Paradox by Catherine Coulter
Ty said, “Drink another,” handing him a full bottle. “You’re still dehydrated. Don’t drink too much, just a bit more. Yes, that’s good. Now let me see how bad it is.” Ty came down on her knees beside him, examined his head wound. “Bleeding’s stopped, but you’ll need some stitches. In the meantime, let me clean it out and put a couple of butterfly bandages over it to keep the wound together. Your wrists are raw. I’ve got some antibiotic cream and some gauze. Then we’ll get you to Dr. Staunton. She’ll take care of you. Are you ready to tell us what happened?”
Sala Porto held up his hand, and looked over at Savich, who’d carried him firefighter style over his shoulder down the two flights of stairs, since Sala’s legs were numb. Sala rubbed his legs, feeling the pins and needles and the cramps. He said simply, “I owe you my life. Thanks for searching me out. How did you know I was up there? Did you see me in one of your visions?”
Charlie came to attention. “Visions? What do you mean, Agent Porto?”
Savich said easily, “Agent Porto is joking. I was checking the upstairs, went to the third floor, and found a locked door. I heard something, broke in, and found Agent Porto tied up and stuffed in a closet.” He thought about the series of unlikely events that had led him to Sala. It had been too close. He said a silent prayer of gratitude and squeezed Sala’s shoulder. “You hung in there, that’s what was important.”
Sala was so grateful to be alive, so relieved Savich had found him, that for a moment, he couldn’t find any words. Then he said, his voice thick, “The truth is I didn’t think I was going to make it. When I woke up in the closet and got my brain working again, I thought he’d come back and kill me after he murdered Octavia, but he didn’t. I don’t know why.” Sala didn’t tell them how close he’d been to giving up, accepting he’d die of thirst in that closet. He’d tried to make peace with himself, prayed his parents and his brothers and sisters would be all right without him. He didn’t tell them he’d have rather had a bullet in his mouth, over and done with instantly, than have to face his own death like that, knowing it would take days upon days of knowing, of waiting, of trying to come to terms with it. He said, “Chief, he hated Octavia. He killed her, didn’t he? How?”
12
* * *
It was difficult, but Ty kept her voice matter-of-fact. “He took her out in a rowboat, struck her head with an oar, and threw her body in the lake. We found her this morning, identified her.”
Sala looked down at his wrists, raw and bleeding because he’d tried hour after hour to loosen the ropes. But there’d been no give at all. At least he now had feeling back in his feet and legs. He realized it felt odd to be alive and know he’d be all right. But Octavia wouldn’t be all right, the bastard had killed her. He swallowed. “He was after Octavia. I was only an extra on the set. He told me I was in the wrong place, wrong time, and he laughed and said ‘Sorry, Agent, but c’est la vie.’ ” He looked at Ty. “How do you know exactly what he did to Octavia? It was so early, barely dawn when he took her.”
Ty said, “Against all odds, I was the one who saw him kill her. I live directly across the lake and I was standing at the railing of my back deck, admiring the beautiful dawn over the lake, like I do nearly every morning, and I saw him strike her with an oar. If I hadn’t happened to be on my deck at that particular moment, neither of you would have been found for a long time. Agent Porto, if you feel up to it, tell us what happened. Can you identify this man, at least give us a good description of him?”
“I never saw his face. I’d know his voice anywhere, though, some Southern in it. He screamed at Octavia that she’d told lies about him, that it was time for her to pay. He screamed it over and over, cursing her.” Sala felt pain spike through his head, thought he probably had a concussion and closed his eyes a moment. No one said a word. When he opened his eyes, he managed a crooked smile. “Some FBI agent I am. Let me try to be coherent and tell you what happened from the beginning.” He knew it would be easier said than done. He let his rage come to his rescue, let it focus him on the here and now. The pain, the guilt, the grief over Octavia could come later. “I’ve got to speak to Octavia’s parents.”
Flynn said, “I’ll handle that. What’s important now is getting a handle on this man who killed her. Start at the beginning.”
Sala nodded, took a sip out of the bottle of water Ty handed him. “Yes, all right. Octavia made all the arrangements for our week’s stay here at her aunt’s cabin near Lake Massey. She asked me to join her and both of us could de-stress, she said. I’d just finished up a difficult case, and she was deeply involved in a federal money-laundering case coming up. She wanted us to be alone, even cook our own meals, swim in the lake, lie around, and drink margaritas. And that’s what we did, except the rowboat, I guess. I rented it from a guy named Bick, told him I’d return his boat early yesterday morning, no later than six a.m. Octavia had to get back to Washington for a deposition. When I was in the closet, I was hoping Bick would come looking for it, realize something was wrong, but that didn’t happen.
“The killer got into the cabin when it was still dark, maybe half an hour before dawn. I jerked awake at the sound of a board creaking, and my hand went automatically to my Glock on the bedside table.
“A man’s low voice said, ‘Don’t, Agent Porto. Touch that gun and you’re going to die sooner than you have to,’ and he laughed.
“I still made a grab for my Glock. He screamed at me, ‘Put that gun down or the bitch is dead,’ and I saw he had the tip of a knife not an inch above Octavia’s neck. It was barely light enough in the cabin for me to see he was wearing a stocking mask over his face. Octavia moaned and woke up, tried to jerk away. He grabbed her, and I jumped out of bed, my Glock in my hand, when he yelled again, ‘Didn’t you hear me, moron? Drop the Glock, Mr. Agent, or the bitch dies.’
“He pressed the knife into her neck, pinning her to the bed. I could see blood running down her neck. I dropped my Glock.
“ ‘Get back in bed. That’s good. Don’t move.’
“Octavia made a slight mewling noise, and he looked down at her. ‘You’re finally awake, are you? Time to party, you lying bitch. Put your hands on top of the covers, Agent, or I’ll do her right here and now!’
“I put my hands on the outside of the covers, waited, assessed. Octavia asked him what he thought she’d done to him. She pleaded with him to tell her who he was, but again, he only laughed. She kept trying to talk to him, telling him she could make things right.
“All he ever said was ‘No, bitch. I’ll tell you everything, but not yet.’
“He laughed again and pushed the knife in deeper, told her to shut up until Octavia stopped making a sound. He grabbed my Glock and told us to put our clothes on.
“I knew it was crunch time. I leaped at him, but I wasn’t fast enough. He hit me on the head with the butt of my own gun, and I was gone.
“When I woke up, I was alone, my arms tied tight behind my back with rope, my ankles duct-taped together, a gag in my mouth. I realized I was in a small closet and I couldn’t move.” His voice hitched, then smoothed. “I’d about given up when I heard your voice, Savich.
“I’ve played it over and over in my mind.” He looked at each of them. “I want to break him apart. I want to kill this guy.”
Ty opened her mouth to spout some line about the courts seeing to justice but realized it would only sound hollow, even ridiculous. In his shoes, she’d want to kill the man, too.
Sala said, “As I told you, I finally decided he was going to leave me there to rot in that closet.” He took another sip of water. “I have no idea why he didn’t kill me at the cabin. Maybe he was coming back to haul me out to the rowboat, like he did Octavia.”
Savich said, “He sank the rowboat after he came back from murdering Octavia, so it’s obvious he wasn’t planning on taking you out in it.”
“How do you know that?” Flynn asked him.
Because I saw him do it. “It makes sense, don’t you
Sala said, “Sitting there in the dark, trussed up like Houdini, I had a lot of time to think. A lot of time to listen. I swear to you I heard laughter, not anywhere close to me, but it was clear and distinct. And I know I heard voices. One of them was the guy who killed Octavia.”
“And the other voice? Did you recognize it?”
Sala shook his head. “No. But I do know one thing for certain. I did hear a girl laughing. Not a woman, a girl, crazy laughing, and it went on forever.”
13
* * *
Ty rose when the FBI forensic crime team pulled up in a large white van. She said, “Flynn, if you’d introduce me, we can get them started. Dillon, I’m sure you have a lot to talk about with Agent Porto.”
Savich and Sala watched her stride toward the van with Flynn. Savich knew he would keep close tabs on the operation without putting the chief’s nose out of joint. He was good working with locals and keeping the peace, which, Savich supposed, was why Maitland had sent him. Savich laid his hand on Sala’s arm. “I’m very glad you’re alive, Sala. Trust me on this, we’ll find him.”
Sala was rubbing his hands together, the pins-and-needles feeling nearly gone. “It was close, Savich, closer than I’ve ever been to getting my plug pulled. But Octavia, I couldn’t protect her. I know he told her who he was before he killed her, probably jerked off that stocking mask and laughed at her. I forgot to ask the chief if she saw him pull it off on the lake.”
Savich could tell him the man hadn’t been wearing a mask when he’d rowed back to the dock, but he didn’t. He looked to the group who now stood on the dock, gazing down into the lake. He could hear the chief’s voice explaining what they would need. Sala looked out over Lake Massey and said in a low voice, “Octavia and I drank too much wine Thursday night, her favorite, Leaping Frog chardonnay.” He stopped, shook his head. “I remember her laughing her head off at something a kid said at the gas station outside Willicott Thursday afternoon. It was her last day.
“Sure, she asked me here so we could both relax and forget about work, but she had another reason, too. Her ex-husband, Bill Culver, was putting on a full-court press for her to come back to him. We talked about the situation between them, but she hadn’t made up her mind what she was going to do. She was still wavering. She said she hadn’t believed people ever changed, but now it looked like he had, or at least he was trying. He’d told her he loved her, but she wasn’t sure if she still loved him.” Sala swallowed, turned to Savich, tears pooling in his eyes. “And now she’s gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Just—gone.”
Sala looked down at the bandages from Ty’s first-aid kit wrapped around his raw wrists. “If it hadn’t been for you and the chief, we both would have simply disappeared. No one would ever know what happened to us. Sure, the FBI would have tracked us here, found the cabin, but after that, no one would have known where to look.
“I wonder why he ever bothered with the stocking mask if he was going to kill both of us.”
“No matter his bravado, coming alone, he couldn’t be sure how it would go with you there, Sala, an FBI agent. He used the mask in case he had to run.”
Sala stared at Savich, and then he grinned. “That’s excellent B.S. Maybe it’s even true. Sorry, Savich, I’m not very proud of what I am or what I did, right now.”
“Then help us find him. We can start with the criminals Octavia was assigned to prosecute and the criminals she defended before that. It had to be one of them. This was payback.”
“Most of the scumbags she defended ought to be offering to buy her Christmas presents for the rest of her life, not trying to kill her.”
Savich nodded. He thought about the girl Sala had heard laughing. “He was with someone, Sala, the girl you heard laughing. Maybe she helped him get you over here, get you up the stairs. You don’t remember anything until you woke up in the closet?”
“No. I suppose I could have been going in and out for a while, but I don’t remember.”
“You need to tell us where you and Octavia stayed. We’ll get the forensic team over there next.”
“It’s a small clapboard cabin Octavia’s aunt owns out past the rental cottages, right on Shoreline Way. Number 357, I think.”
“What car did you use?”
“We came up together in Octavia’s Volvo. It was parked at the cabin last time I saw it.”
He and Sala were silent a moment, looking out over the placid lake, a warm summer breeze against their faces. Savich saw Hanger’s pontoon boat out in the water, its big nets dragging for more bones.
Sala looked back at Savich, his eyes bleak and filled with pain. “You remember my wife, Joy? She died so needlessly, too, in that helicopter accident.”
“Yes, I remember,” Savich said.
“And now Octavia’s dead. I couldn’t save either of them.” Sala gave an ugly laugh. “I guess I don’t rank very high on the good prospect list. A woman would have to be seriously desperate to hook up with me.”
Savich wanted to tell him what he’d said was ridiculous, but there was never much sense in raw emotion, it spewed out without reason or logic. Sala hadn’t been able to save either his wife or Octavia, and he blamed himself. Savich said, “That kind of thinking is a waste of time, Sala. Time for you to focus, to put the blame where it belongs, and use that fine brain of yours to help me find her killer.”
They sat in silence, side by side on the top step, watching chief forensic tech Tommy Raider—tall, skinny as a parking meter, a cloud of black curls on his head—direct his team winching the Green Gaiter out of the water and settling it onto the wooden dock. They took their time going over the boat. At last the group walked back to Savich and Sala.
“Nothing to help us,” Tommy said, waving back at the Green Gaiter, now lying on its side on the dock. “Not that we expected to find anything, what with the boat being in the water so long. What is with that green color?” He called to his team. “Pete, Rand, Gwen—we’re going to head upstairs to that bedroom where Savich found you, Sala, see what we can find. After we’re done processing this humongous place, Savich, you can take us to the cabin were Sala was staying.” Tommy gave Savich and Sala a salute, said, “Upstairs to the third floor first, bambinos, bambina!”
Tommy leaned close to Sala as he passed him, lightly touched his hand to his shoulder. “If there’s anything useful in there, we’ll find it.” He studied Sala’s still face, gave his shoulder a squeeze, then turned. “Savich, you wanna show us which bedroom closet?”
Savich started to rise, but Sala grabbed his arm.
“No, I’m okay. Let me show him. I heard you speaking to Sherlock on your cell. It sounds like you need to get back to her. Oh, and Savich, whoever this guy is, you know he’s got to be bat-crap crazy.” Sala rose slowly, testing out his feet and legs. No more pins and needles, no more cramping. He frowned a moment. “I know I’ll never forget that girl’s laughter. I bet she’s as crazy as he is.”
Savich remembered the man he’d seen waving to where he stood in the upstairs window. Had that girl been standing at that window?
Tommy said over his shoulder, “Don’t worry about Sala. Gwen has some medic training. She’ll keep an eye on him. Sala, when we’re done here, the chief’s deputy, Charlie, said he’ll take you to the local doc and get you checked out, get your scalp stitched up.”
Ty walked away to answer her cell. She turned back after she’d punched off. “That was Hanger, calling from the lake. He and his sons have already found more bones from at least six people, he estimates. He’s going to take all the bones to Dr. Staunton to give to the FBI.” She paused, drew a deep breath, looked from Flynn to Savich. “I don’t see any other explanation. It has to be a serial killer using Lake Massey to disappear his victims.”
Savich saw panic in her eyes before she quashed it. He said easily, “It seems the likeliest scenario, but, Chief, one step at a time.”
Ty looked back out over the lake. “A serial killer. It’s tough to thi
Flynn said, “Savich, I know you and Sherlock are up to your earlobes in alligators, so we’ll drop you off.”
Ty came to attention. “What alligators?”
Savich said, “We had a home invasion three nights ago, and we still haven’t caught the guy.” Because Sherlock hadn’t been sure of it, he didn’t tell them the man might be in Willicott.
14
* * *
TY'S COTTAGE
WILLICOTT, MARYLAND
SATURDAY NIGHT
Ty clicked her beer against Sala’s. “Here’s to a fricking toilet paper rod.”
“May Charmin rule the world,” Sala said, and they drank. “You know what’s amazing?”
“As a matter of fact, I think I do. Everything was spotless, but he missed a fricking empty roll of toilet paper that probably has his fingerprints on the roller bar, and like that”—Ty snapped her fingers—“he’s busted.”
“You nailed that one.”
“A huge hunk of luck for the good guys.” She toasted him again, and they drank.
Sala said, “If the killer was one of Octavia’s clients, he’ll be in CODIS. He’d have been arrested, fingerprinted, probably gotten jail time.”
They were sitting together on Ty’s back deck facing Lake Massey, each holding a Coors, looking at the lake glistening beneath a half moon and a dazzling display of stars casting diamonds on the still, dark water. House lights across the lake began to wink out as tourists and book festival fans hung it up for the night. Every time a light went out, the starlight display over the lake became more brilliant.
Sala looked over at the chief. “Imagine you’re camping out in an abandoned house. It’s time to hit the road, so you’re careful cleaning up after yourself. You don’t want to leave anything for anyone to find, even though you doubt anyone will come looking through the house for years. You and your girlfriend—yes, I think that mad laugh had to be the killer’s girlfriend—both of you pick up every single hair, wipe down every surface, scrub the bathroom. You’re thorough. When you drive away, you’re pleased with yourselves for a job well done, your plan perfectly executed. No one will ever find Octavia Ryan. Her body will be eaten by the fish, and her bones will lie on the bottom of the lake forever. As for Porto—” He swallowed, couldn’t help it. “He’ll die of thirst, tied up in a closet.” He felt her hand lightly touch his arm, for comfort, for reassurance that he was alive and here with her, that it was over. He drew a deep breath and leaned back in the wooden deck chair, closed his eyes. He’d survived because of Savich.