The Nature of the Beast (11 page)

“Herm,” Craig said.

The ID read: Special Agent in Charge Herman Waldrip. The men opened their arms and embraced one another in the porcupinic manner of the manly. Waldrip patted Craig on the shoulder, said something about how long it had been and then turned his attention to Audrey. Craig introduced them. Herman Waldrip reached out and shook her hand, explaining that he and ‘Jack’ as he called him went waaaay back.

“We were halfway to Pennsylvania,” Craig groused.

Actually, more like two thirds, Audrey reckoned. Somewhere over Ohio when the call came. Gilbert and Emelda had been found. Nothing to the effect that they were alive and well. Nothing like that. Just that Special Agents Craig and Williams were being re-routed to St. George, Utah, where they could expect to be met by a driver from the Phoenix office, who would ferry them to their destination. Six interminable hours later, they found themselves standing in the middle of the Kaibab National Forest, seemingly seconds from having their worst fears confirmed.

Waldrip reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a transparent evidence bag. “We found this on the front porch,” he said. Same newspaper article as they found in Wyoming. Only this time Gilbert Fowles was also crossed out.

“It was held down by this little paperweight here,” he said. A Motorola cell phone swung between his fingers. Black and blocky. Made of plastic and nearly indestructible. The kind of thing you’d give a kid.

Craig took the bag from his fingers, studied the contents briefly and then handed it to Audrey. “How did you come to be here to find it?” Craig asked.

Waldrip shrugged. “The Pittsburg office only found two cell phones at the Oil City house,” he said. “There was supposed to be three.”

“Ah,” Craig said.

“Family Plan,” Waldrip said. “They ran the missing number. Telemetry said the only usage in the last three days originated from right here.” He spread his big hands as if to say the rest, unfortunately, was history. “Telemetry also says they weren’t the first ones to annex the account. The information was acquired by an unidentified outside source on January 28.” He anticipated Craig’s question. “They’ve traced the inquiry to an address in south Florida. They’re en-route.”

Craig started to step around the older man. Herman Waldrip placed a big hand on Jackson Craig’s shirtfront. “You sure?” he asked. “Nothing much you can do for them now.”

“We were partners,” Craig said.

Waldrip dropped his hand to his side. “I know.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Might be best to remember them the way you last saw them.”

Craig met his eyes. “Could you?”

“No,” Herman Waldrip admitted. “I’d have to see for myself.” He eased a thumb back over his shoulder. “Special Agent Fowles is in the one by the road. Probably best you start with him.”

Jackson Craig put an appreciative hand on the older man’s shoulder as he stepped around and started down the driveway. Audrey handed the evidence bag back to Waldrip and hurried after Jackson Craig, Haste proved unnecessary, however, as Craig’s stride slackened as he approached the yellow plastic barriers. From Audrey’s perspective, his legs seemed to grow stiff and resistant, almost as if he were being forced along by rough unseen hands.

The technicians parted in order to afford Jackson Craig a view. Audrey approached slowly, not wanting to infringe upon the moment. Craig straightened his posture and stood still. Audrey quickly closed the distance.

Gilbert Fowles lay flat on his back, one arm folded down along his right side, the other reaching for the stars. He wore a bright blue polo, khaki’s and a pair of New Balance running shoes. He’d been shot in the head and then stabbed repeatedly in the chest.

Audrey leaned closer. The body seemed to be staring up at the sky. Were those…although she’d never seen such a thing, the notion of pennies on a corpse’s eyes came to mind as she slid next to Craig, fascinated by those staring eyes…wrinkled and ragged around the edges, beginning to shrivel. And then she knew. Those weren’t his eyes…those were his wife’s nipples covering his eyes.

She turned away, trying to stay professional, swallowing her rage, moving to the downhill side of the driveway and propping herself against the rough bark of a pine tree. She stared at the ground, trying to unburn the image of Gilbert’s ‘eyes’ from the hard drive of her mind but knowing the picture would remain in her head until the day she died.

Waldrip cleared his throat and gestured toward the side of the hill. “He left her to bleed out,” he said.

Craig stared at the house, his breathing shallow. “The children?” he asked, steeling himself for the worst possible news.

“We’re still looking.”

Craig grimaced. “You know it’s a bad day when missing children qualifies as good news,” he said bitterly.

“I’ve got twenty search and rescue people from two counties combing the area. Forest Service is lending us the helicopter for as long as we need it. By ten tomorrow morning, I’ll have fifty people on the ground looking for those kids.”

Craig looked for the sun. “Couple hours of daylight left,” he offered.

“Sun goes down it gets real cold up here.”

“You’d think the chopper would have sighted them by now,” Audrey said.

“It’s tough terrain and there’s a lot of it,” Waldrip allowed. “The pine canopy is thicker than you’d think.”

“How’d the perp get here?” Audrey asked.

Waldrip pointed downhill. “HERTZ rent a car. We found it about four miles back down the hill. Backed into a little turn around.” He assured Craig as to how they were following up on the car rental information and then gestured for Craig and Audrey to follow. A third of the way to the house, he stopped and pointed at a single set of footprints coming up through the trees. “Walked straight up the hill,” he said “Right here. Son of a bitch must be in some kind of shape, I’ll tell you that.”

“Best guess is that he left the scene in the family car,” Waldrip said with a shrug. “Probably knew the rental was wired. Didn’t want to take any chances on telemetry pointing the finger at him.”

“Which means he’s going to need a new ride almost immediately,” Audrey Williams offered.

“Unfortunately, the tag on the family car took a little time.” Waldrip said apologetically. “Both of the vehicles registered to the Browning family were sitting in the Oil City garage.”

Craig nodded knowingly. “Gil liked to get his hands dirty. Always had a project car he was working on.”

Special Agent Waldrip checked his notes. “2000 Ford Explorer. Registered under the name of one Hiram X. Collier, who as it turns out, passed away back in sixty-eight, leaving the cabin here to his great, great nephew Gilbert R. Fowles. According to the Pennsylvania DMV, Mr. Collier drove regularly and lived with relatives at 643 Dunbar Oaks Blvd, Oil City, Pennsylvania.”

“Gil always had a plan,” Craig said sadly.

Special Agent Waldrip patted Craig on the shoulder again. He took Craig by the elbow, leading him forward toward the cabin. Waldrip led him over to the uphill side of the cabin where a bright blue tarp had been laid out on the ground. Eight wildlife cameras were lined up on the tarp. The logo on the front of the cameras read: Game Finder 2000.

“Seems Special Agent Fowles set himself a makeshift security perimeter around the cabin.” Waldrip waited as Craig squatted down and examined one of the boxes, then continued. “He bought them back on January 25th in Oil City.” He shrugged, as if to say ‘for all the good it did him.’ “Techs been through all of them,” Waldrip announced. “Mostly just somebody setting them off with his hand.”

Craig straightened up.

From his pants pocket, Waldrip produced a collection of photographs and handed them over to Craig. “Notice the times,” he advised.

Craig seemed oblivious to Audrey’s presence as she moved to his shoulder. The top photo showed Emelda coming out the front door of the cabin. Wearing a Red Sox baseball cap and a heavy jacket. The digital marker in the lower left-hand corner read: 11:56 pm. The flash had caught a glittering curtain of raindrops, in addition to the image of Emelda.

“Notice her right hand,” Waldrip said.

“What about it?” Audrey asked.

“Look at the way she’s got it jammed down into the pocket.”

“Okay.”

“M and I flagged it. They figure she had a gun,” said Waldrip. “Probably the Beretta thirty-two Special Agent Fowles was killed with.” He gestured with his head toward the enclosure on the side of the hill. “We found it lying next to her,” he said. “One expended, one in the chamber, seven in the clip.”

Craig shuffled past another photo of Emelda down the front steps. Her hand still jammed in her coat pocket, her shoulders now hunched against the wind and rain.

Gilbert was next. Same angle. 2:46 am. Bare headed, obviously distraught, coatless in the face of the storm, holding an enormous silver automatic in his right hand.

“Ballistics says it’s an S and W Forty.”

“You find it?”

“No,” said Waldrip. “Look at the next one.”

Craig shuffled again. Special Agent Fowles placing the weapon on the porch. Next picture: Special Agent Fowles walking away from the gun, his mouth open, the cords in his neck straining, as if shouting above the storm.

“Perp must have had Emelda,” Craig said. “Must have been hurting her. Nothing short of that would separate Gilbert from his piece at a time like that.”

Waldrip moved to the far end of the tarp and peeled a folded up corner back to reveal a baby doll. An expensive looking child’s toy, in a lacy white dressing gown and pink booties. He picked up the doll, fiddled with the back. “
Mama come
,” the baby bleated in a remarkably authentic voice. “
Come Mama. I need you. Please Mama
.”

“Perp bought it at a Phoenix mall yesterday afternoon,” Waldrip said. “Tamara the Talking Toddler. Big among the pre-school set. Does everything but recite the frigging Gettysburg Address.”

“The ‘mama’ talk would have been sufficient,” Craig commented. “No way Emelda stays in the house with that going on. Too much mother in her.” Craig shook his head sadly. “Uses the flashes to get her attention and then lures her outside with the baby doll.” Craig nodded his approval, “This guy’s sick. Sick and adaptable.”

“Once he’s got
her
, he’s got
him
,” Waldrip said.

The thought of what the woman must have endured sent a shiver through Audrey. She stared at the photo again. “He must have
known
what was coming,” she said. “Not giving up your weapon is the first thing they teach you at the academy.”

“They were college sweethearts,” Craig said. “Once he got the kids out of the way…” Craig shook his head again. “Gil wouldn’t have hesitated for a second if Emelda was in real distress.”

“Which, God help her, she most certainly was,” Waldrip said.

“Bless her,” Audrey whispered.

Special Agent Waldrip whispered a silent prayer.

Jackson Craig’s face was chiseled concrete. Waldrip leaned in close. He nodded at the tight knot of brown uniforms. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to Sheriff Trask. He’s coordinating the ground search activities.” Craig nodded. Waldrip leaned closer. “The county mounties are all pissed off at me.” He made a mock sheepish face. “I kinda lost it on them.” He started to sweep a hand in their direction but stifled the urge. “About the time we arrived, a whole bunch of them was just standing around gawking at the poor woman. I sorta went off on them I guess.”

“Thank you,” Craig said. “I appreciate what you did and I know Gil and Emelda would have appreciated it too.”

Waldrip cast a final glance at the enclosure on the hill.

He shook his big head in sorrow.

21

At ten thousand feet, the air was dry and clean, but nearly devoid of oxygen. From where Audrey Williams stood open mouthed, the rugged country spread out before her like a giant jigsaw puzzle. As far as the eye could see, the only straight line was Arizona Route 67, whizzing like an arrow toward the North Rim of the Grand Canyon some forty miles away.

She pulled a tube of Chapstick from her pocket and moistened her lips. Downhill from where she stood, Jackson Craig and a man named Harden Begay, stood off to the side of the steep path from the cabin, a twisty half mile track up to the spring that provided water. Begay, a local woodsman whom the county mounties had called in as a tracker, was the same color as the earth. His hat, his vest, even the color of his skin seemed to have absorbed the dull ochre hue of the land. He pointed down at the dirt path. “Tracking ain’t an exact science,” Begay said.

“Give me your best guess,” Craig pressed.

“Best guess,” Begay repeated. He sidled downhill, keeping over to the side so as not to wipe out any of the shoe prints. “The rain don’t help much neither,” Begay said, moving downhill again, ten yards closer to the cabin, he stopped and lowered himself to one knee. He pointed again. “I hadda guess I’d say these two sets of footprints was the first. One of em was a little booger.” He pointed at an area of ground.

Craig squatted and looked. “I see it,” he said.

Begay went on. “Other about a size six… a woman, maybe a girl, no way of telling.”

“Then?”

Begay pointed again. “Then we got this one here. A boot, men’s size twelve or thirteen, something along those lines. Big foot.” He used his hand to measure the distance between strides. “Long strider. Forty, forty-one inches between the prints.” He squinted up at Jackson Craig. “Average Joe’s about three foot.” He pointed again. “You can see where big foot stepped atop of the other two.”

“Going up the hill.”

“Yep. That’s it,” Begay affirmed. “Notice anything else?”

Craig bridged the trodden area with his legs, straddling the path before once again squatting and peering intently at the ground. After an minute of intense scrutiny, Craig looked up and shrugged.

Begay redirected Craig’s attention to a patch of earth closer to his own feet.

“Right here,” he said.

Craig looked. “Bigfoot going back down the hill.”

“Yep,” Begay said. “Stopped raining by that time. See how clean the edges are.”