The Christopher Killer (9 page)

Cameryn shook her head. “No,” she answered. She was afraid to antagonize him any more than she already had, but her father looked at her, reading her face.

“What is it, Cammie?” he asked.

Her father was wearing a cap on his head just like the one she wore, only on him it had ridden back too far, making it look as though he wore a halo. She could tell the whole ordeal with Rachel had been hard on him. She could see the worry on his face. But his voice was so gentle she relented and said, “It’s the smell.”

Dr. Moore grunted. “This doesn’t smell. You want smell? Try a corpse that’s been in a plastic bag for a couple of weeks after it’s turned to jelly. If you can’t take this tiny bit of odor then you’re pursuing the wrong line of work.”

Cameryn shook her head. “No, that’s not what I mean. It—Rachel—she smells like garlic. When I bent close to her lungs it hit me. It’s there. I can smell it.”

Dr. Moore leaned closer and sniffed. “So she ate garlic,” he said. “So what? Do you want me to run a test for that, too?” Then, to Ben, “Do we have a test for garlic? Ms. Mahoney seems to think it’s important.”

“The point is Rachel didn’t
eat
garlic,” Cameryn said. “I know because she told me how much she hated it—she wouldn’t even eat Caesar salad or spaghetti sauce or pizza. So it’s strange that she should smell like something she detested. Am I allowed to tell you that, Dr. Moore? Am I even allowed to wonder?”

Her father’s eyes widened. “Now, Cammie—” he said, but Cameryn held up her hands.

“I’m not trying to be rude, I’m just trying to explain what I smelled. Why is having an opinion such an issue?”

She heard Ben suck in a big gulp of air, and his words from early morning rang in her ears: “dragon master.” That’s what Ben had called Dr. Moore, and she’d just challenged the dragon master himself. Dr. Moore just stared.

This time Cameryn thrust out her chin and stared right back, because she realized she had grown weary of pretending she didn’t know how to think. Besides, it would take more than his snide comments to take her down—she’d been sparring with Mammaw for years, and her grandmother had trained her well. From the moment she’d met him the doctor had conveyed that he was in charge. He’d allowed Cameryn on board when he thought she would stand by and passively watch him steer. Now he glared at her as if, by speaking up, she’d committed mutiny. But she owed someone her allegiance, and it wasn’t Moore. It was Rachel.

“I don’t like your attitude, Ms. Mahoney,” Moore said. His voice was ice. “You’re a child who is in way over her head. Your naïve comments waste valuable time. You are a distraction—one I cannot afford.”

“And with all due respect, you’re not listening. There’s something wrong here. I know Rachel. It’s not right—it’s something about this stain on her hands and the garlic smell. I can feel it!”

“So you’re a psychic now, too. You and Dr. Jewel.”

Cameryn flushed. “That’s not fair!”

“You wouldn’t even be here if your father hadn’t forced the issue. But here’s what’s changed. I’m knee-deep in the procedure so this autopsy is now under my control exclusively. Watch yourself, Ms. Mahoney. I already told you once—I run a tight ship!”

“So you’re not even going to check on the garlic.”

“Garlic is not something our lab runs a screen for. Perhaps you can take a picture of the smell.” He chuckled to himself.

It was that small laugh that undid her. The condescending, smug, dismissive snicker that said he didn’t care what she thought, that she was young and female and therefore not to be taken seriously. She had done more than merely listen to him, and in that, he must have sensed a challenge. Her blood rocketed to her head and the words flew from her mouth unchecked.

“This isn’t a ship and you’re not a captain. You’re a pathologist who should care more about the case than—!” She stopped herself then, but it was too late. The four of them—Ben, her father, Jacobs, and Deputy Crowley—stared at her, their mouths agape. Dr. Moore turned crimson, which soon deepened to purple. As much as Cameryn wanted to take the words back, she couldn’t. The room vibrated with them.

“I’ll ask you to leave,” Moore told her, his voice low. “Now.”

“Just a minute!” Patrick protested. “You can’t throw her out! We’ve barely even started this thing. Cameryn’s here with me and
I’m
not leaving—”

“I told you the rules from the get-go,” Moore replied icily. “Your daughter is no longer a part of this.”

Sheriff Jacobs asked where she would go for the next four-plus hours, but Moore just countered that it wasn’t his problem—if the girl sat in the parking lot until nightfall then so be it; maybe next time she’d think before opening her mouth. Ben weighed in on her behalf as well, but Moore would have none of it. Cameryn stood in the midst of the uproar feeling miserable. Her father had trusted her to act professionally and she’d pushed too hard, said too much. Rachel lay on the table, half-opened, her still-wet organs shimmering in the light.
I’m sorry,
she told Rachel, her father, herself. They were stalemated: Dr. Moore insisting she leave, her father ordering her to stay, Cameryn caught between them. Then she saw Justin whisper something into Jacobs’s ear, who in turn gave a terse nod.

“I’ll take Cameryn,” Justin said, stepping forward. A lock of dark hair had fallen in his eyes. He plowed his hand back though his hair, as though rinsing it in the shower. “I’m not really needed here and there’s work to do at the station. Sheriff Jacobs can drive back with Mr. Mahoney when you get finished here.”

The arguing stopped then and the room became silent, as though it were taking a breath, while Puccini played on.

Her father began to protest, but Cameryn broke in. “No, I want to go, Dad. It’s fine. I think I need to get out of here.”

It was true, because suddenly she needed to breathe air that didn’t smell like blood. Without waiting for a reply, Cameryn stripped off her paper smock and booties, still pristine despite everything that had been done to Rachel. Cameryn refused to look at Dr. Moore when he opened the door and gestured the two of them into the hallway. The door swung shut, silencing the music.

Cameryn looked up at Justin, whose blue-green eyes seemed lit from within. He leaned closer than he needed to, and Cameryn felt a blush creep across her face, as though his breath could somehow leave a visible trace upon her skin.

His voice was low. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I DON’T REALLY HAVE WORK
to do in Silverton. I made that up,” Justin told her as he pushed through the glass doors that led to the parking lot.

“Yeah, I figured that. Thanks for getting me out of there.” When Cameryn stepped outside, she felt bright October sun on her face. Although it was cooler now, the white light stabbed her eyes, making her squint. It felt surreal, leaving Rachel behind. It seemed as though she herself had stepped from death to life, and the transition felt good.

“Over there,” Justin said, leading her to the sheriff’s Chevy Blazer. Two five-pointed stars had been decaled on the Blazer, one star on each front door, bright gold over the paint’s sun-damaged silver. The car’s finish reminded her of the polish on old coins, darkened from their journey through countless grimy hands. Justin opened the door for her and Cameryn slid inside.

He said, “You really gave Moore what-for in there, didn’t you? I thought the old man was going to have a stroke when you told him he wasn’t a real captain. Moore’s an egomaniac.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

“Why?” he asked, cocking his head. “You don’t think I bought into him, do you?”

“I thought you were a suck-up. I mean, with all that opera stuff? You were like a Hoover Deluxe.” She smiled at him, her first, tenuous smile.

“Hey, that wasn’t sucking up,” he protested. “I happen to love opera. Do you want to stop for a bite to eat or something? Durango’s a cool place and it might be good to take a break after all that.”

Cameryn shook her head. “I just want to go home.”

“Whatever you say.”

He pulled out of the parking lot, turning onto Durango’s Greene Street. Durango, too, was a tourist town, but it had done its transformation far better than Silverton. This town had fifty times as many stores, most upscale and expensive-looking with their striped awnings that capped the windows like medieval flags. Instead of trinkets, these shops offered top-of-the-line sports equipment next to stores boasting Hermès handbags. The real money stayed in Durango. If Dr. Jewel really was coming, she bet he’d want to stay here. Or did psychics even care about that sort of thing?

“What do you make of this Dr. Jewel?” she asked suddenly.

It took Justin a moment to answer. “Well, I think he’s convincing. I can’t see how the guy can be anything but real.” He glanced at her, his eyes framing a question. “So where do you stand, Cameryn? Are you a believer?”

“I—it’s hard to say. I would have said no yesterday, but today…I guess I need more information.” That much was true. Jewel had almost proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d seen the supernatural. Nothing fit in her world anymore.

“Man, you are a scientist at heart, aren’t you?” Justin frowned. “I’m trying to remember—your people are Catholic, right?”

“What do you mean by ‘my people’?” she asked, bristling.

Justin laughed at this. “Relax! My mom’s Italian but I was raised Lutheran, and Lutherans don’t have saints. I was just wondering about Saint Christopher. His medal had been left at every murder scene but I actually don’t know much about the guy. Wasn’t he demoted or something like that? If he’s not a real saint what do you call him now—
Mr.
Christopher?”

“I don’t know.” The nuns had told Cameryn once, but the details were hazy, fogged over by disinterest and time. “I think he was the patron saint for something but…I’ll ask Mammaw. She knows all that stuff.”

The Christopher medal brought her mind back to Rachel. Whoever killed her left the medal as a calling card, or perhaps a talisman, his own lucky charm to keep the police at bay. So far, it had worked. Rachel was the fourth victim. Four times in the last year the killer had strangled the life out of a girl and left her body in the wilderness. If they didn’t capture the Christopher Killer now, there would most certainly be a fifth. The thought of yet another victim chilled her.

Moments later they were on Highway 550 on their way toward Silverton. Justin was a confident driver, and as he talked his hands lay loose on the wheel. Cameryn listened as he told her about his growing up in New York with his large family comprised of seven kids and various dogs and cats. “I love motorcycles,” he said. “Six months ago I went solo to the Blue Ridge Mountains on my bike, and I’m telling you there’s nothing better.”

“So how did you end up in teeny tiny Silverton? I mean, how did you even
find
us?”

“Internet search. I went to the academy in New York, but I wasn’t really that hot about staying in the city. Then I checked out jobs in the West. This seemed like a good place to get some experience, especially since I’m hooked on snowboarding.”

She followed this with only half a brain because inside, her mind churned. Thoughts of Rachel haunted her, and beneath that, Justin’s comments about “the secret” hummed, like white noise. Still, as they drove, the knot inside her began to unwind. She let his cheerful words lull her away from the images of Rachel being filleted on the autopsy table.

“So what’s your story? You got any other kids in your family?”

When she realized his question required a response, she shook herself. “Who, me?”

“Yeah. Who else?”

“I’m an only child.”

“Your mom didn’t want to give birth to a whole team like mine did?”

“Nope.”

“My mom will have to call your mom. She’ll probably give away a sibling or two of mine to even things out.”

“I don’t have a mother.”

This seemed to surprise him. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

Sticking to her cover story, the one she’d told her friends for years, she said, “She died. And just so you know I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Dead. Wow.” He sucked in a breath and blew it between his teeth. “That’s too bad.”

“It was a long time ago, so I’m okay with it.”

He looked at her sideways. “You’re seventeen, right?”

Cameryn nodded.

“How old were you when your mom died?”

“What part of ‘I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it’ do you not understand?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I will say no more.”

The trees of Durango whizzed by, tall clusters of pine broken by yawning meadows, and then they began to ascend the foothills that led up the San Juan Mountains. She put a foot up on the dashboard and let her head rest to one side. Justin chattered on, occasionally flashing a smile, keeping the conversation breezy. For one thing, he was amazed by the wildlife in Colorado.

“I mean, I’m from a place where a freakin’
dog
is considered exotic, and then I come here and
bam
—I get bears and cougars and all kinds of wild things. Case in point—look out the window to your right.” Cameryn did and saw a herd of elk munching on stalks of wild grass, at least two hundred strong, strung out in a formation that stretched from one end of the field to the other. When she looked beyond the elk she saw the north side of the mountains, deep red, almost the color of blood. It was the same color that had pooled onto the autopsy table. She had to try to think through the evidence so she could stop the Christopher Killer. But where did Jewel fit in? Did he truly possess supernatural powers? If so, where did her faith, and her science, connect?

“Are you even listening to me?” Justin asked. “I feel like I’m talking to myself.”

Cameryn’s mind resurfaced. She looked at him and blinked.

“Man, I wish you could see your eyes—it’s like you’re here but you’re not. You’re starting to freak me out.”

“Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“About…?”

“The autopsy. The murder. What it all means. By the way, did
you
see the color on Rachel’s hand?”

“Yeah.” Seeming to think better of it, he shook his head. “Well, not exactly. If I did it was barely there. But lividity can cause all sorts of funky things. It could have been due to that.”

“Maybe,” she agreed. “But the other strange thing was that I smelled garlic. What can cause a garlic smell in a person? I mean inside them, like in their blood? Do you know?”

“Besides the obvious, which is of course garlic itself, I can’t think of a thing. I bet we could look it up, though. I’ve got some books back at my place. We could go there and see what we could find.”

Cameryn noticed the change at once.
We.
He’d said the word “we” as if the two of them would work the case together. She was about to ask him what he meant by that when her cell phone sang the lyrical notes from
The Lord of the Rings
. It was Mammaw.

“Are you all right, girl?” was her grandmother’s greeting. “Your dad told me you’re coming back to town with the deputy. He’s not very happy you’re with the Crowley character, I can tell you that, so he asked me to make sure you’re safe. Are you?”

Her eyes slid over to Justin. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked.

“Just know your father doesn’t trust the man. Watch yourself, is what I’m saying.” Her grandmother’s voice became tremulous. “But oh, I have to tell you my heart is breaking with the news of poor Rachel. It’s a tragedy, it is, with the child dying at the hands of a devil.” Even though it was over the phone, Cameryn swore she could hear her grandmother cross herself. “And I want you to know it’s no shame, you leaving the autopsy because it was too much for you. You should never have been there in the first place.”

“I left because Dr. Moore threw me out.”

There was a pause on the line as Mammaw digested this. “Now why would he be doing a thing like that?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“When is it you think you’ll be getting home?”

“Soon.”

“Are you going to the store?”

Trying to keep the impatience from showing, she asked, “What do you need, Mammaw?”

“Don’t snap—it’s been a hard day for all the mothers in our town.” Her grandmother’s voice trembled again, like a vibrato on a cello string. “One of our own is dead and gone. Rachel was too young, too young.”

“Look, I need to go. I’ll be there for dinner, okay? So…bye.”

Cameryn didn’t wait to hear if her grandmother answered. She wanted—no,
needed
—to think. There was something swimming beneath the surface that she couldn’t quite see, clues she couldn’t quite put together. If she could just concentrate, maybe she could get it….

“So,” Justin said, drumming his fingers against his steering wheel, “who’s Mammaw?”

Sighing, she answered, “My grandmother.”

“Father’s mother or mother’s mother?”

“Father’s. She lives with us. Well, I guess I should say
we
live with
her
. It’s her house.”

“How long have you been with her?”

“Awhile.”

“Not very specific, are we?”

“I already told you I don’t want to talk about my family.”

“You said you didn’t want to talk about your
mother
. You didn’t say your family.”

“All right, I’m saying it now.”

She twisted so she was facing him and noticed in the light the hairs on his arms were golden brown instead of black like the hair on his head. Sitting this close she could smell him, a mix of shampoo and aftershave that was probably supposed to suggest the outdoors but instead smelled musky.

Cameryn leaned closer. “Okay, it’s my turn to ask a question,” she told him.

“Great—fire away.”

“Why does my dad hate you?” She asked this quickly. It was like a snap from a rubber band, and Justin flinched, almost imperceptibly. He pressed his lips together. His eyes were on the road, laserlike, and Cameryn realized he was not about to answer.

“Why does he hate you so much?” she pressed. “What did you do to him? Did you know him before you came to Silverton? Did you rob him? Are you his illegitimate child?”

“It’s not my place to tell,” he said at last. “Your pop made that much clear, anyway. I went to talk to him because I thought it was the right thing to do—I found out fast that I made a
big
mistake. But I’m not your brother if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m making it your place to tell.”

“You can’t do that. Look, Patrick set me straight a couple of days ago and you know what? Maybe he’s right. I don’t know anymore—this whole thing’s crazy. I think I got in way over my head.”

“Got in
what
?”

“Don’t ask me to…Look, if you want answers, ask your family.”

Frustrated, she blurted, “That’s not good enough.”

“It’s gonna have to be,” he replied.

A giant bug splattered against the windshield, a wet star in a dried constellation. Above her, mountains rose while the trees receded. Thready vegetation thinned until the peaks became completely bald. In some spots the rich iron ore turned the soil an orangey-red; Cameryn remembered that when she was little she’d thought the Silverton summit looked like the board of her Candy Land game.

“Those mountains are giant candy corns,” she’d told her father years ago. She remembered she’d been small enough to be hoisted in his arms, and how she’d pointed to a splashing creek the color of caramel. “I want to taste some candy water.” To which her father had replied, “Well, honey, things aren’t always what they seem. You got to look way up the mountain to where the water comes from. See the waterfall up there?” He’d pointed to a powerful spray of water shooting off a cliff, and she saw the water was clear white, not orange. “It’s not candy at all! Always look for the source.”

Look for the source. A thought pricked her now, a connection as tenuous as the thinnest thread, one piece of information linked to another. All the beads slid onto it as she focused her whole mind on its pattern. Go to the source. Justin’s source.

“What part of New York are you from? Originally, I mean?” she asked nonchalantly.

“Albany. It’s a great place. But I moved to New York City after school.”

She flipped down the visor and pretended to check her hair in the mirror. “How’d you afford to live there? I thought the city was really expensive.”