Where was Tom Unka? Ronnie Scarborough?
What had Scarborough meant when he said Ollie was clueless about Annaliese Ruben? Had Scar been more than her pimp? Did he know things we hadn’t even thought about?
Ryan was right. The locals would focus on the Castain homicide, on the erupting feud over control of the drug trade. But I couldn’t give up my obsession with Ruben. The woman had murdered four babies.
People had described Ruben as not very bright. Scarborough. Forex. Tyne. How had she eluded capture this long? Gotten from Saint-Hyacinthe to Edmonton to Yellowknife? Did she even know the law was in pursuit? Surely she did. But was she more worried about Scar?
Had Scar helped Ruben? Had Nellie Snook? Was Ruben hiding in the house on Ragged Ass? Or had she gone elsewhere? A half sibling of whom we knew nothing? A local officer who was perhaps a cousin or other relative?
Ruben’s father was Farley McLeod. Her mother was Micah Lee. Micah was Dene. Did Ruben’s familial network extend to places closed to outsiders?
And what about Horace Tyne? Tyne had worked with Ruben’s father, was at least thirty years her senior. Had his relationship with Ruben been strictly paternal?
Round and round it went. Images. Speculation. Questions. Mostly questions.
I’d just drifted off when the landline rang. Thinking it was Katy, I snatched up the receiver. My eye caught the digits on the bedside clock. Eleven-fifty-five.
“Is this Temperance Brennan?” Soft. Childlike.
“Yes.”
“I need to see you.” Slight accent. It didn’t sound like Binny.
“Who is this?”
The answer sent my heart rate into the stratosphere.
“I’M IN THE WOODS.”
“What woods?”
“Behind the hotel.”
“OK.”
“Come alone.”
“But I—”
“If someone is with you, I’ll go away.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Five.”
Click.
I shot out of bed. Yanked on the clothes I’d tossed to a chair. Grabbed my jacket. Shoved a flashlight, my room key, and by habit, my cell phone into one pocket. Flew out the door.
Buzzing with adrenaline, I bypassed the elevator, pounded down the stairs, and raced across the lobby. The hotel had to have rear exits; not sure where, I played it safe and slammed out the front door.
The night was cold but not enough for snow. A light rain was slicking the grass underfoot.
As I ran around the building, I considered possibilities. Had Ruben tired of running? Did she want to turn herself in? Or was this a setup to throw me off?
To take me out?
That thought brought me up short.
Was Ruben dangerous? She’d killed her offspring, but could she pose a threat to me? What would that gain her?
I pulled out my iPhone. The thing responded with a bit more enthusiasm but still lacked the juice to allow normal function.
It didn’t matter. I had to get to Ruben.
I stopped again at the garden. Zen and the art of murdering babies. Odd. But that’s what my gray cells sent up.
The moon was a fuzzy sliver, casting soft copies of stacked boulders and dead plants on the wet pebbles below.
I peered into the eerie dusklike dimness ahead. Saw only dark shapes I knew to be pines.
I took out and thumbed on my flash. Partly to light my way. Partly to let Ruben know I was coming.
Barely breathing, I hurried on.
I was almost at the tree line when a solitary figure took shape in the shadows. Indistinct. Smudged by the drizzle.
The figure remained motionless, the face a pale oval pointed my way.
I deliberated tactics. Cajole? Persuade? Coerce?
Come quietly. Let me help you. Or do I call the guys with badges and guns? What’s it going to be, Annaliese?
I continued walking, the light from my flash fizzing in the rain.
Please, God. Don’t let her be packing.
I entered the woods.
As though reading my mind, Ruben raised both arms and stepped into my beam.
She was short and probably classified as obese by medical standards. Her hair was long and dark, her face pretty in a pudgy-toddler sort of way.
Tank sat at her feet.
Ruben’s message was clear. She wasn’t carrying a weapon and meant me no harm.
Two pairs of eyes watched me close in.
Before I could speak, Ruben rotated slowly, arms straight out at her sides. Tank looped at her feet as though showing that he, too, posed no threat.
Ruben came full circle and faced me. Tank went bipedal and placed his forepaws on her knee. She did not reach down to pet him.
“We’ve been looking for you, Annaliese.”
“People told me.”
“We need to talk.”
“You’re scaring my sister.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“I want you to stop.”
“I will if you agree to meet with the police.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They’ll say I did bad things.”
“Did you?”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“You can lower your hands.”
She did. Tank jumped into her arms.
“Tell me about your babies.”
“Babies?” Her confusion sounded genuine.
“They’re why we’ve been looking for you.”
Lines creased her forehead. She looked down at the dog. He looked up at her. She scratched his ear. “I figured it was the men.”
“What men?”
“The men who gave me money.”
She thought we wanted to bust her for turning tricks.
“The police want to know what happened to your babies.”
She said nothing.
“Did you kill them?”
The rain had separated the fur on Tank’s head into spiky wet tufts. Ruben began plucking at them with quick nervous gestures.
“Did you hurt the babies?”
Her fingers grew more agitated.
“We found four, Annaliese. Three in Saint-Hyacinthe and one in Edmonton.”
“You found the babies.” Flat.
“Yes.”
“They died.”
“How?”
“They had to.”
“Why?”
“They couldn’t live.”
“Why not?”
“I gave them something bad.”
“Annaliese.” Sharp.
Ruben stopped pulling Tank’s fur and pressed him to her chest.
“Look at me.”
Her head came up slowly, but her eyes stayed down.
“I wrapped them in towels,” she said.
“What do you mean, you gave the babies something bad?”
“Something inside.”
I didn’t follow but let it go. Time for that later. “Do you know who the fathers are?” I asked.
Annaliese kept her gaze pointed at Tank. “Please don’t tell Nellie.”
“You have to explain the babies to the police,” I said.
“I don’t want to.”
“You have no choice.”
“You can’t make me.”
“Yes. I can.”
“I’m not a bad person.”
Standing there in the moonlight and rain, I realized a sad truth: Annaliese Ruben wasn’t a monster. She was simpleminded.
“I know,” I said softly.
I was reaching out when something over her right shoulder caught my eye. The needles on one pine seemed wrong, their edges too light amid the surrounding darkness.
I stepped to my left to see around Annaliese.
A beat, then a flicker, as though a torch had been lighted then quickly extinguished.
“Annaliese,” I whispered. “Did you come alone?”
I would never get an answer to my question.
r />
A muffled crack broke the stillness. I saw a flash.
Annaliese’s mouth opened. A glob flew from her forehead, and a black hole appeared above her right brow.
With a terrified yelp, Tank pushed from his mistress’s chest and darted into the woods.
I hit the ground.
Another crack rocked the night.
Annaliese’s body bucked and rotated toward me. Then she dropped.
Belly to the earth, I scrabbled to her, pulling with my elbows and pushing with my feet.
Annaliese lay with her eyes wide open, as though startled by what had taken place. A black river ran from the exit hole, across her face, and into her hairline.
I pressed trembling fingers to her throat. Felt no pulse.
No! No!
I probed the soft flesh, desperate for vital signs.
Nothing.
Heart pounding, I tried to think. How many were out there? Had Annaliese been the target or had I?
Think!
What did the shooter expect?
That I’d run. Or stay to give first aid.
Do neither!
Keeping low, I crawled back to where I’d been when the shot rang out. Contact with the ground made me aware of a hard object in my pocket.
I held for a moment, straining my senses. Saw no light. Heard no movement.
I groped for my flashlight among the pine needles blanketing the ground. Finally, my fingers closed around it. Covering the glass with one palm, I shook the batteries to life. Then I arced the thing toward Annaliese’s body, keeping the bulb pointed away from the shooter. The flashlight landed with a soft tick, its beam barely visible above the groundcover.
I froze.
No gunfire.
No sound but drops hitting the boughs overhead.
I rolled to my side, dug the phone from my pocket, and held it close to my belly. Hoping against hope, I thumbed the indentation on the bottom front.
The screen flickered, went black.
I tried again, maintaining the pressure with my thumb.
For seconds.
Hours.
I was about to give up when the icons burst forth in glorious color.
Almost crying with relief, I tapped the little green phone symbol, then a number on my speed-dial list.
“Ryan.” Groggy but trying to sound alert.
“I’m in the pines behind the hotel,” I whispered.
“I can’t … you.”
“The woods behind the hotel.”
“… peat … you said.”
“Ruben’s been shot,” I hissed.
“… breaking up.”
“Come to the woods behind the Zen garden,” I hiss-whispered as loud as I dared.
“Hang up … back … else … the landline.”
“I’m not in my room. I need you to come—”
The connection went dead. I tried texting. No go.
I was on my own.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket.
Listened.
The woods were absolutely still.
Sudden thought.
Tank.
The little dog was on his own, too. Coyote bait. Or wolf. Or whatever the hell else was on the prowl.
Call out to him?
I couldn’t risk it. The shooter could be out there.
A soft yellow glow marked the spot where Annaliese lay. She was past help. But I felt driven to get responders to the scene. To get her body out of the rain.
To get my ass out of danger.
Would Ryan make sense of my garbled message?
How long to wait?
I gave it ten minutes.
Checked for landmarks.
Ruben was lying below a large pine with a gnarly growth five feet up its trunk. To its left was a smaller, asymmetrical pine on which every other branch looked dead.
Satisfied I could relocate the spot, I bolted.
RYAN OPENED HIS DOOR WEARING JEANS. JUST JEANS. HIS HAIR was tousled, but he looked fully awake.
“No need to pound.” Ryan took in my wet hair and the pine needles clinging to my clothes. His grin vanished. “What the hell—”
“Ruben’s dead.” I was breathless from running. Shaking. Fighting back tears.
“What?”
“She’s not a monster, Ryan. She’s retarded. Oh, God. We’re not supposed to say ‘retarded.’ What? What do we say now? ‘Challenged’? What word do we use?”
The shock at finally coming face-to-face with Ruben. The terror at seeing her shot. The relief at being back in the hotel. I was babbling, couldn’t help myself.
“She probably never knew she was pregnant. Probably had no concept of pregnant. No concept of concept.”
Tears were running full-out. I made no effort to brush them away.
“I didn’t get a look at the shooter.”
“Slow down.” Ryan was not understanding. Or not hearing my words through the blubbering.
“Two shots. The one to the head probably killed her.” Loud. Too loud.
Ryan pulled me into his room. Closed the door. Dug a tiny bottle of Johnnie Walker from his minibar and handed it to me. “Drink this.”
“I can’t. You know I can’t.”
He unscrewed the cap and thrust the Scotch at me. “Drink it.”
I drank.
The familiar fire roared down my throat. I closed my eyes. The heat spread from my belly to my chest, my brain. The trembling lessened.
I raised my lids. Ryan was studying my face. “Better?”
“Yes.” Dear God. It was.
“Now,” Ryan said. “Start over.”
“Ruben’s dead. Her body is in the woods behind the hotel.”
“Tabarnac!”
“The dog ran off.”
“The dog?”
“Tank. The little—”
“Forget the dog. Tell me what happened.”
“Ruben phoned me right around midnight. Said she wanted to meet.”
“How’d she get your number?”
“Probably from Snook.”
Ryan’s hand shot his hair. That meant he wasn’t happy.
“Ruben told me to come alone.”
“Jesus Christ, Brennan. If she’d told you to slice off a tit, would you have done that, too?”
“It was moi solo or no meet.” I was still wired, and Ryan’s reaction was pissing me off.
Ryan just stared at me.
“I phoned you. It’s not my fault the signal sucked.”
“You met her in the woods in the middle of the night.”
“Yes.”
“You had no business going off by yourself.” The Viking-blue eyes simmered with anger.
“I’m a big girl,” I snapped.
“You could have been killed!”
“I wasn’t!”
“But Ruben was!”
Ryan’s words felt like a slap.
I looked away. To hide the hurt. Mostly to hide the guilt. Because deep down, I knew he was right.
“I didn’t mean that.” Ryan’s voice was softer.
“Call it in,” I said curtly.
Ryan crossed to the bedside table, picked up and dialed his cell. He spoke with his back turned to me. When finished, he dug a sweatshirt from his carry-on and pulled it over his head. The static did not improve his hair situation.
“And?” I asked.
“They’re sending a unit.”
“We should tell Ollie.”
Ryan dialed again, spoke, disconnected. “He’s still at the Castain scene.”
“What did he say?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Ryan drew in a deep breath. Let it out. Then he made a comment that melted my resentment.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But at times you go with your heart, not your head. I worry that one day you will pay a price. I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you.”
I kept my face empty.
“It wasn’t your fault, Tempe.” br />
Yes, I thought. It was.
* * *
The unit was driven by Zeb Chalker. No crime scene truck. No hearse. Just Chalker. Apparently, the death of a hooker didn’t merit pulling personnel from a really cool murder.
Ryan and I met Chalker in the lobby. He did not look pleased to be there.
I described where I thought the shooter had been standing. Chalker called for another unit to check that sector of the woods and to drive the stretch of road closest to it.
“When we get there, I’ll go in first. Not a chance the doer hung around, but until I know what we’re dealing with, I prefer to play it safe.”
Ryan and I nodded.
Chalker led us out the front door, dug Maglites and slickers from the trunk of his patrol car, and handed them to us.
Single-file, we circled the building, crossed the garden, and squished toward the pines, our soles leaving shallow depressions in the mud and soggy needles.
At a point along the tree line, I indicated the position of Ruben’s body. “She’s about ten feet straight ahead.”
Chalker continued alone. In under a minute, we heard him call out. “Clear.”
Feet spread, flashlight pointed at the ground, Chalker watched us approach.
I joined my beam to his.
And caught my breath in surprise.
Ruben’s body was gone.
“This is the spot.” Pointlessly, I shone my light on the pine with the tumor.
Chalker said nothing.
“She was here.” Working my beam back and forth at the base of my marker trees.
“It’s pretty dark, miss. Maybe—”
“I’m not an idiot,” I snapped, still riding my adrenaline-fed high. Or the Johnnie Walker.
“You sure she was dead?” Ryan asked.
“She had an exit hole in her forehead the size of my fist!”
“Maybe animals dragged her off.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t think so.
I expanded my search, slowly moving farther and farther out. Ryan and Chalker did the same.
Ten minutes later, we reconvened at the original location. My hands were shaking, and blood was fizzing in my chest.
Both men regarded me. Dubious.
“I swear. She was lying right here.” Dropping to my knees, I worked a close-up grid with my beam.
The needles appeared uniformly damp. None looked recently broken, displaced, or overturned. I spotted no blood, hair, tissue, or bone fragment.