Love Kills (19 page)

We studied the instant photos of Nancy Lee Holt and her new husband.

Nancy, somewhat older than the others, wasn't at all what I expected. But none of Holt's brides were clones.

Nancy's mouth, her smile, her teeth, were all big and very white, perfect for television. She had the hungry look of a woman focused on food, its origins, its character, how to stalk, prepare—and devour it. She appeared to have never missed a meal. She was solidly built and buxom, with ample hips ideal for childbearing, should she live that long.

Unlike the serial killers who stalk look-alike victims to fulfill dark fantasies, each victim Holt selected was different. What mattered most to him was not that they all had pierced ears and long brown hair worn straight and parted in the middle, but that each was ambitious, successful—and insurable. His were not the usual obsessive sexual fantasies. Marsh Holt was all about greed and ego.

What he did share in common with other serial killers was that he depersonalized his victims. Holt saw them as worthless objects who deserved the fate he meted out to them.

My meat-loaf special arrived, and I shoved the pictures aside.

Lacey sipped his coffee, red-eyed and exhausted. “What do we do now?” he asked, as I dug into my mashed potatoes.

“Find a place to sleep,” I said, buttering a roll. “Preferably a single room with twin beds. We have to go easy on travel expenses.”

He nodded and yawned. “What then?”

“We buy warm jackets and socks, I guess.”

“What is the temperature in Fairbanks this time of year?”

“I don't know,” I said, as I poured more gravy, “but we're about to find out.”

Eventually, I reached an FBI agent after calling repeatedly during the night. We did the dance. I pushed, he stayed skeptical. I persuaded, he sounded preoccupied. I cajoled, he remained aloof. I dropped the names of several agents I knew in Miami.

“Please, give one of them a call. Ask about me, my reputation, my credibility. A woman is in mortal danger. Her new bridegroom is a serial killer. I am so sure of it that I'm flying to Fairbanks to warn her. He takes these women across state lines and kills them, each one in a different jurisdiction. Surely this is an FBI case.”

He called back midmorning to say that an agent would be available to meet with me in Fairbanks the following day.

Hallelujah! I thought. Progress at last. With the FBI involved, the local police would surely cooperate.

I resisted my initial urge to share the good news with Fred. I was already in trouble. I felt like a fugitive on the lam. I hadn't stayed in touch as promised. I'd ignored his calls and e-mails. I had to; otherwise I'd have to explain where I was and where I was going. The man was my boss; he could say no. The
News
was funding all this. Being denied permission would leave me in an untenable position. Instead, I had to duck, run, do what I had to do, and face the music later. This was a great story. Do it right, I told myself, and you'll still have a job.

Unlike me, Lacey dutifully answered his cell phone; his boss was in a state of high anxiety. The annual meeting with major clients, an account for which Lacey was responsible, was thirty-six hours away. Because of me, Lacey had neither completed his presentation nor briefed colleagues who might save the day in his absence. Big deal, big bucks, big crisis. Crunch time; his job was at stake.

“Look,” he said. “I'll fly home today, work like hell on the plane, get it over with, then hop the next flight back up to meet you. I'm sorry, Britt, I don't know how else to handle it. I can't afford to be out of work right now.”

“No sweat,” I said. “You don't need to come to Alaska. While the FBI and the local cops protect Nancy, I'll get everything I'm looking for, wrap up my reporting, and go back to Miami.”

I tousled his hair and hugged him goodbye at the airport. Though I'm not quite a decade older, I felt almost maternal toward him.

“I'm letting you down,” he murmured, his gray eyes misty.

“Not. Are you joking? You've gone way above and beyond. I couldn't be more grateful, couldn't have come this far without you. I'll keep you posted on everything.”

That sad beautiful boy turned to stride down the secured concourse and then hesitated and looked back, as though changing his mind.

I waved him on. “Go! Go!”

He smiled and went.

The
Pioneer Press
weather page listed the nighttime low in Fairbanks as 45 degrees. Typographical error, I was sure. After all, this was almost summer. Nonetheless, my memory bank began to spit out depressing flashbacks of journalism school. The subject excited and stimulated me. But the school was in Chicago, home of pallid skies, frigid winds, and ice-slick sidewalks. I had been miserably cold, depressed, and homesick for Miami.

My new summery maternity attire and pink flip-flops were all I had with me. So I bought a fuzzy sweater, warm socks, a jacket, big ugly boots, and a flannel nightgown I would never wear in Miami.

I used the
News
credit card, ate a good dinner, went to bed early, then took off for Alaska alone, first thing in the morning.

The flight took eight hours, with a refueling stop in Seattle. For Pete's sake, I thought impatiently, people can fly to Europe in eight hours.

The surrounding skies looked vacant, air traffic sparse. Fellow passengers cheerfully assured me that our late arrival was not unusual; the airline holds the nation's worst record for on-time arrivals.

When we disembarked in Fairbanks, the air was cool and crisp, chilly actually. My sinuses ached.

I left a message for FBI Agent Kyle Goddard, saying I'd arrived. We were to meet at police headquarters in an hour. I stowed my luggage in an airport locker and took only my laptop.

The taxi, an older-model pickup truck, dropped me off at police headquarters, a simple cinder-block and concrete building.

The secretary said the chief expected me, and it would be just a few minutes. I worked on my laptop as the wait stretched into an hour. Finally I was ushered into his office.

The chief sat alone, at his desk.

“Agent Goddard hasn't arrived?” I blurted, stating the obvious.

The chief was apologetic. Agent Goddard, he said, would not be joining us.

“But I was told last night that he'd be here. We had an appointment.”

“He was called away on a priority matter,” the chief said.

“Are you sure?” Frustrated and furious, I felt betrayed by the feds.

“A matter of national security.” The chief looked serious.

“Here? What sort of matter—has something happened?” For a news junkie, I was totally out of the loop. Hadn't even heard a radio news report. For all I knew, North Korea had launched a missile or the Russians had crossed the Bering Strait.

“Off the record?” His dark eyes darted around the room, as though secret spy microphones might eavesdrop. “Terrorism.”

Was this small-town police chief pulling a snow job? “I wasn't aware that Fairbanks, Alaska, might be a terrorist target.”

“Then you're uninformed,” the chief said. “The FBI's top terror suspects are known to be active in this area.”

“Al-Qaeda?” What on earth was he talking about? My back ached from sitting so long on the uncomfortable wooden chair in his chilly outer office.

“Domestic terrorism.” He peered sternly at me over his spectacles. “The ELF and the ALF are top priority.”

“Ecoterrorists, who protest for animal rights and the environment?”

He nodded gravely.

“As far as I know, they've never killed or injured anyone.” I felt peevish, uncomfortable, and irritated. “Aren't they more like vandals with a cause?” I shifted uneasily in my chair as the baby practiced logrolling on my internal organs. “Nancy Lee Chastain Holt, the woman whose safety is in question, has no protestors to protect her. And she's in a helluva lot more imminent danger than a herd of caribou. FBI priorities seem a bit askew.”

He took exception. “Ecoterrorists have become increasingly dangerous,” he said, with solemn gravity. “They recruit young people, encourage violence, teach them bomb building and how to torch buildings. Property damage from their arson alone amounts to tens of millions of dollars annually—”

Whoa, I thought. We'd veered way off track. If the FBI was MIA, this man could be my only ally.

“I had no idea,” I said, feigning interest. “Amazing. We haven't experienced much environmental terrorism back in South Florida.”

Because developers rule and there's little left to protect, I thought.

Crossing my legs demurely at the ankles, I listened intently and soon learned more than I'd ever wanted to know about the topic. Eventually the chief paused for breath and I seized the moment to gracefully steer our conversation back to Marsh Holt and his endangered bride.

Too late. The damage was done.

“I'm surprised that your newspaper let you travel all this distance alone.” His eyes dropped to my round belly.

“My editors believe in woman power,” I lied cheerfully.

A patrol car would stop by to check on Mrs. Holt's welfare. That was the most he would agree to do.

Where was the stoic patience I can usually muster when dealing with incompetent bureaucrats and their inflated egos? I wanted to scream and shout epithets, pound his desk with my fists, and indulge in a hot fudge sundae, maybe two. Instead, I politely asked to accompany the patrolmen in order to quell my fears about the bride's safety and, if possible, ask Holt a few questions, so I could wrap up my reporting and go home.

The chief considered this for a moment and then agreed, with a word of warning. “No one can or will force this man to speak to you,” he said. “Nobody has to talk to a reporter. These people are on their honeymoon; it would certainly seem more appropriate to approach them at a later date.”

“That's my point, Chief. Later may be too late for her. Dead is forever.”

I sat alone, like a prisoner, in the backseat of the patrol car. The officers, both young and husky, one short, the other tall, discussed the possibility of snow. There had been flurries two weeks earlier.

“Miami?” one asked, turning earnestly to me. “How can you live down there?”

I laughed. “I was wondering how you can live up here.”

“We hear Miami's not part of the USA anymore,” the driver said.

“Funny,” I said good-naturedly. “Most Miamians are probably unaware that Alaska is part of the USA. Seriously.”

“Miami's 'bout as far south as you can go,” the driver commented, turning uphill, off the main road and onto a narrow, unpaved, tree-lined dirt road.

“Hell, no,” his partner said. “Southern Cal is further south.”

“No, it isn't,” I chimed in. “North Florida is further south than southern California.”

“Say again?”

“It's true. Tallahassee, our state capital in North Florida, is south of Tijuana.”

“No way,” the second cop said.

“Check it out.”

The Holts' rustic cabin hideaway brought Abraham Lincoln to mind. But this was larger than Honest Abe's boyhood home, with horizontal logs on the outside and a corrugated metal roof. No other structure was in sight, only snow-capped mountains in the distance, virgin forests, and rushing streams. Fir, spruce, and oak trees towered beneath a chilly but breathtaking azure sky. Bright yellow dandelions sprouted everywhere, along with a native plant as red as flame. The cops called it fireweed. In the past, when I thought of Alaska, which wasn't often, I had pictured Eskimos and sled dogs. Instead, a shiny black Range Rover, probably rented, stood out front.

We crunched to a stop in the gravel driveway. One of the cops opened the car door for me and I followed them up the front steps. The taller of the two rapped on the rough-hewn front door. No answer.

“Nobody home,” the other said, turning as if to go.

The first cop knocked again. “Give 'em a minute. They're on their honeymoon, remember?” He snickered. “Give 'em a chance to climb outa the rack.”

He rapped a third time. No sound inside.

My heart felt as cold as my feet. Were we too late? I'd risked my job, tried so hard. Bad news would be a bitter pill to swallow.

The high-pitched bray of a woman's laughter resounded from a wooded path behind the cabin.

We all turned as the newlyweds emerged from the brush hand in hand, faces pink from exertion. They wore handsome hiking boots and matching ski sweaters. Her giggle was a rich deep-throated gurgle that sounded almost theatrical.

Her television-personality laugh? I wondered.

They looked startled at the police car out front and us on the porch and approached, no longer laughing. “Is there a problem, Officers?” Holt asked.

He and I made eye contact. The slick, sick son of a bitch never flinched. He was good, really good. He held the arm of his sturdy-looking bride protectively, as though she were a precious and fragile creature.

“There wasn't a fire?” she cried, melodramatically clutching her heart.

“No, ma'am, there wasn't.”

Her ample bosom heaved in an exaggerated sigh of relief. “When I saw you I thought for sure I'd left the stove on,” she babbled. “Sometimes when you're happy”—she coyly batted her eyelashes up at her new husband—“you grow careless about the mundane little everyday…” She had focused on me, eyes becoming frosty as she gave me the once-over.

“Is that her?” She turned to her husband.

He nodded, sadly. “Hello, Britt,” he said, resignation in his voice.

I ignored him and spoke to her. “I'm so glad you're all right.” I stepped forward. “I hope I can call you Nancy. My name is Britt—”

“I know who you are.” Her cold eyes narrowed.

What has he told her? I wondered.

“This young lady's concerned about your welfare,” the tall police officer said. “She's afraid you might have a problem.”

She turned to her husband, her look a question. He smiled reassuringly, and in a microsecond she returned his smile. They locked arms in mutual support as she turned earnestly to the officers.

“We just saw a moose, only five minutes from our front door,” she said, after a pause. “We've seen deer, a bobcat, and foxes. Yesterday we watched pink salmon spawn. The female releases her eggs, the male fertilizes them, and they both die within two weeks. Did you know that?”

“Yes, ma'am,” one of the officers said uncomfortably, as we all stood on the creaky front porch.