Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

Boldt nodded but was thinking how difficult it would be to verify or investigate. And if they sent out detectives asking questions, they would only serve to tip off the harvester, to give him time to clean house and shut down shop. They needed the cart before the ox: They needed the pair of snipping shears that Dixie believed connected at least two of the victims. They needed a witness. Even a dead one. "We're here," said Dixie, pulling over.

The air smelled impossibly good, and the sound of the raging river, growling from below them in the darkness, brought back memories of twenty years earlier when Boldt and Liz had found time to explore the peninsula. The four-wheel drive vehicles were parked below, their headlights and search lights revealing a dug-up area that looked like the surface of the moon. The entire landscape was riddled with deep test holes, the work of a yellow backhoe that now sat off to one side. As Boldt's eyes adjusted, he saw that they had worked their way up this bank of the river-some sixty yards worth of excavations. Those lights were now aimed onto the grave, an angry black hole that looked like a huge mouth locked open in mid-scream. There were maybe ten people-all men--crowded around the hole, some leaning on shovels, some in sheriff uniforms, most drinking coffee from plastic thermos cups. Their attention fixed on this hole in the ground and its contents, which remained out of sight for Dixon and Boldt as they slid down a small incline, the sound of the river growing even louder. It no longer sounded peaceful. The closer they drew to this hole, this grave, the more menacing that sound. Two of the four-wheel drives were running. The light was a blue sterile wash, out of keeping with the natural surroundings, like the illumination at a photo shoot or movie set.

They avoided the other holes as they approached. one of the uniforms from the sheriff's office introduced himself. This site was well outside of the city limits, outside of Boldt's jurisdiction, but still in King County and therefore within the professional domain of Dr. Ronald Dixon. jurisdictional differences could create tremendous headaches for all concerned if ego and territory became issues. Boldt kept this in mind and let Dixie do all the talking. The deputy sheriff was nice enough. He asked to be brought up-to-date. Dixie managed to tell him as little as required, without reference to Sharon Shaffer's abduction or the harvesting linkage, for which Boldt was grateful. To date, they had managed to keep this out of the press. The press could be a nightmare.

A light mist began to fall. Boldt turned up his collar. one of the Search and Rescue guys offered him rain gear but he declined. They had hand dug a series of terraced shelves descending from surface grade to the partially exposed bones below. Boldt felt impatient: This site could be the harvester's first kill, perhaps his first harvest, and as such might hold clues to both his character and methods. Criminals made mistakes the first time around that they often eliminated as time wore on and the number of their crimes rose. As the depth of the hole increased, different strata of soils could be seen. "Remember," one of the men warned from overhead, "this sucker is undercut something fierce! There's not enough floor in the very bottom to support you. Stick to the shelves. That last step is as low as you dare go." It looked as if a shovel had pierced the tender layer of soil that still supported the skeletal remains, causing a hole through which the fevered gray foam of a dark angry river could be seen threatening. Some water splashed up and into it. Over the roar of the white water another of the crew shouted, "It's dangerous down there. That hole you're looking at was caused by my foot!"

Dixie stepped onto the first terraced landing, standing about knee deep in the wide mouth of the excavated hole. Boldt followed, the two of them standing side by side. Dixie reached up and was handed a powerful flashlight, the size of a small biefcase. He turned it on, illuminating the haunting mask of a hollow-eyed skeleton that stared back at them. Boldt could clearly make out an arm and part of a leg. Dixie said, "She's beautiful."

"If you say so," answered Boldt.

Dixie ran the light down her extremities, and as he did he recited the names of the various bones he saw: "humerus, radius, ulna, tarsus, metatarsus." When he reached the "proximal phalanx," he accidentally directed the bright light into Boldt's eyes. "Skull and pelvis; most of the remaining ribs. We're lucky."

Boldt reached out and steered the light back to their subject.

"Not her," he was thinking. He said, "One thing about a murder: There are always two witnesses."

Dixon said, "Now, if she'll only tell us who the other one was."

"The harvester," Boldt said softly. There was no doubt now. Two of the ribs were cut sharply, their ends clearly missing. A whole section of her rib cage cut away like an empty box.

To the Search and Rescue team whose glowing, dirty faces rimmed the enclosure, all of them looking down into the grave, Dixon said, "Let's get to work."

Inside the farmhouse, a single light burning in the other room, Elden Tegg sat in the relative darkness. He missed Pamela. She was essential to the team. Without her, this procedure was going to be much more difficult, though not impossible by any means. Even so, he remained quite angry with her for wanting no part in this, for forcing him to hide it from her.

Tegg accepted his solution to the Michael Washington problem, because he felt justified in blaming it on others. The police were a force to be reckoned with; he had no desire to be an object of an investigation. He also blamed Washington himself-a victim of his own foolishness. He prepared mentally for the task at hand, experiencing a stimulating warmth in his neocortex. He felt high. He felt ready.

He headed toward the kennel through the chill night air, drawn to the barking like a mother to a baby's crying. As he unlocked and opened the door, Felix-left free to defend-and the others went silent. Tegg stood before Washington's cage, his doctor's case in one hand, the collar's remote device in the other. Washington's hot, terrified eyes revealed a man overcome with fear. Even though excited, Tegg didn't feel good about this; but he accepted it just the same. Did the man know what fate awaited him? Sharon looked terrified as well. We're all in this together, Tegg thought, each inexorably linked to the other.

He waved the "wand."

"You don't want me to use this, do you?" Washington replied through the muzzle in words surprisingly clear, "What right do you have to do this? Who made you God?"

Tegg's knee-jerk reaction was to light him up with the "wand" and watch him squirm. But he didn't do that. He felt compelled to answer this, if for no other reason than to hear the explanation himself. "I am doing what must be done. We all are. It is not without sacrifice on all our parts. No. Not without sacrifice."

"But you're a fake! You aren't even a doctor. You told me yourself: You're a veterinarian! An animal doctor! How can you pretend like this?"

"Pretend?" Tegg's nostrils flared.

His eyes flashed hot. Auspiciously, the dogs, who had been pacing anxiously inside their cages, all stopped at once, as if on cue. The building went deathly silent.

Tegg depressed the button on Washington's "wand." The black man repeatedly danced around the cage like a marionette. Sharon screamed soundlessly. The dogs barked.

Tegg stopped. Enough.- Washington collapsed to the cement, a magnificent erection rising from him.

Tegg said to Sharon, "What do you make of that2" He indicated Washington's erection, but she wouldn't look. She curled into the fetal position, trembling.

Washington was weakened to the point that he couldn't move quickly-the perfect target.