Sunday afternoon, everybody in for brunch or an early supper.

Hotel or inn... Yes.

Some ideas began to form. Good, a solid plan.

But he’d pursue it only after he had completed his immediate task — the errand that had been interrupted by his trip to Orange County after the Bay View incident.

The task of slowing down, if not stopping completely, his pursuers.

Well, one pursuer. Singular.

He smiled. Yes, truly singular.

What better word to describe Kathryn Dance, of whom he’d dreamed at glorious length last night?

The Kathryn Dance Situation.

That’s how Jon Boling had come to think of it. The phrase could have a negative connotation but he didn’t mean it like that. Boling, a product of academia who made his living in the world of computers, was analytical by nature.

This drab, gray Sunday he was bicycling down Ocean Avenue in Carmel, the main shopping drag, while his partner at the college, Lily, chipped away at Stanley Prescott’s and his killer’s passcode. There was nothing more for him to do until she finished, so he’d taken a ride. Besides, he had an errand that needed attending to.

He was not paying much attention to the pretty scenery but was, instead, reflecting on the nature of the KD Situation.

Yes, he loved her. No question about that. The tug in his gut whenever he saw her. He could, always, call up the smell of her hair as they lay together. He could see the sparkle in her green eyes, hear her breezy laugh. They gave to each other, didn’t hesitate to speak about their vulnerabilities. He remembered feeling her pain when the worst — to her — happened: she’d fail to catch a perp. He’d wrap his arms around her at moments like that and she’d yield to the comfort. Not completely. But to a degree. This was love.