He was quiet.
I waited. “Right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s get a couple of them down here before the storm hits, see if we can recover the snowmobile or the body of the driver.”
My phone wobbled in my pocket and I checked the screen. A text from Amber—she and Sean would be able to meet at the Northwoods Supper Club just down the road from Tomahawk Lake. “11?” she’d typed.
While Ellory assigned one of the officers beside him to radio the sheriff’s department in Ashland, I texted Amber that later—noon or 1:00—would be better.
Jake and the remaining officers went to shore to look over the Ski-Doo’s tracks before they reached the ice. I walked beside the ones leading toward the open water, Ellory beside me.
I made sure neither of us disturbed the boot sole impressions paralleling the snowmobile tracks.
“Sheriff still down with the flu?” I asked him.
“Yup.”
The uniformity of the snow clods kicked up by the snowmobile’s treads told me that whoever drove the snowmobile had done so at a steady speed. No accelerating or decelerating. No swerving.
If this were an accident, he would’ve swerved to avoid it.
But if it were suicide, wouldn’t he have accelerated toward the water?
When someone commits suicide by cutting her wrists she’ll often slice her skin several times, trying to get up enough nerve to drive the blade deep enough to kill herself. Law enforcement and medical personnel refer to those wounds as hesitation marks.
Conversely, when the decision has been made, she’ll draw the blade quickly, deeply, often in an uncontrolled manner.
Despite the low number of nerve endings in the flexor surface of the wrist, almost no one draws the blade steadily and slowly across the skin. If it appears she has, it’s a good indication that it wasn’t a suicide.
When people see pain or death coming, they either swerve to avoid it or despairingly accelerate into it. In a sense, almost no one drives uniformly toward the open water.
It was yet another indication that this wasn’t a suicide.
Or a haphazard accid—
“You’re famous,” Ellory said, jarring me from my thoughts.
“What?”
“I looked you up. Consulted all over the world. Two books. Articles in more than a dozen professional journals.”
He looked me up?
I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Thank you,” I said awkwardly.
“I’m impressed.” But he sounded faintly sarcastic rather than dazzled. “I didn’t know who you were.”
I ignored his comment. “The only thing we need to do right now is make some headway on this case before that storm hits.”
We’d made it only a few more steps when he said, “So, geospatial. What is that exactly?”
Though I wasn’t really excited about giving a briefing at the moment, I guessed that this was as good a time as any to talk him through it. “Basically, I study the temporal and spatial patterns of serial offenses and then work backward to find the most likely location of the offender’s home base.”
He stared at me blankly. “Okay.”
I paused and he stopped beside me. We were twenty meters from the water.
“We take everything we know about a crime—time of the offense, location of the bodies, likely offender characteristics and patterns of behavior, add in geographic factors such as urban zoning, population distribution, roadways, topographic features, and traffic patterns as well as weather conditions at the time of the crime, and then compare that data to the way human beings spatially understand their surroundings and form mental maps of their area of familiarity. Then, by applying what we call journey-to-crime models, I’m able to narrow down the region from which the offender most likely left when he initiated the crimes.”
“So you need a bunch of crimes, then; I mean, to make this work.”
Very astute. “That’s true,” I said. “The more locations I have to work with, the more accurate I can be.”
We started for the water again.
“But here you only have the house and the lake. Two locations.” I sensed more than a slight challenge in his words.
“Two locations, yes. That we know of,” I agreed, but I was no longer concerned about his understanding of geospatial investigation because I saw a glimmer of something round wavering in the water. Then it disappeared. “Did you see that?”
“See what?”
It reappeared in the waves again. A black, shining circle about the size of a basketball. I jogged toward the break in the ice. Five meters from the water I realized that getting any closer could be a bad idea and—
Yes.
I stopped. It was a snowmobile helmet bobbing in the waves.
“Ellory, get that ladder out here. Now.”
“But—”
“Go.”
He finally saw the helmet, hesitated for a moment, then hurried toward shore.
I tried to reassure myself that laying the ladder on the ice would distribute my weight over a larger surface area, just as it does in mountaineering when you’re crossing crevasses. The weight distribution would reduce the chances of the ice cracking.
But it still might.
I shook the thought.
It seemed odd that the helmet should resurface today.
Of course, it might have been planted there earlier this morning, but regardless of when the helmet entered the water, the waves might still overwhelm it and take it under.
I watched it for a moment, weighing the implications, then Ellory, the officers, and Jake arrived with the ladder.
“Lay it down,” I said. “I’m going for the helmet.”
18
“Pat,” Jake said, “I think we should wait for a diver.”
“We need to see whose helmet that is, and you know as well as I do that it could—”
“Go under. Yes, I get that.”
“It wasn’t there yesterday?” I asked Ellory.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think so.”
“But,” Jake interjected, “divers from Ashland can be down here in a couple hours.”
“Too long.” Patience is not my specialty. “We don’t know if the killer is still at large, and if he is I don’t want to wait any longer than absolutely necessary to get a clue that might lead us to him.” I pointed toward the water. “I’ve done this before, mountaineering. It’ll be all right. Lay it down and slide it out there.”
“So you really don’t think it’s Donnie?” Ellory said.
“Whether it’s Donnie or not, we need to vigorously pursue all leads as they arise. And I’m going to get a look at that helmet.”
Finally, they extended the ladder to its furthest position and laid it on the ice. I knelt and then crept out on it while the team held the end that lay farthest from the water. The section in front of me poked out slightly over the waves.
It’ll adequately disperse your weight. It will.
But still, I could feel my heart racing.
The wind stung my face.
Two meters to the end of the ladder.
All those childhood fears of going under the ice came rushing back, and I took a breath to try to calm myself. I paused. Regrouped. Crawled forward again, slower this time.
I watched the waves take the helmet toward, then away from the broken lip of ice.
“Pat, this is stupid,” Jake said.
“It’ll hold,” I replied.
Just a meter farther.
I heard no hint of the ice cracking beneath me.
Edging forward, I stared at the short stretch of ladder hovering in front of me, the black water rippling just inches beneath it.
Thankfully, the wind had shifted slightly and was now coming toward me, so the helmet was being washed against the ice rather than drawn into the open water.
The rhythm of the waves made me think of a heartbeat pulsing blood thro
ugh a body, mocking my attempts to reach the helmet’s strap.
Backward. Forward.
Backward.
I came to the end of the ladder, lay down so I could extend my arm farther, and then reached for the helmet, but it was too far to my left.
Behind me, silence from the men. Unsettling in its depth.
The water splashed toward me, then receded, easing the helmet forward and backward with each throb of wind-driven water. But it didn’t appear that the helmet was going to come close enough for me to grab it.
I inched closer.
“Easy,” Ellory whispered behind me.
Nope. Still too far.
“You need to swing me out.” I spoke softly, as if louder words would land too heavily on the ice and shatter it.
I heard Jake say, “No, Pat.”
“Just do it,” I told him.
After a moment, I felt the ladder rotate to the left, and I moved farther out over the waves.
The beating heart of the lake.
Forward. Backward.
Careful, Pat. Easy.
Still lying down, I hooked my feet around a rung and gripped the edge of the runner with my right hand, then outstretched my left, but still couldn’t get to the helmet. A few rampant waves rushed forward and soaked through my sleeve, my glove, while others licked up at me and splashed against my chest. With the wet clothing came a shock of cold, and I knew I needed to hurry. Steadying myself, I eased out farther.
Faintly, I heard Ellory say, “Careful,” but I was concentrating on keeping my balance. I told myself that my grip, earned from years of rock climbing, would be enough to hold me in place.
The wind carried the helmet toward me.
The water, black and terrifyingly cold.
I timed the waves, and as they swelled toward me I dipped my hand into the water and managed to snag the strap of the helmet, still buckled in a half circle.
“Got it.”
And then.
The sound was subtle, not sharp like I would have thought it would be. Over the years I’ve heard some people describe the sound of cracking ice to be similar to that of a gunshot—distinct, explosive, ricocheting through the air. But this was different. It was more like a deep groan stretching to both sides of me across the frozen lake.
“Pull him back!” one of the officers yelled.
As the ice along the edge of the water splintered apart beneath me it must have caught the men holding the ladder off guard, because my end dipped into the waves. I clung to the sides of the ladder, tried to scramble backward, and managed to keep from sliding in, but the surging water drenched my face and jacket and made my grip on the ladder more slippery, more tenuous.
Hurry!
Thankfully they’d managed to catch hold of the ladder and now quickly pulled me backward.
But from my waist up, the front of my jacket was soaked.
As they drew me back, my heart hammering in my chest, I watched the cracks finger out beneath my weight.
And then, at last, I was past the fractured ice and safely away from the water.
I dropped the helmet onto the ice and rolled off the ladder. Juiced on adrenaline and caught in the grip of the cold, I found myself shivering fiercely. I didn’t realize how tense I was until I heard Ellory saying to me, “Nice job.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then tried to quiet my frayed nerves.
You made it. You’re good. It’s all good.
Opening my eyes again, I pushed myself to my feet, then borrowed Ellory’s jacket sleeve to dry my face and tried to shake some of the water from my clothes.
Softly, but not so softly that I couldn’t pick up the words, one of the officers muttered to his partner, “I don’t know how long he would’ve . . .” He must have noticed me glance his way because he let his voice trail off into silence. Looked away.
Jake stared at me. “You better get changed.”
He was right. In these clothes, in this weather, hypothermia could set in within minutes. I’d gotten what I came here for—a spatial understanding of the scene, and a clue I hadn’t expected. At the moment there wasn’t anything more for me to do here at the lake. However, before I swung by the motel to get into some dry clothes, I wanted to have a look at that helmet.
At the moment, Ellory was inspecting it. “It’s got Donnie’s name on it,” he said quietly.
“Let me see it.”
He handed it to me. “He’s down there.” Ellory was staring at the water.
Curious.
Would a person about to crash, at any speed, take off his helmet?
Black, with a gray cushioned interior, the helmet had a slight crack in the faceplate. On the rear of the interior was Donnie’s name, printed in black permanent marker.
“We’ll compare the handwriting”—a wave of uncontrolled shivering chopped up my sentence—“to Ardis’s and Donnie’s to confirm that one of them wrote the name.”
No one said anything, and I had the feeling the discovery of the helmet had closed the case for them.
“You don’t think it’s his?” Ellory remarked.
I pointed to the strap. “Whether it’s his or not, how could a helmet strap that’s designed to sustain a snowmobile crash pop off someone’s head in the water—and then rebuckle itself together?”
That seemed to get their attention.
It certainly had mine.
Man, I was cold.
On the way to the car I called Amber to cancel lunch, refraining from mentioning my near-miss with the open water. “It’s just that this case is taking a few turns I hadn’t expected,” I explained, doing my best to keep the shiver out of my voice.
“I see.”
“Anyway, maybe we could connect later on sometime.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
The lack of a substantial supper last night and my missed breakfast this morning wasn’t helping anything, and discussing lunch only reminded me of how hungry I really was. “Not yet.”
“Well, you need to.” It wasn’t a mothering tone, but that of a friend. “You don’t know how long you’ll be in the area, so let’s get together while we can. Besides, you sound tense. Are you okay?”
“I’m not used to the cold.”
We got into the car, Jake started the engine, I cranked up the heat.
Honestly, stepping away from the case for a few minutes would give me a good chance to decompress and mentally shift gears before my trip to the sawmill. And Amber was right, I did need to eat.
She pressed me once again and I finally agreed to meet her and Sean at the Northwoods Supper Club at noon, giving me enough time to drive to the motel, change, and get to the restaurant. I decided I could take one hour for lunch, then head to the sawmill.
Jake directed the car toward the road. After hanging up, I told him my plans and he said he was glad I could see my brother. “I’ll grab something to eat on my own. That way you and your family can reconnect.” Then he mentioned offhandedly, “I spoke with Director Wellington a bit ago. It’s just a local affiliate, but there’s going to be a press conference at 12:30.”
“Here?” I shed my coat so the car’s heat would actually reach me. “In Woodborough?”
“The station is in Ashland. They sent a correspondent down yesterday to cover the Pickron homicides.”
Even though Margaret had put me in charge of the case, I like dealing with the media about as much as I like the idea of falling through the ice. “All right, well, make it brief. No specula—”
“Pat.” His voice was sour. “I’ve done press conferences before.”
“Yes. I know.”
I thought he might respond sharply to my comment, but instead he just said, “Besides, I need to follow up on a few things at the sheriff’s office in Woodborough.”
“What about the sawmill?”
“Maybe I could meet you there? You could catch a ride with your brother?”
Jake didn’t know about the state of affairs between
me and Sean, and it wasn’t something I felt the need to address.
“Sure,” I said. “Meet me at 2:00.”
“I should be able to make it by then.”
As we pulled onto the county road I called Tessa to tell her I really wasn’t comfortable with her driving over. “In this case I think we’re better off safe than sorry,” I told her. “Stay at the college or a hotel if—”
“Are you shivering?”
“I’m not used to the cold,” I said, repeating what I’d told Amber. “Use the credit card I left with you to reserve the room. If they hassle you, just have ’em call me.”
It took her a long time to reply. “Okay.”
“Talk to you soon.”
“Bye.”
After we hung up, I told Jake to keep an eye out for a store or gas station.
“For?”
“I’m gonna need to pick up a dry coat.”
19
Alexei fast-forwarded through the footage that his cameras had taken of the entrance to the Schoenberg Inn last night after he’d gone to bed, but found that no one else from Eco-Tech had arrived.
He verified that the tracking threads in the seams of the duffel bag containing the $1,000,0000 were working properly. The transmissions were untraceable, undetectable—unless you knew specifically what to look for. This tracking system was not part of his arrangement with Valkyrie, though. This was for himself, and he’d kept it quiet.
Valkyrie had given him limited intel about the project, so Alexei still wasn’t exactly sure what the significance of this target was.
But he planned to find out.
He took some time to research Eco-Tech. On their website they described themselves as “an international coalition of like-minded environmentalists with a progressive agenda to defend Mother Earth from anthropocentric shortsightedness.” Bloggers on the other end of the political spectrum called them eco-terrorists.
Which was probably a more accurate description.
After all, with millions of dollars in cash and some hard-to-obtain access codes, they were obviously not here in the northwoods to simply stage a protest or have a sit-in.
Interestingly, there were eight pending lawsuits against them for alleged hacking activities into government and corporate computer systems. Some right-wingers were labeling them “hacktivists” (hacker activists), and it seemed like there was enough evidence to make the charge stick.