Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

A massacre. A murder? A shock collar. It was resting alongside the hemostats. She felt a bubble of nervous laughter escape her. A shock collar. It could mean only one thing: a dog. Not a human, not murder. No human victim. A dog! Part of his research?

She had mistrusted him. She had doubted his intentions. She had allowed the police to sway her, just as he had warned. How could she have made such assumptions? How could she have lost her faith in him so quickly? She hated herself for it.

Excited by her discovery, thrilled to prove her earlier suspicions incorrect, she hurried into the recovery room. Its walls and ceilings were also encased in plastic. The flashlight caught the narrow cot pushed up against the wall and then the window to the outside. Even at this distance the barking of the dogs from the kennel sounded unnaturally loud. She had never noticed this before. Perhaps it was the Valium hearing that barking. Perhaps she had never listened.

Why wasn't Sharon here, as she half expected? The flashlight illuminated the painted window again, and she had her answer.

Then the barking of the dogs registered fully: There were no windows in the kennel, no chance at escape.

Out the cellar door. Up the steps. Across the field toward the Quonset hut. She clung to the hope that the presence of the shock collar meant something a dog, not a human. Not Sharon. One less dog in the kennel would prove it. And she, for one, would not feel too sad about that. These pit bulls of his were terrors-many of them trained that way well before he had "saved" them from death. His surgical experiments on them did nothing to improve their disposition.

Having forgotten the key to the kennel, she had to run back to the operating room to get it. In the process she grew more elated at her discovery of the shock collar. She no longer attributed her bliss to the drug she had taken; she had forgotten all about it. Losing her awareness of the fact, she crossed a threshold. The Valium owned her for now.

Elden had done no wrong. Everything was going to be fine." In fact, the way she felt, things were really looking up.

The Isuzu rode high in the traffic, making it an easy target for Daphne to follow. Wherever possible, Daphne kept at least one car between herself and Tegg, though by his hurried, nearly reckless driving, she doubted he was paying much attention to what was behind him. He seemed hell-bent on getting to where he was going.

He took 1–5 north but stayed on it only briefly, heading east on 90. He stayed on the Interstate through Bellevue, continuing on toward the 901. She had followed him out of the city limits, had driven right out of her legal authority as a policewoman.

She was a Seattle cop; out here police authority was divided between King County Police and the police departments of the incorporated townships. She was technically a civilian now.

He drove seventy wherever possible. The farther away from the city, the more isolated she felt. If he would only stop for gas-if he would only give her a minute or so to make a phone call, to call in some backup. But he barreled along into the night, and she followed a hundred yards back.

At Preston he left the interstate and took the 203 north toward Fall City.

The farther they went, the more nervous she became. She was in over her head and she knew it. What if he did lead her to Sharon? What then? The gun? A confrontation? In the last six years she had negotiated eleven hostage situations for the department and had a perfect record. But those had been team efforts, team pressures, team resources. The only hostage situation she had failed at-one that wasn't counted on the department records-had been her own. Boldt had solved that one with his weapon, but only after the abductor had drawn his knife across her throat.

Was she capable of using the gun as it was made to be used?

Cardboard silhouettes were one thing, a human life another thing entirely.

Only minutes later she followed Tegg into the small town of Fall City, and shortly thereafter he turned south on 202. She was alone with him now, and she worried he would spot her. She fell well behind, but with the increased distance she risked losing him.

They passed Spring Glen, crossed over the dark and sullen Tokul River and turned left toward Snoqualmie Falls. They drove through town, crossed the railroad tracks, and headed south, following the tracks.

Less than a mile later, his blinker signaled a left turn and the Trooper disappeared from sight. Had he taken this turn with the sole intention of losing her? Of trapping her? Was he waiting to see whether she followed? Or was he oblivious to her presence? There were glimpses of moonlight tonight, the sky a grid of broken clouds. She couldn't continue to follow him as she had been; they were too far off the beaten track for that. What to do? They had passed a tavern on the outskirts of town. Should she go back and telephone for help? Risk losing him?.

She slowed, a headache beating unmercifully at her temples.

She switched off her headlights and turned down the darkened lane, following his taillights just barely visible a half-mile in front of her. It was a macadam road, tar mixed with crushed stone. When the moon passed behind the clouds it forced her to slow to a crawl. When it reappeared, she drove quickly, closing the distance between them. Cat and mouse, she caught him and lost him, caught him and lost him. Her headache drove spikes down into her neck. Her calf muscle cramped from carrying the tension there as well.

The road turned to mud. Twice she drove past side roads where his taillights and his tracks said he'd gone. She backed up, worried he might spot the backup lights, made the turn, and followed. It was a spiderweb of dirt roads out here; mud sprayed loudly onto the undercarriage. The front-wheel drive held the car close to the road. A left. A right. She would never find her way out of here. If this was a spiderweb, she thought, then he was the spider and she was the prey. Perhaps he had her exactly where he wanted her. Perhaps he had known she was back here all along.

Pamela Chase fumbled awkwardly nervously-with the oversized brass padlock, finally inserting and turning the key. The dogs were going crazy in there. The lock came open with a loud pop. She leapt away as a dog's nose and teeth jammed through the crack in the door surprising her. Biting at her. She placed her hand out for the dog to smell. It whined. It tried for her again, and she recognized that nose. "Felix?" she said. "Did you get out of your cage, boy?" She eased the door open, her hand-her scent-leading her. Felix approached and nuzzled her. A few of the other dogs stopped barking. She closed the door behind her.

It smelled horrible in here. He hadn't been keeping it clean.

It smelled wrong. Not exactly like dogs. It was dark, and she could not see clearly.

She switched on the lights. The very first pen she looked at was unoccupied, and her mind jumped to the immediate conclusion that this dog had been the one to receive the surgery. Finding an empty pen was exactly what she had hoped for-it exonerated Elden; another warm wave of tranquility passed through her at the sight of it.

Behind her and farther into the structure, she heard a collar sound its warning beep, and one of the dogs smash into the cage wall. She turned to see who was being so rambunctious.

A woman! Her hair tangled and matted, one eye bandaged, her mouth gagged, lips worn raw, a shock collar locked around her neck.

Pamela screamed. The woman screamed soundlessly. The dogs began barking ferociously again.

A bandage covering a kidney scar. Badly infected, by the color.

"Sharon?" Pamela asked tentatively.

The woman's one good eye cocked toward her suspiciously.

Untrusting.

Pamela felt weak, unable to move, without strength. This roller coaster between euphoria and horror was nearly intolerable. Only a moment before…