Rick Mofina - Into the Dark

Again, the ANPA cooperated.

From Camarillo, Harding directed L.A. investigators by phone to where he’d placed the original letter and envelope so they could process it for any prints or DNA.

It was only a matter of time before the local press would be tipped to all the activity, descend on the scene and weaken his exclusive. Unable to wait any longer, he approached Tanner and Knox.

“I’d like a few comments before I file my story.”

“I’ve got nothing to say right now,” Tanner said.

“Off the record, then?”

Neither investigator said anything, so Tanner proceeded.

“Do you suspect this is tied to any specific case, any homicides or missing persons?”

“It’s too early to speculate about that.”

“Were you able to secure any fingerprints or DNA?” Harding asked.

“We’re still processing everything, and that’s not for attribution,” Tanner said.

“Come on, Joe.”

“Let me ask you a question, Mark. Did you notice the postmark on the envelope?”

“There was no postmark.”

“That’s right, which indicates he may have walked up to your building and delivered his letter by hand himself, or had someone else do it. We’re getting warrants for your building’s security cameras.”

“I’m quoting you.”

“No, you’re not. I’m telling you this so you get that you’ve cost us time.”

“Quit blaming me, Joe.” Harding turned to his phone and retrieved his photo of the note the killer had tied to the bound doll. “Look, what do you think he means with this line after the name, ‘She’s mine now’?”

“She’s either dead, or she’s going to be.”

A few tense seconds passed before Tanner’s name was called. His partner, Zurn, was at their car, holding up his cell phone and waving it. “I gotta go,” Tanner told Harding. “You and I will talk later. But you’d better call me before you write a freaking word. You got that?”

“I’ll call. Count on it. Jodi?” Harding shouted. “Let’s go back to L.A.!”

Tanner shot Harding a simmering glance, then turned and walked to Zurn. They huddled at their car.

“I think we’ve got something here, Joe.” Zurn held his hand over the phone. “Detective Ed Belinski with Alhambra P.D. wants to talk to you now.”

Tanner took Zurn’s phone.

Above the United States

The charter jet climbed out of Detroit and Robert Bowen ran through his calculations again. After factoring in weather, he figured they’d touch down in Van Nuys by ten o’clock local time tonight.

This Gulfstream was a fine aircraft. He liked how the autothrottle performed and how the flight management system made takeoffs easier. As the plane leveled off, last night’s phone call with Claire echoed in his mind.

“Something horrible has happened. One of my patients is missing. There was blood. Robert, please come home, I need you.”

He looked into the endless afternoon sky, then glanced at Tim, his copilot, who had taken over controls for this leg of the return trip.

It gave him time to think.

Things were happening in L.A. and it felt as though he’d been away for an eternity. When the charter was in Toronto the other day, his passengers, seven executives from a high-tech startup in Santa Monica, had secured a new Canadian deal for remote areas. That meant extending the tour by adding a last-minute final destination: Iqaluit, the tiny capital of Nunavut, one of Canada’s three territories.

At this time of year, Iqaluit’s temperature was about 30 to 35 degrees Fahrenheit and there was snow on the ground. The group bought additional warm clothing in Toronto before making the four-hour flight northeast.

Iqaluit was in Canada’s north, on Baffin Island, located in the eastern Arctic, near Greenland. A former military outpost, the town now had a population of some seven thousand people.

Bowen found that the air there was sweeter, clearer and, save for the sound of a plane at the airport, the tinny whine of snowmobiles or the lonely yip of a tethered dog, the silence was overwhelming. During his short stay, he’d kept to himself and embraced the isolation even as he enjoyed being in control of what was evolving a continent away.

There, in that cold, remote corner of the planet, he was warmed by a feeling of unstoppable power.

He’d walked to the town’s original cemetery on the shore of Frobisher Bay. He’d been fascinated by the tale a local in the hotel had told him. Because of the permafrost, the graves were not that deep and at times when the earth heaved, you could see coffins in the gaps.

Beautiful, he’d thought.

He took pictures of the pretty white wooden crosses before returning to the hotel, which was on a hill overlooking the town and bay. That evening, he ate alone in his room. Afterward, he drew up his chair to his window and watched the aurora borealis. The dazzling display of colors swirling across the heavens underscored his sense of majesty, as if he were seated on a throne at the top of the world while all of nature entertained him.

After he’d gone to bed and drifted to sleep, his phone rang. It was Claire, still distraught at discovering her patient was missing. Her anguish tore at him, but at the same time his skin tingled.

And so it has begun, he thought.

He’d told Claire he’d be home within twenty-four hours.

After he’d comforted her, he’d been too excited to sleep.

Yes, work was proceeding but I never expected it would unfold like this, with Claire making the find.

His breathing picked up. Fully awake, he’d sat at the desk. As he digested this new twist his sense of power intensified, hot waves of adrenaline rolled over him and he’d become aroused.

He needed to savor the spoils again.

Bowen had turned on his laptop and navigated his way to a short video of Amber Pratt: alive, confined in a wooden box.

His shadow had fallen over her as he’d recorded.

Like the doll, her hands and ankles were bound. She was naked but for the duct tape sealing her mouth. He remembered how she’d pleaded, begged for mercy, how her cries had enthralled him. Now her beautiful eyes were bulging with terror.

She was magnificent .

Bowen inhaled then let it out slowly.

And I am just getting started. Look at that fire in the arctic sky. The glory is mine .

The celestial images of the aurora borealis in his mind dissolved into the distant sea of shimmering light as Los Angeles floated on the horizon.

“You want to take us home from here, Bob?” Tim said.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Amid muted transmissions with the tower, Robert took control of the jet and prepared for landing. His blood rushed and he welcomed the familiar, intimate sensation of absolute supremacy over the world below. He gazed at the infinite immensity of L.A.’s twinkling lights rolling beneath him.

Let the mortals on earth tremble. He was the Dark Wind.

He decided who would live and who would die.

Calgary, Alberta, Canada

Private investigator Milt Thorsen was working in the basement office of his northwest Calgary home, occupied with the case on his computer monitor.

His wife, Jean, watched over him from the framed photo he’d hung on the wall after she passed away two years ago. The kids were grown and long gone. He lived alone with Tippy, Jean’s cat, which he’d intended to give away, but had never had the heart.

As he scrolled through files, Tippy hopped into his lap.

“Scram, I’m busy.”

Thorsen nudged her away and resumed examining the life of Robert John Bowen, a subcontract job for Julie Glidden, an investigator from Los Angeles. The case had begun as a straight-up search to confirm the location of Bowen’s ex-wife, Cynthia, to establish whether she’d remained romantically involved with him after he’d remarried. Should’ve been easy, but it presented complications, including a Canadian aspect.