Carol O’Connell - Find Me

“That desert is huge, Mallory.”

“But it’s only got a few segments of the old road running through it. They don’t s how up in maps or guidebooks. I think he’d know where they are, but no one else would. Even the buffs on the Internet wouldn’t know where to look. It’s perfect.”

“I’m sorry,” said Charles to his passenger. “I can’t match speed with Mallory’s car, and I can’t predict an outcome for you.”

To o late he had come to understand that his function on this road had nothing to do with the capture of a serial killer. He fixed his eyes upon a highway sign to reassure himself that he had not left the earth for the moon; but he was drawn back to the strange dark landscape framed in his side window. The prairie was so beautiful, though not hospitable to humanity, not welcoming nor forgiving, and it held not one whit of sentiment for the living or the dead. This was his only view into Mallory’s mind. One could easily get lost in such a place.

“You gotta gimme something ,” said Kronewald, “any damn thing.”

“Well, it would appear that the killer feels some connection to Mallory-since he invited her to chase him down tonight.”

“Gimme more,” said Kronewald, slipping into the interrogation tone.

“I can string together a line of logic for you. Best guess?”

“Anything.”

“He definitely plans to kill the child-that’s hardly guesswork. The plan will be well thought out. Dodie Finn’s death will cap off his monument, and he’s planning something spectacular. That’s the most logical reason for keeping that little girl alive this long.”

“So he’s got a thing for Mallory?”

“She probably fascinates him, but it’s nothing sexual, no fantasizing in that direction. This man is repulsed by the whole idea of physical contact with a living person.”

“But the guy takes big risks. He’s not afraid she’ll catch him after he kills this kid?”

“I think he’s counting on it. Mallory thought he got sloppy with the murder of Dr. Magritte-when he left the old man’s bloody knife behind. It was the killer’s blood, his DNA. What if that was deliberate?”

Kronewald nodded. “He wants credit.”

“Right. Now, if he wants us to know who he is-then he’ll escalate his personal risk for the grand finale. He won’t c are if he lives through this night.”

“Back in Chicago,” said Kronewald, “we call that suicide by cop. So he’s planning to take that little kid with him?”

Charles nodded. “But not Mallory.” His eyes were on the road, searching for a familiar pair of taillights. “He called her out because he needs an audience tonight-someone who can appreciate his work.”

And what would that do to Mallory, who did not take well to failure?

Some people had reoccurring flying dreams. Charles had the toppling dream. An object would be about to fall, and he would startle himself awake by physically reaching out for it. Lately, he dreamed not of objects but a toppling woman, and it was always Mallory he reached for. And now he truly understood why Riker had brought him along. The police did not require his help to catch a serial killer. His job was to catch Mallory-when she fell.

The two detectives had found the first abandoned segment of Route 66 inside the national park and just beyond the ranger station. It had gone to ruin, crumbles only-fruitless and disappointing.

And now Riker had the ride of his life, a dizzy run of turns and curves for miles and miles of dark road.

Mallory said, “Watch for a sign. We’re looking for Lacy Point.”

Riker shouted, “There!”

The car stopped on the park road, and Mallory stepped out, flashlight in hand, to show him a sight he would never forget.

“I had no idea this was here.” Riker stood beside her and, disbelieving, head shaking, stared at a road that was not there. It had vanished long ago. Ghosty telephone poles, all stripped of their wires, trailed off into the desert and disappeared in the dark of night beyond the flashlight’s beam. Nature had reclaimed every bit of land and replanted it with scrub. There was no sign of pavement anymore, nothing left to say that millions of cars had gone this way. All that remained was a straight march of tall wooden poles- grave markers all of them-to show him where an old highway had died.

Mallory blinked her flashlight twice. They waited in the dark, counting off the passing minutes, time enough for despair to settle in. They would not find Dodie out here.

“I guessed wrong,” said Mallory.

“Kid, it was a world-class guess,” said Riker. “Your knapsack is beeping.”

Mallory’s caller wanted to voice a complaint. He was still waiting in the dark, and he would not wait for long.

So much time had been lost on the park road through the Painted Desert, and the silver convertible was making up for it in speed, flying westward again on the interstate.

“He says he can see for miles and miles,” said Mallory. “So I know he’s not sitting in the pine trees around Flagstaff. He’ll be near the old road. No lights, lots of open ground. He’s laying out a murder scene with maneuvering room. He wants me to see him kill Dodie, but he doesn’t w ant me to get close enough to stop it.” She waited for feedback, but her partner evidently had no better theory. Riker would always defer to her in all things sociopathic and monstrous. Mallory gripped the wheel a little tighter.

“Did you hear the kid this time?”

“No.” During that last call, she had not heard Dodie humming in the background.

Riker pulled a beeping phone from his shirt pocket and pressed it to one ear. He turned to her, saying, “The Arizona cops turned up a report on a missing pickup truck, the only old junker stolen all day.” The detective continued to listen and relay what he was told. “Good news and bad news, kid. There’s no airbag on the passenger side. The guy who owns it has an elderly mother-brittle bones-so he had the thing taken out.”

“And a kid Dodie’s size might get killed by an airbag,” said Mallory. “So that must be the good news.”

“There’s a loaded rifle in the roof rack,” said Riker, cupping one hand over his cell. “And it’s no squirrel gun. I’ve got the owner on the phone. He says it’s a damned good gun. He can shoot a flea off the head of an eagle a mile up and in the dark. Infrared. Now that fits. With a rifle sight like that, the perp can see us coming, just like he said. In a car, on foot-no difference. And he can pick us off.”

“If he even knows how to fire a rifle,” said Mallory. “Most people can’t shoot worth a damn. Find out if the sight is accurate.”

After a moment on the phone, Riker said, “It’s not. This owner has to shoot low and to the left.”

Dodie Finn was motionless and dead quiet. The wind was blowing cold, but she did not complain. Her eyes were open, and she saw nothing, only darkness all around. The leash to her harness was loosely wrapped on a piece of rusted chrome, and she could so easily undo it-but she did not. Something small was crawling up her arm, a thing with many legs, and she did not brush it off, nor even glance down at it. Dodie played the children’s game of statue, and all that betrayed her imitation of stone was the prickling of her skin, every downy hair standing on end.

She was on best behavior tonight so that her father and brother would not be hurt like Ariel, who had disappeared, leaving only her blood behind-so much blood.

The many-legged insect was crawling on Dodie’s face, but she continued to look straight ahead, staring at the world through unfocussed doll’s eyes. Inside her head, where she truly lived, she flitted from one side of her brain to the other, screaming, “Daddy! Daddy!” Her thin arms flapping like white wings in the dark. But outwardly, Dodie so loved her family-she never moved at all.