The Gift of the Darkness (39 page)

“What did this?”

“The Pierce County ME thought
animal attack
until the second body turned up and he realized the pattern of injuries was identical on both remains. In the case of the first man to die, the victim had a very specific pattern of cuts, but he actually died of a gunshot wound to the head. In the case of the second man, the victim has the same pattern of cuts, except his are much more extensive, and there are new ones that don't appear in the first body. He died of shock and blood loss. Detective—”

“I'm here.”

“A person could not have easily duplicated these particular injuries from one victim to the other. Someone has constructed something that does it, some kind of mechanical device, and the person who is
locked in has no choice but to go forward, and that's what creates the injuries. Steel blades, most likely.”

“What do you mean,
go forward
?”

“From the depth and the slant of the injuries, we think the men were forced to physically go through this mechanism. They had to crawl through it with a gun to their heads; no one in their right mind would do it voluntarily. And that's why the cuts are lengthwise on the bodies. The first man to die couldn't do it and was rewarded with a gunshot wound to the temple; the second man went farther, but the damage was too grave, and he died of his injuries.”

Madison eyed the photographs, trying to understand and visualize, then abruptly trying not to.

“It's a box, some kind of cage?”

“Maybe. It's still very much guesswork.”

The slimy, cold feeling inside her coiled itself tighter.

“Doctor, why did the Pierce County ME call you?”

The pause was only a moment, but Madison knew it before he said it.

“There was a piece of glass embedded inside each man in one of the chest injuries, close to the heart. It couldn't have ended in there by chance and not in the same place for both men. The glass matches the kind of glass we found Cameron's print on in the Sinclairs' kitchen; it comes from an identical tumbler. The first John Doe was shot with a .22, no casings to match, but it could be the same weapon that shot James Sinclair and Kevin Brown.”

Salinger.

“The men are not on the local missing persons lists?” Madison found herself speaking while her brain was trying to absorb what she was seeing, her voice steady while her mind stuttered.

“No, homeless probably, picked up somewhere discreetly, wouldn't have been reported missing by anybody who knew them.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Madison clicked on the files, and the pictures were gone. Spencer's knock on the door startled her.

“The press conference went well. Fynn is on his way back, Salinger is all over the news, and—”

“Get Dunne, please,” Madison interrupted him. “I need to tell you something. Both of you. I need to tell you right now.”

The drive home had been awkward: her arm was not cooperating, and Madison had decided not to take any painkillers until after she had spoken with Fred Kamen.

Earlier she had sat Dunne and Spencer down and explained what Dr. Fellman had told her. She had done her level best to describe what they were about to see, and they had listened without interruption. Maybe her description would be enough to lessen the impact of the actual pictures. Probably not.

Madison had clicked on the icon and opened the files. Neither man had made a sound. After the longest time Dunne stood up. “Okay.”

Nobody had said it, but everyone was thinking it:
Thirteen Days.
What they were looking at were pictures of the rehearsals.

Back in her house, Madison lit a fire in the hearth and gave herself a moment of healing warmth. She hoped Fred Kamen was in the mood for grim, because she was fresh out of everything else.

“Mr. Kamen, I'm sorry it's so late.”

“I did say day or night, and I meant it.” Kamen sounded as if he was still in his office. It must have been near midnight in Virginia. “I saw the news: you had a good day.”

“Yes and no, actually.”

She told him about their brief victory with the Salinger warrant and the horror of the John Does from Pierce County.

“I'd like to see the pictures, if possible.”

“Thank you. Anything you might get from them would be welcome.”

“You think what happened to the John Does is connected to the
Thirteen Days
message?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“It could be.”

“The victims were not part of the narrative Salinger gave to the reporter, Tully. He wanted to identify them as his own work; hence the glass near the heart. But they were incidental, merely tools to aid his main objective. There might be more we haven't found yet.”

“Makes sense so far.”

“Sir, I have asked Nathan Quinn to pass on a message to John Cameron. I need to speak with him, and even though there's barely the shadow of a chance they might agree to it, I need to be prepared.”

“Quinn didn't say no straight out?”

“No, he said he'd think about it. Which is a partial victory, I suppose, except that we don't really have time for partial victories here, as the discoveries of the day have pointed out. Cameron is—well, honestly I don't know what or who he is or how he will deal with a direct conversation on any subject. What I know about him personally I could put on the back of a very small stamp. But for all these years he has followed patterns and been incredibly careful, private, and spectacularly successful at keeping his life in watertight compartments. If he will talk to me, it will only be because he's curious about Salinger and my encounter with him last week.”

“What do you need from him?”

“He's the reason Salinger started all this. He must be. Salinger created the illusion of embezzlement perpetrated by Sinclair to taint an innocent man. He created the perception of guilt for the murders of people who were, in fact, Cameron's only family, forcing Nathan Quinn to defend him for an atrocious act that he, for once, had not committed. If I met Cameron, I might learn more about the man who is trying to destroy him.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

The question surprised her, but her own answer did not.

“No. It wouldn't be the first time we ran into each other, strictly speaking: we were both on the Sinclair crime scene at the same time one night last week, I followed him, and we ended up in a patch of woods near the house. I tried to speak with him then. I knew he was innocent, and I put my weapon away. If he had meant me any harm, he had his chance then.”

Kamen was quiet.

“If you're asking me whether I can handle being in a room with him, the answer is yes.”

“I asked about fear because I expect you might have some PTSD after you were attacked, and it might affect your judgment.”

It was Madison's turn to be quiet.

Finally she said, wary of sounding weak and even warier of a levity she did not feel, “I seem to react badly to the smell of chloroform. For the rest, I'm fine.”

Kamen's voice was kind; he would be a deadly interrogator.

“Just be aware of yourself. He'll be watching you, and he'll try to get as much as he can out of you. I imagine he believes he will get to Salinger before you do and before Salinger gets to him. But he hasn't survived all these years by being overconfident; be honest with him about what it was like to go up against his enemy, and you have nothing to lose. If he thinks you're lying to him, he'll have no reason to talk to you. Would Quinn be there?”

“Definitely. He's the gatekeeper. He'll make sure Cameron does not incriminate himself on other cases.”

“What about your relationship with Quinn?”

“He wants Salinger caught as much as his client does; he just goes about it in a different way. And his main objective is to protect his friend.”

“Does Quinn trust you?”

“No. He thinks I despise what he does and how he does it.”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Again, nothing but the truth with Quinn. He already knows how you feel about them both. Madison, do not ask Cameron anything to do with anything else; none of the other homicides matter at this point. You will be tempted; the conversation might very well go in other directions. He will pick up on your interest, and you might lose the rest of the conversation. If you don't want to answer a question, say so and why, but don't be glib. Cameron will probably bait you a little, just to test you. Quinn will not be pleased.”

“That's not my problem.”

“Detective, whatever it is you haven't told me about your dealings with Quinn, I hope it won't get in the way.”

“What—”

“You answered all my questions very directly, including the one on fear. Except for one.
What about your relationship with Quinn?
You admit he doesn't trust you, and he knows you despise him. Always a great starting point for any exchange of information. What else?”

Madison closed her eyes. If she lied to Kamen, he would know; if she told him the truth, it could be a disaster. The question was whether his counsel was worth her confidence, whether his experience and support were potentially worth her badge. Quinn was right—she did not care about advancement, but she cared very much about being where she was and doing what she was doing.

“Detective.”

“I'm thinking about it,” she snapped.

Kamen let out a short bark of a laugh. “At least you're not trying to lie to me.”

“I might be economical with the truth, if I thought I'd get away with it.”

“With all due respect, Detective, it's past midnight in Virginia. Talk to me or put the phone down. Neither one of us has the time for the cosmetic version. Brown trusts me completely, if that means anything to you.”

“It does.”

Madison told him about the tape. “Quinn said he'd use it to contest the warrant against Cameron if I didn't get it scrapped in twenty-four hours. I told him to do whatever took his fancy with the tape. Hours later the evidence was in place and the warrant was scrapped. That's all.”

Kamen sighed. “Quinn holds this over your head, and you tell him to go hang.”

“He'll do whatever he needs to do. That much I know of him. The rest I'll find out soon enough.”

“Were he to say, ‘Do this thing or I will take your job away from you,' what would you do?”

“Look, now that Salinger is the prime suspect, he has no hold over me; the investigation will go on with or without me and—”

“This is not about today. It's about Nathan Quinn two years from now and you about to charge Cameron with some God-awful felony he will undoubtedly have committed.”

“Frankly, Mr. Kamen, if we're all alive and able to get into that kind of trouble two years from now, I would consider it a personal victory.”

“No wonder he's thrilled at the idea of you meeting his client.”

“We both know he'll never let that happen. The more I think about it—never mind, we'll just do what we do and find Salinger some other way.”

“Let me know what happens, Detective.”

“I will. Thank you for the advice.”

“They won't thank you for it, but your call saved a few lives,” he said.

“I'll probably get a medal.” She was too tired for funny, but she could do wry.

“Madison, don't allow your lack of professional self-preservation to put a dent in your career. Brown will need a partner when he wakes up.”

“I'll try to remember that.”

Madison sank into the sofa, leaned back, and closed her eyes. The house was quiet except for the soft noises from the fireplace, a few clicks and pops as the wood shifted and settled in the heat. She could still find comfort in the crackle of a fire, even though her psych degree had explained to her the mechanics of her reactions; she was grateful for that small pleasure.

The sound of the car pulling into the driveway had her on her feet in an instant. Too late for Rachel—she'd call first, anyway. Her left thumb unhooked the safety strap on her piece. The car door slammed shut, a polite gesture from someone not afraid of announcing himself. Madison ran through a list of possibilities, and the worst came first: Brown had died after all, and the news was being delivered in person. She was at the door in an instant, her eye at the peephole.

Shit.

She yanked the door open. Nathan Quinn stood a few feet away; he made no move toward her.

“Good evening, Detective.”

“Mr. Quinn.”

“You said it should happen as soon as possible.”

“Yes, I did. Are we doing it now?” Madison's heart pounded; nothing but adrenaline—it would slow down in a minute.

“Yes.”

“Where is he?” Madison looked beyond him, at the car and into the night around the house.

Quinn hesitated. “He's already here,” he said.

His face was blank, and he still made no move toward her. Madison's hairs rose against the sleeves of her sweater, and she felt more than heard the presence moving through the room behind her. She turned and looked into the amber eyes of John Cameron, standing easily in the middle of her living room.
Tall, dark clothes, no visible weapons, gloved hands in sight, looking straight into her eyes.
The fire behind him crackled and hissed.

He was there. He had been there all the time.

With the clarity that comes from being on a very fine edge, Madison realized that how she handled this moment would reflect on the rest of their acquaintance, however long or short that might be, given their situation. What she wanted to do was cold-cock him for breaking into her home; then again, such a threat would likely mean little to this man.

Her voice calm, her hand away from her piece, she said, “Mr. Cameron, I understand that tonight circumstances are what they are, but this is unacceptable. We need to operate with a level of trust for this to work, and your breaking in here is one sure way to blow that trust to hell.” She didn't grace him with the time to reply, and she turned to Quinn. “Counselor.” She stood aside and let him in.