Cray has the intellect, the talent to plan a crime and execute it without leaving clues. Justin has the practical experience at killing. Each completes the other.
And so they hunt. Twelve years ago…
In his investigation of the White Mountains case. Shepherd had compiled a list of possible abductees and other missing persons throughout southeastern Arizona over the past fifteen years. There had been no fewer than four disappearances in the early spring of 1987, the proper time frame.
It was unlikely that Cray and Justin were responsible for all four cases. But perhaps for one. Just one.
And if Kaylie had found out? If she had learned that her husband had killed a woman, skinned her face as a trophy?
If she tried to go to the police, and Justin attacked her, and she shot him, then went into shock afterward, mute, helpless, entrusted to a doctor’s care…?
Cray’s care.
Only a scenario, a sketch of what might have happened. All of it could be wrong. But if it was true, then an unforgivable injustice had been done to Kaylie McMillan.
And Shepherd, though unwitting, had played his own role in that injustice, and bore his own measure of guilt.
Cray’s house appeared in the headlights. Shepherd braked the sedan and got out. At the front door he leaned his fist on the buzzer.
“The doc’s not in.”
Shepherd turned, saw a guard in khaki approaching from the shadowy foliage near the gate.
“Hey,” the guard added, “I know you. You’re the cop from Tucson.”
“Right.”
“I saw you here the night you collared her. My name’s Collins. I always wanted to be a cop.”
“Roy Shepherd.”
“Yeah, I know. That was nice work, what you did.”
We’ll see how nice it was, Shepherd thought grimly.
“Any idea where Dr. Cray might be?” he asked Collins.
“Oh, probably out helping to look for McMillan.” The guard shrugged. “I get stuck playing sentry at a goddamned driveway. Waste of time. She won’t come here.”
“No?”
“She’ll try to go over the fence, like she did last time. But she won’t make it. Security’s tighter than it was way back when. At least that’s what the older guys tell me.”
Shepherd figured that he himself would qualify as an older guy in Collins’ estimation. The guard must be all of twenty-two. “So you’ve been standing post for the last few minutes?”
“Yeah. No action. Maybe you can find Cray out in the yard. I can radio the boss and ask him about it.”
Shepherd didn’t want to give Cray any warning. “That’s not necessary.” He turned back toward his car.
“It’s no problem,” Collins said, eager to help. “I was going to do it anyway. I think Dr. Cray forgot something of his, which he might want.”
Shepherd looked at him. “What did he forget?”
“His black bag. His medical kit, you know. He left it on the sofa. He’ll need it if he has to subdue McMillan with a sedative.”
“You were inside the house?”
“No, saw it through the window. Shouldn’t have been peeking in, but…”
“Which window?”
“Living room. Right there.”
Shepherd stepped to the bay window near the front door and looked in.
The sofa lay adjacent to the window, the black bag clearly visible. It had been left open, the drawstring clasp untied.
He had seen Cray’s medical kit on the night of Kaylie’s arrest. This wasn’t it. This was…
A bag. Kaylie’s voice on tape came back to him. A satchel. It’s got all his stuff, the stuff he uses to break into places and kidnap women.
Shepherd’s heart quickened. “You have a key to this house?”
“Dr. Cray’s residence? No way. Nobody ever goes in there.”
“Until now,” Shepherd said, and with a thrust of his elbow he punched through a three-foot pane of the bay window, then swept the glass shards clear of the frame with his jacket sleeve.
“Hey, Roy — I mean, Detective — I mean…” Panic jumped in the guard’s voice. “I mean, what the hell are you fucking doing?”
“I’m taking a look at what’s inside that bag.”
Shepherd climbed through the window, onto the couch, then grabbed the satchel and dumped its contents on a teakwood coffee table.
Duct tape, glass cutter, suction cup, locksmith tools, Glock pistol with a spare magazine…
It was true, then — what Kaylie had said. All true.
“Roy.” Collins, at the window. “I gotta radio my boss about this. I’ll lose my damn job—”
“I thought you didn’t like this job. I thought you wanted to be a cop.”
“Well… yeah.”
“Then get in here. I need you to find a phone and make a call.” Shepherd found Chuck Wheelihan’s name in his address book and read off the undersheriff’s home phone number. “Say I need some backup fast. All the patrol units they’ve got. But no lights and siren. They come in quietly. Okay?”
“Shit, Detective, what is going on?”