I thought a moment.
“Is there any way you could scan the images and transmit them to me electronically?”
“No problem, princess. I’ll be back in Columbia by late this afternoon. I’ll do it toot sweet, and fax you a copy of the report.”
I thanked him, disconnected, and went straight to my computer. Though Cagle’s call had distracted me for a time, I was anxious to see what kind of e-mail stalker wanted to be my chat buddy.
What kind of psychopath knew my home phone number.
The flag on my inbox was straight up. A cheery voice told me I had mail.
Barely breathing, I double-clicked the icon.
Forty-three e-mails.
I scrolled downward.
And my heartbeat ratcheted up.
Twenty-four messages had been sent by someone using the screen name Grim Reaper. Each file carried an attachment. Each subject line held the same message in bold caps: BACK OFF!
I recoiled from the monitor.
Breathe in.
Out.
In.
My hand shook as I double-clicked one of the Grim Reaper subject bars.
The message window was blank. The attachment was a numbered graphics file, 1.jpg. Download time was estimated at less than a minute.
I hit “download.”
AOL asked if I knew the sender.
Good point.
I went to the member directory. No profile on Grim Reaper.
Back to the e-mail.
A moment of hesitation.
I had to know.
I clicked “yes,” told the download manager to save.
Slowly, an image unfolded down the screen. My face, a hash-marked circle superimposed.
My subconscious knew instantly as my conscious mind moved toward comprehension.
My left hand flew to my mouth.
I was viewing myself through the scope of a high-powered rifle.
For a moment I could only stare.
Seriously frightened now, I closed that e-mail and opened another.
2.jpg.
Myself, leaving a Starbucks. This time the scope was trained on my back.
3.jpg.
Myself, leaving the MCME facility, bull’s-eye on my forehead.
Morbidly fascinated, I had to see more.
8.jpg.
A picture of Ryan and me leaving the McEniry Building at UNCC.
12.jpg.
Boyd, exiting my kitchen door.
18.jpg.
Myself, entering Pike’s Soda Shop.
Breathing hard and starting to sweat, I opened another.
22.jpg.
The sweat went cold on my skin and I shivered.
Katy sat reading on what I guessed to be Lija’s front porch swing. She was wearing shorts and a tank top I’d purchased at the Gap. One bare foot was lazily pushing against the railing.
A rifle was aimed at her head.
AT THE SOUND OF THE DOOR, I FLEW TO THE KITCHEN.
Boyd was guzzling from his bowl.
Ryan was digging water from the refrigerator. I watched him straighten, uncap the bottle, throw back his head, and drink. His skin glistened. Strong, ropy muscles rippled in his arm, neck, and back.
Seeing him calmed me.
Needing a male presence to calm me annoyed me.
I shoved both feelings aside.
“Good run?” I asked, attempting a conversational tone.
Ryan turned.
One look told him all was not well.
“What’s up?”
“When you’ve showered I’d like you to look at something.” Though I tried for steady, my voice shook.
“What’s happened, babe?”
“I’d rather show you.”
Ryan set down the water, crossed to me, and took both my hands in his.
“You OK?”
“I’m OK.”
Long, probing look.
“Hold on to that thought.”
While Ryan was upstairs I viewed the rest of the e-mails. The settings varied. The theme did not. Every one was a threat.
Ryan was back in ten minutes, smelling of Irish Spring and Mennen Speed Stick. Kissing the top of my head, he took the chair beside mine.
I described the phone call, took him through the e-mails.
Ryan’s face hardened as he viewed the images. Now and then a jaw muscle bulged, relaxed.
After we’d finished, he held me close. When he spoke, his voice sounded strange, harder, somehow.
“As long as I’m drawing breath no one will ever hurt you or your daughter, Tempe. I promise you that.” His tone grew softer, his words more clipped. “I swear. For you. And for me.” He stroked my hair. “I want you in my life, Tempe Brennan.”
I did not trust myself to answer. Confusion, delight, and surprise were now tangoing with the anger and fear.
Ryan squeezed, then released me, and asked to see the images again.
Having no desire for a third run-through, I yielded my place and went to replenish Boyd’s bowl. When I returned, Ryan fixed me with fierce blue eyes.
“There was a multicar wreck here recently?”
“Last Friday night.”
“One of the injured just died?”
“No idea.” I hadn’t expected a current events quiz.
“Do you have this week’s papers?”
“In the pantry.”
“Get them.”
“Are you going to let me in on your Black Dahlia moment, or am I going to have to guess?”
I was feeling anxious. Anxious makes me churlish.
“Please get the papers.” Ryan’s voice held no trace of humor.
I dug the week’s Observers from the recycle box and returned to the study.
The wreck victim died Tuesday night at Mercy Hospital. She was headmistress at a private high school, so her death made Wednesday’s headline.
Ryan opened the 2.jpg e-mail. An Observer box sat to the right of the Starbucks door. Placing the curser on it, he zoomed in. Though fuzzy, the words were legible.
FOURTH CRASH VICTIM DIES
I was holding the same headline in my hand.
Ryan spoke first.
“Assuming the photos were scanned in order, the first two were taken Wednesday morning. That’s yesterday. We went to Starbucks yesterday.”
I felt my flesh crawl.
“Jesus Christ, Ryan.” I threw the paper on the sofa. “Some nutcase has been stalking me with his Nikon Cool Pics. Who cares exactly when the damn things were taken?”
I couldn’t stand still. I began pacing.
“Knowing when the photos started may provide a clue about motive.”
I stopped. He was right.
“Why yesterday?” he asked.
I thought back over the past few days.
“Take your pick. On Friday I told Gideon Banks his daughter had killed her baby. On Saturday I excavated bear soup. On Sunday I scraped two guys out of a Cessna.”
“Dorton was ID’ed as the plane’s owner on Monday.”
“Right,” I agreed. “Pearce was ID’ed as the pilot on Tuesday. That’s also when we tossed the Foote farm.”
“Wasn’t the Cessna’s payload also discovered that day?”
“The coke was found on Monday, reported on Tuesday.”
“Makes me think somehow Dorton’s behind this. He gives the word on Monday or Tuesday. One of his henchmen starts clicking away on Wednesday.”
“Maybe. What about this. Slidell and Rinaldi were already looking at Darryl Tyree last week for the death of the Banks baby. By Wednesday they knew that Tyree and Jason Jack Wyatt were telephone buddies.”
“The Cessna passenger.”
I nodded.
“Tyree could have sent the e-mails.”
I thought about the warning in each subject line.
“Back off from what?” I asked.
“Dogging Tyree?” Ryan threw out.
I made a face. “Slidell and Rinaldi are after Tyree. Wh
y threaten me?”
“You’re the one who examined the baby. You’re the one pressing to find Tamela and her family.”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t persuaded. How hard was I really pressing?
“Maybe it’s the privy victim,” Ryan suggested. “Maybe someone thinks you’re getting too close on that.”
“Slidell didn’t talk to Lancaster County until Wednesday. According to your reasoning, this scumbag was already following me around by then.”
“What about the feathers?”
“We didn’t learn about the Spix’s until this morning.”
Boyd joined us. Ryan reached out and scratched his ear.
“We excavated the privy on Tuesday,” he said.
“Hardly anyone knew what we were looking for or what we found.” I counted on my fingers. “Larabee, Hawkins, Slidell, Rinaldi, the CSU techs, and the backhoe operator.”
Boyd swiveled and nudged my hand. I stroked him absently.
“I should call Slidell.”
“Yes.”
Ryan stood and wrapped his arms around me. I pressed my cheek to his chest. The tension in his body was palpable.
When Ryan spoke his chin tapped the crown of my head.
“Whatever twisted mutant did this doesn’t realize the world of hurt that’s about to befall him.”
* * *
Charlotte is neighborhoods. Elizabeth. Myers Park. Dillworth. Plaza-Midwood. Most cling to the past like Boston biddies gripping the genealogy charts that identify them as Daughters of the American Revolution. Zoning is enforced. Trees are protected. Nontraditional architecture, if not banned outright by a homeowners’ ordinance, is viewed with disapproval by obdurate residents.
But that times-of-yore grip has slipped uptown, where the theme is concrete, glass, and steel. Those same Charlotteans who sip martinis on magnolia-shaded patios in the evening take pride in their city’s skyscraper core during the working day. In fact, it is the preservationists who are on the run uptown.
One circle out from the nerve center lie four wards, three of which have undergone modernization in recent decades.
Though not exactly Williamsburg, Fourth Ward is the city’s version of an historic district. The neighborhood is whimsical Victorians, tasteful brick condos and town homes, narrow streets with towering shade trees. There is even a faux colonial tavern.
In First and Third Wards there was no pretense at historic preservation. During the eighties and nineties, the old was bulldozed for the new, and run-down bungalows, shabby repair shops, and seedy diners gave way to the modern multiuse concept. Offices and homes above, specialty shops below. Condos, apartments, and lofts proliferated, all with views of man-made ponds, and names like Clarkson Green, Cedar Mills, Skyline Terrace, Tivoli.
Lija’s town house was in Third Ward’s Elm Ridge, tucked between Frazier Park and the Carolina Panthers practice fields. The complex consisted of double rows of two-story duplexes facing each other across grassy courtyards. Each unit featured a wide front porch with a swing or rockers, bird feeders and hanging ferns optional.
In the early dusk, Elm Ridge looked like a pastel rainbow. In my mind I heard the architectural planning session. Charleston yellow. Savannah peach. Birmingham buff.
Lija’s was the last unit in the eastern row of the middle pair. Miami melon with Key West holly-berry shutters.
Ryan and I climbed to the porch and I rang the bell. The doormat stated HI, I’M MAT!
As we waited my eyes were drawn to the swing, and my heart seemed to drop to my toes. My gaze darted left then right. Was the stalker out there, even now, watching us?
Sensing my apprehension, Ryan squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, forced my lips into an upward arc. I would give Katy a heads-up when I had her alone, but I would not transmit the full extent of my fear to her.
My daughter hugged me, stated approval of my look, the black linen number with a slapdash iron job. Then her eyes went to Ryan.
My date had chosen an ensemble of ecru pants, blue blazer, pale yellow shirt, and yellow and navy polka-dot tie.
And high-top sneakers. Red.
With an almost imperceptible cocking of one eyebrow, Katy smiled at Ryan and relieved him of the hors d’ouevres. Then she led us inside and introduced us to the other guests, Lija’s current boyfriend, Brandon Salamone, a woman named Willow, and a man named Cotton.
And the irresistibly handsome Palmer Cousins.
Cousins’s outfit suggested whole colonies of homeless mulberry worms. Silk tie. Silk shirt. Silk trousers and jacket with modest input from merino sheep.
Katy offered wine and beer, excused herself, returned and again offered wine and beer, then asked in a whisper that I join her in the kitchen.
A black lump lay in a broiler pan on the stovetop. The room smelled like the inside of a barbecue kettle.
Lija was working at something in the sink. She turned when we entered, threw up both hands, returned to her task.
To say she looked tense would be like saying Enron’s accountants did some rounding up.
“I think we burned the roast,” Katy said.
“We didn’t burn it,” Lija snapped. “It caught on fire. There’s a difference.”
“Can you do something with it?” Katy asked.
The roast didn’t look burned. Burned would have been an improvement. It looked incinerated.
I jabbed it with a fork. Briquettelike chunks snapped off and rolled to the pan.
“The roast is toast.”
“Great.” Lija yanked the drain plug. Water rushed down the pipes.
“What are you doing?” I asked her back.
“Thawing chicken.” She sounded close to tears.
I crossed to the sink and poked the rock she was holding.
Lija replaced the plug and turned on the tap.
At the rate she was going, her Pick-of-the-Chix would defrost in several decades.
I checked the pantry.
Spices. SpaghettiOs. Kraft dinner. Campbell’s soup. Olive oil. Balsamic vinegar. Six boxes of linguine.
“How close is the nearest store?”
“Five minutes.”
Lija turned, poultry in hand.
“Do you have garlic?” I asked.
Two nods.
“Parsley?”
Nods.
“We’ve got a primo salad in the refrigerator.” Lija smiled tremulously.
I sent Katy for canned clams and frozen garlic bread.
While my daughter raced to the market, Lija served appetizers, and I boiled water and chopped. When Katy returned, I browned garlic in the olive oil, added fresh parsley, the clams, and oregano, and let the sauce simmer while the pasta cooked.
Thirty minutes later Katy and Lija were fielding compliments on their linguine vognole.
Nothing. Really. Family recipe.
Throughout the meal Palmer Cousins seemed distracted, contributing little to the conversation. Each time I turned toward him, his eyes flicked sideways.
Was it my imagination, or was I being evaluated? As a conversationalist? A potential mother-in-law? A person?
Was I being paranoid?
When Katy urged us to the living room for coffee, I settled on the couch next to Cousins.
“How are things at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service?” Cousins and I had talked briefly about his job while at the McCranies’ picnic. Tonight I intended to probe deeper.
“Not too bad,” Cousins replied. “Hookin’ ’em and bookin’ ’em in the fight for wildlife.”
“As I recall, you told me you’re stationed in Columbia?”
“Good memory.” Cousins pointed a finger at me.
“Is it a large operation?”
“I’m pretty much it.” Self-deprecating smile.
“Does the FWS have many field offices in the Carolinas?”
“Washington, Raleigh, and Asheville in North Carolina, Columbia and Charleston in South Carolina. The RAC in Raleigh oversees everything.”
“Resid
ent agent in charge?”
Cousins nodded.
“Raleigh is the only operation that isn’t one-man.” Boyish grin. “Or one-woman. The forensics lab is also up there.”
“Didn’t know we had one.”
“The Rollins Diagnostic Laboratory. It’s associated with the Department of Agriculture.”
“Isn’t there a national fish and wildlife lab?”
“Clark Bavin, out in Ashland, Oregon. It’s the only forensics lab on the planet dedicated exclusively to wildlife. They do cases from all over the world.”
“How many agents does the FWS have?”
“At full staff, two hundred and forty, but with cutbacks the number’s down to a couple hundred and dropping.”
“How long have you been an agent?”
Ryan was stacking dishes at the table behind us. I could tell he was listening.
“Six years. Spent the first couple in Tennessee following my training.”
“Do you prefer Columbia?”
“It’s closer to Charlotte.” Cousins gave my daughter a little finger wave.
“Would you mind talking shop a minute?”
The perfect eyebrows rose ever so slightly.
“Not at all.”
“I’m aware illegal wildlife is big business. How big?”
“I’ve read estimates of ten to twenty billion dollars a year. That’s third only to the illegal trade in drugs and arms.”
I was stunned.
Ryan settled into a chair on the far side of the steamer-trunk coffee table.
“Is there much black market trade in exotic birds?” I asked.
“I suppose. If something is rare, people will buy it.” Despite the practiced nonchalance, Cousins looked uncomfortable. “But as far as I’m concerned, the biggest problem right now is overexploitation.”
“Of?”
“Sea turtles are a good example. U.S. turtles are sold by the tons overseas. The other big problem comes from the bush-meat market.”
“Bush meat?”
“Giant cane rats and duikers from Africa. Lizards-on-a-stick from Asia. Those are reptiles that are slit along the belly and spread like big lollipops. Smoked pygmy lorises, roasted pangolin scales.”
Cousins must have interpreted the revulsion on my face as confusion.
“The pangolin is also called the scaly anteater. The scales are sold as a cure for syphilis.”
“People import these things for medicinal use?” Ryan asked.
“Could be anything. Take the turtles. Sea turtle shells are used for jewelry, the meat and eggs go to restaurants and bakeries, whole carapaces are used as wall mounts.”