Half an hour later Hamilton arrived at the police department, carrying a thick folder and his laptop, excited that for the first time in months he had something interesting to work on—something other than following people who had breached the terms of their bail, or spying on couples with a telescope, or threatening poor wretches who couldn’t pay their rent or the interest on a loan. His work was tiresome, with none of the poetry or romance about it that it has in books.
Petra Horr had given up on her day off and was in the office trying to cheer up Amanda, who seemed to have shrunk to half her usual size and was silently crouched on the floor, hugging the basket in which she had stowed Save-the-Tuna. That morning, Petra had been in her bathroom, dying her hair three different colors, when she got the phone call from her boss, and had hardly had time to rinse and throw some clothes on before shooting off on her motorcycle. Wearing shorts, a faded T-shirt, and gym shoes, and without the gel she usually spiked her hair with, the deputy chief’s assistant looked like a girl of fifteen.
Bob Martín had already arranged for the forensics team to take prints from Indiana’s computer and then go to the Holistic Clinic to get samples. Amanda sank deeper and deeper into the hood of her coat as she listened to her father give out his instructions, even with Petra explaining that these were standard measures for gathering information and didn’t mean that anything serious had happened to her mother. Amanda only responded with moaning sounds, frantically sucking her thumb. Seeing that the girl was regressing further as the hours passed, and fearing she would be back in diapers if it carried on, Petra picked up the phone on her own initiative and called Blake Jackson. “We still don’t know anything, Mr. Jackson, but the deputy chief is dedicating all his energy to finding your daughter. Could you stop by the department? Your granddaughter would feel better if you were here. I’ll send a patrol car to get you. It’s the April Fool’s Run today, and half the streets are closed off.”
Meanwhile, Hamilton had laid out on Bob’s desk the copious contents of his file, a complete history of Indiana’s private life. There were notes on where she went and when, transcripts of tapped phone conversations, and dozens of photographs—most of them taken at a distance, but clear enough when they were enlarged on the screen. There were members of her family, patients from the clinic (including the poodle), and friends and acquaintances. Bob felt a mixture of disgust at the way this man had spied on Indiana, disdain for Alan Keller, who had contracted him, professional curiosity about this valuable material, and the inevitable pain of being confronted with the intimate secrets of the woman for whom he felt such a fiercely protective affection. He was deeply moved when he saw the photographs: here was Indiana on her bicycle, or crossing the street in her nurse’s scrubs; there she was talking with someone, or on the phone, or shopping at the market. He saw her tired, he saw her happy, he saw her asleep on the balcony of her apartment above her father’s garage. He saw her carrying a giant cake for Doña Encarnación, and arguing with Bob himself in the street, indignant, her hands on her hips. Indiana, with her vulnerable, innocent look, with the flushed cheeks of a young girl, looking as beautiful as she had at fifteen, when he had seduced her behind the bleachers of the school gymnasium with the same idleness with which he had done everything at that time. And he hated himself, as he looked at the photos, for not having loved and looked after her the way she deserved, for having blown his chance to make a loving home for her where Amanda would have flourished.
“What do you know about Ryan Miller?” he asked Hamilton.
“Apart from the fact that he’s wanted for questioning about Keller’s death, I know that he had a liaison with Ms. Jackson. As it was very short-lived and happened when she and Keller had split up, she wasn’t being unfaithful, so I didn’t mention it to Mr. Keller. I like Ms. Jackson—she’s a good woman. And there aren’t many of those in this world.”
“What’s your view on Miller?”
“Mr. Keller was jealous enough for half the city, but of Miller more than anybody. I wasted hundreds of hours watching him. I know a thing or two about his past, and I know his habits, but it’s a mystery to me how he earns his money. I’m sure he lives on more than his wounded veteran’s pension, that he’s comfortably off and travels overseas. His apartment is protected with a high-tech security system, and he owns a number of firearms—all of them legal—and goes to a shooting range twice a week to practice his marksmanship. His dog never leaves his side. He has very few friends here, but he’s in contact with the other guys from SEAL Team Six. He broke off with his lover a few months ago—Jennifer Yang, Chinese American, single, age thirty-six, bank executive, once appeared in Indiana Jackson’s treatment room, threatening to throw acid in her face.”
“What do you mean?” Bob interrupted. “She never told me about that.”
“At that time Indiana and Miller were just friends. I suppose Miller had mentioned to Indiana that he had this girlfriend, just to put some kind of name on it, but he hadn’t introduced them, so when Jennifer Yang arrived at her treatment room trying to scream the place down, Indiana thought the woman had got the wrong door. Matheus Pereira came down from the attic when he heard the noise and got Yang out of the building.”
“This woman got a police file?”
“Nothing. If I were you, Deputy Chief, I wouldn’t waste my time with Jennifer Yang. Let’s get back to Ryan Miller—I’ll make it as short as I can. His father reached a high rank in the marines, where he had a reputation for being strict, even cruel, with his men; his mother committed suicide with his father’s service pistol, though in the family it was always said to have been an accident. Miller followed his father’s footsteps into the navy, had an excellent service record and medals for bravery, and was given honorable discharge after losing a leg in Iraq in 2007. He was duly decorated, but quickly sank into drugs, alcohol—all the usual stuff for cases like his. He got back on his feet, and now he works for the government and the Pentagon, but I couldn’t say in what, possibly espionage.”
“Miller was arrested for violence in a club on the night of February eighteenth. He injured three people. Do you think he was capable of killing Keller?”
“He may have done it in a fit of rage, but not in that way. He’s a Navy SEAL, Deputy Chief. He would have confronted his rival, given him the opportunity to defend himself—he would never have used poison.”
“How d’you know about the poison? That was never made public.”
“I know a lot of things: it’s my job.”
“So maybe you know where Miller is hiding.”
“I haven’t looked for him yet, Deputy Chief, but if I do, I’m sure I’ll find him.”
“Do it, Mr. Hamilton. We need all the help we can get.”
Bob Martín closed his office door so Amanda wouldn’t hear him, and let Samuel Hamilton in on his suspicion that Miller could have kidnapped Indiana.
“Listen, Deputy Chief,” said Hamilton. “Since I found out that the police were looking for Miller, I’ve dedicated all my time to following Ms. Jackson, just in case the two of them met. I haven’t got much work at the moment, so I’ve got time to spare. I’ve watched Ms. Jackson so many times that I would almost call her a friend. Miller’s in love with her, and I thought he would try and get close to her, but as far as I know, there’s been no communication between them.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You know Ms. Jackson better than I do, Deputy Chief: you can see right through her. If she was helping Miller, she wouldn’t be able to hide it. Besides, her habits haven’t changed. I know what I’m talking about here: I can tell when a person is hiding something.”
While Bob looked over the files the private detective had brought him, Blake Jackson arrived in Petra Horr’s small office, harassed and out of breath. He saw his granddaughter in a ball on the floor, her head on her knees, so diminished she looked like a heap of rags. Without touching her—he knew how inaccessible the girl could be—he sat down beside her and waited in si
lence. After five minutes had passed, although to Petra it seemed like hours, Amanda pulled a hand out from the folds of her clothes and felt around for her grandfather’s hand.
“Save-the-Tuna needs some fresh air, something to eat, and to do her business,” he said to her, as though soothing a frightened animal. “Come on, sweetheart, we’ve got a lot to do.”
“My mom . . .”
“That’s what I mean, Amanda. We have to find her. I’ve told all the Ripper players to log on in two hours. They all agree that this has priority, and they’re already working on it. Come on, girl, up you get, let’s go.”
He helped her get to her feet, straightened her clothes out a little, and picked up the basket with the cat in it. Just as he was walking out, Amanda’s hand in his, Petra, who was talking on the phone, motioned to them to stop.
“They’ve got the prints off the computer, and they’re bringing it up right now.”
An officer brought the laptop to them in the same plastic bag Bob had taken it away in a few hours before. He handed them the lab report, which confirmed that only Indiana’s fingerprints had been found. The deputy chief took the computer out of its bag, and they all gathered around his desk while Amanda, who was as familiar as its owner was with its contents, opened it up wearing latex gloves. She had started to thaw out a bit now that she felt useful, and pulled her hood back from her face, although her expression was still forlorn. Indiana, who couldn’t tell one piece of software from another, used only a minimal portion of her computer’s capacity—for e-mailing, tracking each patient’s history and treatments, accounting, and little else. They read through all her e-mails from the twenty-three days that had passed since Keller’s death, and found nothing but mundane correspondence with the usual people. Bob asked Petra to copy them, as they would have to scrutinize them for any revealing detail. Suddenly the screen went black. Amanda cursed under her breath; she had already come up against this problem.
“What’s happening?” Bob asked.
“The Marquis de Sade, Mom’s pet pervert. Watch out, you’re about to see the gross stuff this freak sends her.”
She was still speaking when the screen lit up again, but instead of the graphic sex and twisted acts of cruelty that Amanda was expecting, a video started, showing a winter landscape somewhere in the northern hemisphere, illuminated by the moon—an icy, snow-covered clearing in a pine forest, the wind whistling through it. A few seconds later a solitary figure emerged among the trees; at first it looked like a shadow, but as it approached across the snow, they could make out the silhouette of a large dog. The animal prowled in circles, sniffing the ground. Then it sat on its haunches, raised its head to the sky, and greeted the moon with a baleful howl.
The whole thing was over in less than two minutes, and everyone was perplexed except Amanda, who got up, shaking all over, her eyes wide and a strangled cry stuck in her throat. “The wolf, the sign of the killer!” she managed to stammer, before doubling over and vomiting on her father’s ergonomic chair.
More than once, Indiana, you’ve told me that you trust to your good fortune, that you think your mother’s spirit keeps watch over your family. That would explain why you don’t make plans for the future or save a single cent—you live day-to-day, happy as a clam. You’re even free of the worries that would affect any normal mother, because you assume that Amanda will succeed by her own merits, or with help from her father or grandfather; you’re even irresponsible with that. I envy you, Indiana. Fate hasn’t smiled on me, I’ve got no guardian angels. I’d like to think my mother’s spirit looks after me, too, but that would be childish. I’m alone, and I look after myself. I’m careful, too: it’s a hostile world, and I’ve been bitten by it.
You’re very quiet, but I know you can hear me. Maybe you’re plotting something? Well, you can forget it. When you first woke up on Saturday night, it was so dark, damp, and cold, and the silence was so pure, you thought you were dead and buried. You weren’t ready for fear. But unlike you, I know very well what fear is. You’d slept for twenty-four hours, and you were confused, and you haven’t had much clarity since then either. I let you scream and shout for a while, so you’d understand that nobody was going to come and rescue you; and when you heard your own voice resounding inside this giant fortress, panic silenced you. I have to gag you when I go out, although I’d prefer not to—the glue on the tape is going to sting your skin. It’s possible that while I’m away you’ll wake up and then pass out again—it’s one of the effects of the drug I’m giving you so that you’ll be comfortable. It’s for your own good. It’s just benzodiazepine, nothing harmful, although I do have to give you a high dose. Convulsions or a respiratory block are the only possible complications, but they’re rare. You’re strong, Indi, and I would know: I’ve been researching and experimenting for years. Do you remember how you got here? You probably don’t remember a thing. That’s normal: the ketamine I gave you on Friday causes amnesia. It’s a very useful drug—the CIA has experimented with using it in interrogations, and they’ve found it less problematic than torture. Personally I abhor cruelty, and the sight of blood makes me dizzy. None of the delinquents I’ve killed suffered more than was strictly necessary. In your case, the sleeping pills are helpful, because they make the time pass, but tomorrow I’ll have to bring the dosage down so there’s no risk of harm, and so that we can talk. I can still hear you muttering something about a mausoleum—you think you’ve been buried—even though I’ve explained the situation to you. The pain in your belly will pass; I’m also giving you painkillers and antispasmodics. I’m concerned about your well-being. As I’ve told you, this is no bad dream, Indiana, and you’re not going mad. It’s normal at this stage for you not to remember what’s happened in the last few days, but you’ll remember who you are and start to miss your daughter, your father, and your former life. The feeling of weakness is normal, too, and it will pass. Have patience; but you won’t get better until you eat. You need to eat at least something. Don’t make me do anything unpleasant. Your life is no longer yours, it belongs to me—and I’m in charge of your health. I’ll be the one who decides how, and how long, you live.
Tuesday, 3
Thanks to Ripper, which kept her busy, Amanda managed to recover from the terror that had gripped her when she first realized that the Wolf had taken her mother. None of her father’s arguments could convince her that Indiana’s absence was not related to the previous spate of crimes, and in fact he did not even believe his own reassurances. The symbol of the wolf was the only thing in common between Indiana’s disappearance and the killer, but it was too clear to ignore. Why Indiana? And why Alan Keller? The deputy chief had a feeling that none of the experience and knowledge he had built up over his long career would be of use; he just asked that his sixth sense, which he had so often bragged about, didn’t let him down now.
As Amanda was still having panic attacks, Blake Jackson called the school to explain the family drama to Sister Cecile and tell her that his granddaughter wasn’t in a state to come back to class. The nun gave the girl permission to be out of school for however long she needed, said she would pray along with the other nuns, and asked to be kept up-to-date. Blake did not go to work either; all his time was taken up with looking after Amanda and playing Ripper, which was no longer a simple pastime but an appalling reality. The players were faced with the mother of all role-plays, as they called the desperate search for Indiana Jackson.
Bob could only conclude that the killer was a methodical and implacable psychopath of exceptional intelligence, one of the cruelest and most complex criminals he had heard of. He often said that his day-to-day work was simple, because he could rely on his network of informants—who kept him up-to-date on the criminal underworld—and because most petty criminals were already on file. They were reoffenders, drug addicts, and alcoholics locked in a cycle, or else just stupid, they left a string of clues behind them, tripped up on their own tails, betrayed and informed on each other, and eventually collap
sed under their own weight. The real problem was with the top-flight criminals—the ones who could wreak havoc without even getting their hands dirty, who evaded justice and died of old age in their own beds. But in all his years of service, Bob had never been faced with a character like the Wolf; he didn’t know what category to place him in, what motivated him, how he chose his victims and planned each crime. He felt a tight ball in his stomach, and sensed that the Wolf was nearby, that he was a personal enemy. Keller’s death had been a warning, and Indiana’s disappearance a direct attack. The horrifying idea that the killer might set his sights on Amanda put him in a cold sweat.
Since Indiana disappeared, the deputy chief hadn’t returned to his apartment. He ate the cafeteria food, or whatever Petra brought him, slept in an armchair, and showered in the department gym. On Monday Petra had had to go and get him some clean clothes and take the dirty ones to the laundromat. She didn’t take a break either; she’d never seen her boss so fixated that he even let his appearance go, and that worried her. Bob usually kept his football player’s physique intact on the machines in the gym, smelled of a cologne that came at $200 a bottle, paid too much for his haircuts, and had his shirts tailored in Egyptian linen. His suits and shoes were impossibly expensive. If Bob felt like it, which he invariably did, he could seduce any woman—apart from Petra herself, of course.
Early on Tuesday morning, when Petra arrived at the office and saw her boss, she let out a yelp of surprise: his mustache, lovingly cultivated over the course of a decade, was gone.
“I haven’t got time to worry about facial hair,” he growled.
“I like it, boss. You look more . . . human. The mustache gave you a kind of Saddam Hussein look. I wonder what Ayani’ll think.”