Waking the Dead Part 8

She peeled off her gloves as she spoke. "The most common of the samples would allow you to see a black-and-white picture or design with a light source, or at least in sunlight, and the colors only become apparent under a UV lamp. But there are also several outfits that sell invisible paint that is impossible to detect with the naked eye." Collecting the sets of goggles, she laid the equipment on the counter next to the computer cart. "We should be able to trace the manufacturer of the product after I run comparison samples. The problem will be in acquiring their customer order list. A couple of the sources are overseas."

"Putting them outside the scope of any warrant we could get," Andrews said grimly.

"We may get lucky. The perp could have bought the paint in a store here in the US," Barnes interjected.

Nodding, Cait said, "Or he could have ordered online from a domestic company. At any rate, I placed orders with each place and should have samples of paint coming in a couple days."

"d.a.m.n good work." Andrews's gaze had returned to the monitor. "And the pictures are different for each victim?"

"There are similarities, but the only identical image is the one at the bottom of each." Rapidly she flipped through the images on the screen, pausing at the last one.

"A skull." The sheriff gave a tight smile. "Coincidentally, the body part missing from each set of remains. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d is taunting us. Could it be a sequential scene of what led to each victim's death? Maybe he stalked them first. Learned their habits. And each pic he painted represents a separate point in that process."

"Maybe," she returned slowly, studying the image again. She'd had the same thought. Especially given the gleaming skull that concluded each set of images. "Certainly there seems to be a sequence to the images. They're magnified on screen. Much harder to make out on the bones themselves. It's also possible that the progression doesn't refer to the final days or weeks before their death, but to their life." She felt both sets of eyes on her. "I can't be certain until we identify some of the remains. But see here . . ." She pointed at the monitor. "This looks like the Golden Gate Bridge. And then there's a ball and bat." She traced the images on screen. "And this . . . I looked this symbol up. It's the mascot for UCLA. And here's a tiny wedding cake. See the bride and groom on top?"

"Christ." Barnes sounded shaken. "It's like he researched each victim. Knew everything about them."

"Or the major points in their life." Cait c.o.c.ked her head, still puzzled by the next picture. "That book . . . it could represent anything. A hobby, a job . . . I'm not sure. But this one . . ." she tapped the screen. "I can't quite make it out. Maybe it's an animal? Or a monster?"

"Which could represent the perp," the deputy said with dark humor.

"I still think this is more apt to depict the last few weeks of the victim's life," Andrews muttered. "But that would still allow for the perp being the monster."

"Then I'd expect to see that image in each scene, but the only commonalities in the pictures are the skulls." Cait traced the next image. "Here's some sort of small boat. A kayak or canoe, looks like. Then a . . . what? Skysc.r.a.per? Condo? There are eight images in all, counting the skull on each set."

"Maybe this means the offender and victim knew each other," suggested the sheriff, kneading the back of her neck. That the woman kept long hours was apparent. Regardless of the hour, she was always still at work when Cait contacted her. For the first time Cait wondered if she had a family at home, or if her job-and the one she had her eye on after this-consumed her life.

"What I don't get is, why bother?" Barnes moved away from the screen to pace. "This proves the bones were cleaned prior to dumping." He sent a quick look toward Cait. "I know you've said that all along, but now we can be sure. He goes to a lot of trouble." Unconsciously he repeated the same thread of conversation she and Andrews had had just the night before. "What's the point? Because you can be d.a.m.n sure it means something."

"All you can be sure of right now is, whatever his reason, this is about him, not the victims. He's not paying them tribute, he's not acknowledging them as individuals. These images might describe things from the victims' lives. We won't know for sure until they're ID'd. But even if they do, the motivation for the pictures ultimately lies with him." She was as yet unsure what the action told her about the UNSUB, but she was far closer to establis.h.i.+ng a profile now than she'd been prior to the discovery of the paintings.

"They may go a long way to helping you establish ident.i.ty if the images do depict the victims' lives in some way," the sheriff pointed out.

Cait nodded. She'd already thought of that. "Even if I can't find a living relative to provide a DNA sample for testing, I may be able to tentatively match the remains to the history of the missing persons in the database." It would be a DNA match that would provide a major break in the case. But the images would give them another strong basis for identification purposes, if a less certain one. "When I talk to the detectives again, I'll describe the paintings on the remains matching their missing person and see if we've got any points of intersection."

"What about the latents?" Barnes was still roaming the area, although he was careful not to touch anything. "Anything show up during your examination?"

"Not even a partial."

"But you can test other bones, right?" Andrews glanced at the watch she was wearing. Cait wondered if she had plans for later this evening or if the woman was finally planning to call it a day.

"It would likely be a waste of time. The best deposit points are on the cranium and the long bones. We tested all the long bones today. Anything smaller than that and the likelihood of finding a latent decreases drastically. But there's still the possibility that they'll find a latent on the garbage bags. Any word yet from the crime lab?"

"I'll give them a nudge tomorrow," the sheriff promised.

"Any chance there are more of those"-Barnes nodded at the screen-"anywhere else on the bones?"

"We checked thoroughly. The images on the scapulas were the only ones we found."

"So I guess you'll be busy with stuff here tomorrow." There was a note in Barnes's tone that alerted her.

"Nothing Kristy can't handle. Why?"

The man's look encompa.s.sed Andrews, too. "We've been tracking down violators who have been issued tickets by the forestry service. Illegal camping, dumping, whatever. I've run criminal crosschecks on the names on those lists. Came up with a couple roamers I'd like to check out."

Cait looked from one of them to the other. "Roamers?"

Frowning slightly, Andrews answered, "Basically homeless people who use the forests to camp year-round. They move around a lot to stay ahead of the forestry agents. They don't have permits, of course, and they aren't fussy about where they set up camp. We occasionally get calls from Roseboro-the lumber company-or private parties to chase one off their property. There are areas of the forest though where no permits are required. That's usually where you'll find them."

"And the roamers in question had criminal histories?" she asked Barnes.

Taking a notebook from his back jeans pocket, he flipped it open, scanned for the information in question. "Stephen Kesey. He's got a few b.u.mps in county jails on his sheet over the last dozen years or so. a.s.saults. Breaking and entering." He glanced up to meet Cait's gaze. "He's had no fewer than a dozen forestry violations in the last five years." Returning to study his notebook, he continued, "And then there's Bart Lockwood. Dishonorable discharge from the military for drug use. Convicted for manslaughter and served sixteen years in Folsom before being paroled six years ago. Given the dates of his forestry violations, he's been around ever since."

Drumming her fingers on the counter, Andrews muttered, "From the looks of our call logs, we've got a h.e.l.l of a lot more than two roamers in the area."

Barnes nodded. His mustache, Cait noted, was taking its sweet time to thicken. Right now it bore a sandy-colored resemblance to Hitler's. "But none that have anything more serious than pot possession on their record."

The sheriff lifted a shoulder and glanced at Cait. "You say you're free here?"

"There's nothing Kristy can't take care of for now."

"Good." The woman started moving toward the door. "Mitch and his men will continue going through the violations list. We need to start a search for Kesey and Lockwood. I'll have Deputy Simms try to round up a forestry agent to form another team. He can get in touch with Sharper to split the area each team will cover. I'll arrange to have Sharper meet you at the General Store at McKenzie Bridge around eight A.M. That work for you?"

Despite the abrupt sink to her stomach, Cait replied, "That's fine."

"Give you a chance to collect more soil samples." The sheriff's expression went grim as she looked at her deputy meaningfully. "And none of this gets out." She waved toward the computer screen. "Can you imagine the press if they got hold of this story? For right now, Cait's most recent finding doesn't leave this room." When the man nodded his understanding, her gaze went to Cait. "Your a.s.sistant . . ."

"Is well versed in the need for confidentiality," Cait a.s.sured her levelly. "But I'll remind her."

"Good." She started to move away, then paused, looking at the paintings on the computer screen again. "Never seen anything like it. Have you?"

Cait's eyes returned to the image. "No. I've never seen anything like this."

Just look at them.

Indulgently, he watched his pets cover the dried roadkill deer carca.s.s as they went to work. Such simple creatures, really, born only to feed and reproduce. But they did their job with such chilling thoroughness he could never help but be fascinated.

The large box he'd built for them was framed, with three sides of Plexiglas. The top of the structure was made of screen, with another sheet of Plexiglas laid on top that he could move to regulate the humidity inside the enclosure. He added to the substrate on the bottom frequently to give his pets a place to pupate. He estimated his colony at several hundred thousand now, because when he loved something, he took the best of care of it.

He could spend hours, his face pressed up against the gla.s.s, watching their progress. He fancied they worked as a tiny team, legs and mouths moving in unison to achieve a common purpose. People should demonstrate that level of cooperation. That sort of single-mindedness.

But it had been his experience that most people disappointed in the end.

Take his guest in the cellar. He tapped gently on the corner to encourage a beetle crawling there to return to the feast or miss out. The woman had grown really quite unpleasant. He'd never gotten used to the foul language used by some women these days. His mother had always been a lady, minding her tongue and only opening her mouth when she had something kind or helpful to say. She'd died when he was nine, but he remembered her perfectly.

Not like the childhood memories he worked so hard to forget.

He checked his watch. Sometimes he lost track of time watching his beloved pets. Hours would pa.s.s like minutes. Rising, he gave one last look at the beetles and moved reluctantly away. He'd check their progress in the morning, first light. He had to return to his workroom. Finish inking the drawing he'd started for the nasty lady in the next room. The sooner it was finished, the sooner he could be rid of her.

She wasn't deserving, of course. Few of them were. But there was a right way and a wrong way to do anything, and unfortunately, the right way often took the most effort.

Swiftly he crossed the yard and entered his house through the back door. He locked it behind him before heading toward the cellar. But before he even got across the room, there was a knock at the door.

Picking up the pistol, he shoved it in his waistband at the base of his back, beneath his s.h.i.+rt. Then he hooked the curtain over the window of the front door with his finger, peeked outside.

His heart stopped. Then it started again like a locomotive picking up steam, barreling down the track. He unlocked the door, swung it open. "Hey, long time no see." The tone just right. Casual. No telling who could be listening. Watching. "C'mon in."

But when Sweetie walked in the door and after it was closed and locked, he opened his arms wide. "Gimme some sugar, baby."

"We need to talk." The words were m.u.f.fled against his mouth, but the lips, those soft wonderfully curved lips, were eager under his. Minutes later, much too soon, the two of them parted.

"What's this?" Sweetie's hand tapped the pistol in the back of his pants. "Expecting trouble?"

"Mm-hmm. Found it, too." He couldn't keep the idiotic grin off his face. Unexpected surprises like this were the best kind. "How long can you stay?"

"Not very."

Disappointment lodged in his throat. But he didn't voice it. Sweetie always got emotional when he asked for more. Someday. The oft-repeated promise sounded in his mind. Soon.

"G.o.d, when I got back to town and heard about the cops hauling those bodies out of Castle Rock, I totally freaked. What do they know? What have you heard?"

"I watched the press conference today. Don't worry, the cops don't have any leads. I didn't leave them anything to go on."

"So you say."

The words wounded, but he knew there was no malice in them. Sweetie was the excitable sort. He was the calm one in this relations.h.i.+p.

"How was the trip with the kids?" He had to ask. Had to pretend that he cared, that every moment Sweetie spent away from him wasn't torture.

"Oh, you know what kids are like on vacation."

He didn't actually, but gave a smile anyway. He tried to be satisfied with the stolen moments they could have together like this. But it was knowing that someday they'd be together forever that sustained him.

Sweetie slipped away and walked into the living room, falling onto the couch heavily. "I'm exhausted. It's been a very long day. And I'll be missed in another half hour or so."

"Poor baby." He wished he had something to offer, even a beer. But he hadn't been to the store for a couple weeks. He was kicking himself now. This was no way to entertain the love of his life.

"No skulls, I heard." There was an unmistakable note of worry in the words. "I know I've always left the disposal to you, but why didn't they find any skulls?"

His gaze slid away from the expectant look fixed on him. "Insurance. It's much harder to identify a skeleton without the skull. Trust me on that."

"They aren't going to find the heads later, are they? I hope there won't be any other surprises cropping up?"

His attention snapped back. Was that disapproval in Sweetie's tone? "No. They won't find the skulls. It's a b.i.t.c.h that they found the bodies, but there's not a thing on those bones that could lead back to either one of us. I can tell you the whole process if you want. You never wanted to know the details before, but if you've changed your mind . . ."

The slight shudder was his answer. "No. I don't have the stomach for it. You know that."

A rush of tenderness filled him. He did know it. And being the strong one, the one to take care of the messy part, always made him feel protective.

He pushed out of his chair to go to the couch. Sank down on it. "Everything's going to be fine." He lifted his hand to stroke away the concern from the face he loved so much.

"What about the other one I brought you? The news said only seven sets of remains were brought out of the cave."

He gave a moment's thought to the woman in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Sweetie would be livid to know she was still alive. "Everything's taken care of." It was. The bag of bones was disposed of and the woman . . . his bugs would be feasting on her very soon. But there was a right way to do these things. He alone knew what it was. Just as he knew that Sweetie would never understand.

"Good." The word was spoken on a stream of relief. "I didn't doubt you. I know you'll never let me down."

"I won't." He leaned forward to press his lips to that soft well-formed mouth and felt a familiar clutch of need in his gut.

"I have to go in a few minutes." But the m.u.f.fled voice was weak.

And he knew what the words really meant. Didn't he always know what was going on in that s.e.xy mind? Swiftly he undid b.u.t.tons and zippers and lowered them both to a lying position.

"That gives us plenty of time."

Sharper's vehicle was already in the lot when Cait pulled up to the General Store. But before joining him, she took a minute to dial Detective Drecker's number in Seattle. Unsurprised to get his voice mail, she left a brief message. "Detective, I can't explain now, but ask Recinos's mother whether these items were meaningful to her daughter-ballet, skis, fish, gum, computer, picture frame, and convertible." She rattled off the list without thinking twice. Her memory never failed her. Her sense of direction was another story.

She disconnected, already second-guessing herself. The images painted on the scapula of female C were pretty generic. They could have meaning for a lot of people without it signifying a connection to the bones they'd found.

But they'd all have to have more than a superficial meaning for the victim, unless the pictures held symbolism for only the UNSUB. And the sooner they found out which, the quicker she could finalize her behavioral profile.

Locking her SUV, she strode toward Sharper's vehicle. Her pace was in contrast to the reluctance pooling in her gut. After their last meeting, she wasn't overly anxious to see him again.

She was even less anxious to let him know he'd gotten to her. On any level.

Yanking open the pa.s.senger door of his Trailblazer, she climbed in and buckled up. "Sharper," she said, by way of greeting.

He barely grunted in response as he s.h.i.+fted the vehicle into gear and pulled slowly out onto the highway. "This is a f.u.c.king needle in a haystack. You know that don't you?"

Irrationally, his disgruntled tone had something inside her relaxing. "I've been fine, thanks. How about you? Had that chip surgically removed from your shoulder yet?"

One corner of his mouth lifted, but his profile remained steely. "Smarta.s.s. Hope you've got comfortable boots on. We're going to be doing a h.e.l.luva lot of walking. The Willamette Forest covers over a million and a half acres."

"Luckily for you I'm only interested in half of that." She smirked when he gave her a quick sideways glance. "Or less." She unfolded a map to smooth it across her thighs and studied it while he drove. "We'll start with a five-mile radius around Castle Rock. Then we can widen the radius if needed. The way I understand it, there aren't state or national parks in the area."

"No, but there are parks with campsites, which fall under the jurisdiction of the Forest Service."

Which is where Barnes had gotten his information. "We're looking for two individuals who have a long list of violations with the Forest Service."

"You want to track down every single person who's run afoul of them, you're going to have to find another guide. I don't have that kind of time."

Ignoring him, she went on. "From what I've heard, these guys live in the forest year-round. Maybe you've run across them yourself on hiking tours you've arranged."

It was impossible to see his eyes behind the mirrored gla.s.ses he wore. "I don't lead all the tours. I've got employees. And most of the ones I do are on the river."

She restrained the urge to grit her teeth, a common reaction when she was with him. "You live around here. You spend a lot of time in the area." But when she told him the names, he merely lifted a shoulder.

"Like I say, this is pointless. There are lots of people who drop out. Who live off the land because they just want to be left the h.e.l.l alone. And these type of people are transient."