Trail of Echoes (26 page)

No answer.

Gwen's face darkened. “I'll try her cell.”

No answer.

Gwen shook her head. “I'll try Vaughn.”

“No. Let's just head over to the apartment,” I said, already moving to my car. “Oh.” I stopped in my step.

Krishna was still looking for any traces of the monster on my Crown Vic.

A moment later, I was riding shotgun in my boss's unmarked Taurus. The cabin smelled of cigarettes and spicy cologne. School pictures of his twin girls, Annabelle and Maribel, lived in the visor.

“This day's been absolutely bat-shit bizarre,” Colin said from the backseat.

Lieutenant Rodriguez swerved between cars with his sirens screaming as we told him about the funeral, Jimmy Boulard, and the second line.

My radio chimed with an e-mail. From Olympus333. The prior e-mail had come from Olympus111—he'd already switched addresses.

I read the message, and all feeling left my face. “Pull over,” I said, my voice flat.

Lieutenant Rodriguez started to ask why, but my complexion must've said it all. He screeched into a grocery store parking lot.

Gwen's car swerved to stop beside us.

“He just sent another message,” I said.

Could Jimmy Boulard or even Payton Bishop had sent this so quickly?

eman yb reh wonk lliw uoY

?snaem taht tahw wonk uoy oD .reverof esum lufituaeb ym eb lliw ehs,setunim net ni ereh ton era uoy fI .kraP rennoB ta myg elgnuj eht ta gnitiaw eb lliw eW .ah ah aH .emit dedeen I dnA .dnuora yalp ot detnaw tsuj I .ereht ton si ehS .elgnuJ eht ot evird ton oD .esiuolE raeD

Gwen and Pepe crowded my window. “What's wrong?” she shouted.

“What's it say?” Colin asked.

My eyes skipped around the paragraph.

“We need to—”

“Why are we—?”

My rapid breathing and all the talking kept me from focusing.

“Shut up,” Lieutenant Rodriguez shouted. “Everybody just…”

I closed my eyes, waited until my pulse slowed, then took a deep breath. “Pen ready?”

Colin said, “Yeah. Go.”

I skipped to the last word: raeD. “It's backwards again.”

Dear Elouise. Do not drive to the Jungle. She is not there. I just wanted to play around. And I needed time. Ha ha ha. We will be waiting at the jungle gym at Bonner Park. If you are not here in ten minutes, she will be my beautiful muse forever. Do you know what that means?

You will know her by name.

 

36

Don't let this be Allayna Mitchell. Don't let it be anyone. Let this be a hoax. Just a big joke. Kids screwing around with us. Please, God.

At La Cienega Boulevard, Lieutenant Rodriguez turned left and raced up the three-lane highway. Colin called in every available badge from here to Mars. And I held my breath as I e-mailed the monster.

Please think about what you're doing. What do you need me to do to stop? What's your name? What should I call you?

After sending three pleading messages like this, I received a response.

SENDER UNAVAILABLE.

“I
won't
believe it,” Colin said.

“Won't believe what?” I asked.

“That he'd dump a body in the middle of the day with people around.”

“It's cold and wet,” I pointed out. “The trails are still muddy, and the sun—” I looked at my watch: ten minutes to four and three minutes left until the deadline. “The sun will be setting soon. There won't be many people around.”

Radio cars had already blocked the entrance to Bonner Park, and the parking lot was bright with countless red and blue swirling lights. A few civilian cars still remained in their spots with their owners quarantined by patrol cops, while unmarked Crown Vics and Impalas parked this way and that. Uniformed officers and detectives, including Luke, stood in clumps, waiting for us to arrive. The noise from police radios competed with the thunderous roar of an approaching police helicopter. No news crews. Yet.

Lieutenant Rodriguez pulled into a space created just for him, and I jumped out of the car before the engine cut off. Colin followed me as I ran to the playground, praying one last time—
please, no
—although I knew my request may not be answered, not today. But that was faith—believing until the end even as all signs pointed toward darkness.

Pepe met us at the edge of the sandbox. “No one's here.”

I looked at my watch: our deadline had passed two minutes ago.

“He said they'd be at Bonner Park, right?” Colin asked.

“How many jungle gyms are there?” I asked.

“Three down here,” Pepe said. “Two up top.”

“We'll need to search each,” I said.

“I brought this.” Luke, map in hand, rushed over to a nearby picnic table. He spread out the park map, and we all huddled around it. He circled each play area with red pen.

“Okay, listen up, people,” Lieutenant Rodriguez shouted above the noise. “Gomez, you'll stay down here and supervise interviewing any wits. Martin and Hinds, you'll go to the playground up top…”

As he handed out assignments, my gaze wandered to the playground's twelve-foot-high tube slide just a few feet from where we stood. A piece of pink paper fluttered on the green slide's upper platform—it had been taped to a metal safety bar, near the entry. The wind was now tearing at that pink paper, and at any moment it would fly away.

Eyes glued to that piece of paper, I left the huddle and crept toward the slide.

“Lou,” Lieutenant Rodriguez barked.

I stepped into the sandbox, which was damp from the rain and littered with squashed juice boxes and empty Cheetos bags.

“Lou!”

I stood at the bottom of the slide's steps.

The wind had loosened the tape's hold even more, and the paper lifted higher, slapping both sides now of the green plastic tube.

I placed my right foot on the first step. Then, I placed my left foot on the second step.

The paper was almost free from the tape's grip.

I climbed the next step …

Then, the next …

Holding my breath, I reached the second-to-last step. The pink paper broke free from the tape as my hand shot out and grabbed it. Words had been written in thick green ink.

“Lou, what the hell are you doing?” Lieutenant Rodriguez and the search team had tromped over to the base of the slide.

I climbed back down to the sandbox and held out the pink paper.

My boss didn't take it. Instead, his eyes scanned the words. “Son of a
bitch
.”

“What does it say?” Colin asked.

White noise filled my head, and I stepped back from them. “My prints are on it.”

Colin shook his head. “It's a substitution one again.”

Wrw R hzb qfmtov tbn? R nvzm ollp-lfg klrmg. Gsv ervd uli olevih. Hrc nrmfgvh rm svzevm. Sz sz sz.

“Figure it out,” Lieutenant Rodriguez shouted.

I blinked at him.

“
Now,
Detective!”

I snapped out of the spell and stared at the substitution cipher.

Pepe offered me a pen and pad.

I sat on the slide's lip, my eyes ping-ponging around the message for “E” and “THE.”

Colin crouched in front of me, and whispered, “Faster.”

The “R” had to be an “I.”

“GSV” was “The.”

“Lou,” Lieutenant Rodriguez growled.

I ignored him.

“Ollp-lfg” … That spelled … “
look-out
”?

My throat burned with bile. I swallowed hard, sending acid back to my stomach.

“Svzevm” had to be—

“Lou!” Lieutenant Rodriguez barked.

“
Heaven,
” I blurted. “It says, ‘Did I say jungle gym? I mean lookout point. The view for lovers. Six minutes in heaven. Ha ha ha.'”

 

37

Colin paled, and his mouth moved without making a sound.

“Which lookout?” Pepe asked.

“There are seven trails in this park,” Luke said. “Only trails three and five have lookouts.”

“He's talking about where he left Chanita,” I said. “Trail five.”

“We'll split into two groups,” Lieutenant Rodriguez shouted. “Gomez, stay here and block the entrance—there's only one way in and one way out of this park by car. Grab a few uniforms and interview everybody you can.” He pointed to Gwen. “Zapata, you help him out.”

My group would take trail 5.

“Be prepared,” Lieutenant Rodriguez warned. “That son of a bitch may still be here.”

After chucking my funeral boots and borrowing someone's two-sizes-too-big work boots, I hurried northeast with Colin and two other cops up to trail 5.

The trails were still muddy from the storms. Dump trucks and earthmovers hadn't left their spots since yesterday, and more red mud had slid against the tires. The heavy machinery would need their own tractors to dig them out.

In a matter of seconds, the back of my shirt was drenched with sweat.

“Six minutes in heaven,” Colin said. “Isn't that the game where one kid picks two other kids to go into a dark closet and kiss for…”

“Seven,” I said. “Seven minutes in heaven, not six. Not that the one-minute discrepancy matters. Unless it does.”

The helicopter raced across the sky above us and then circled.

“He's playing games with you,” Colin said.

“Children's games,” I said. “The ciphers, the kids' book, hide-and-seek…”

We walked up the steepening trail. My feet rubbed and slipped in the large boots.

“If he beats
you,
then he's king of the world.” When I didn't respond, he continued. “Can we say ‘serial' now? The circumstances are too coincidental. The girls' ages, the school they attended, this park.”

I held out my arm and stopped walking.

Colin also stopped in his step.

The blue tarp was gone. The stuffed animals, posters, and candles left to honor Chanita remained. And no duffel bag had been dumped on the trail.

Colin sighed with relief. “So maybe he's fucking with us. Again.”

My gaze skittered from the trail to the bluff, and my right hand rested on my holstered Glock. “We're not at the lookout point yet.”

We walked, passing the site where we'd found Chanita Lords. My heart boomed with every step I took, and, as we neared the bluff, I slipped my gun out of its holster. The creak of leather behind me told me that others on my team were doing the same.

We came to the bluff. A large green canvas bag sat on the lonely gray park bench perched at the bluff's lip.

My stomach dropped.

Colin groaned.

The others fanned out across the bluff as Colin and I moved closer to the bench. The closer our approach, the clearer the sound of …

Tinkling music.

I cocked my head.

Colin pointed to the canvas bag.

I took a step closer …

A white music box appliquéd with pink ballet slippers and flowers sat atop the canvas bag. The lid was up, and a tiny ballerina
en pointe
slowly pirouetted to Tchaikovsky's “Swan Theme.” A few blowflies crept over the canvas bag, but only a few.

Colin's arms remained extended, with his Beretta pointed at the bag.

I holstered the Glock, then used my phone's camera to take pictures of the music box and the canvas bag, of the windswept bluff and the lonely park bench. And then, it was time.

I pulled on latex gloves, then slowly dragged the bag's thick zipper.

There she was. One hand frozen into a claw, the other in a tight, brown fist … Skin purple and green … Pink T-shirt … Glossy leaves and black berries. No bugs except for those few flies.

Colin toggled his radio and in a small, weak voice, he said, “Found her.”

Whistles sounded. Radios crackled. Men shouted. The helicopter roared in our direction. All came to where we stood. And then, there was quiet down here on the ground.

Luke crossed himself.

Pepe did the same.

Colin covered his mouth with his hand.

Lieutenant Rodriguez muttered, “Damn it,” then lifted the radio to his mouth. “We're gonna need the coroner…”

I tore my eyes away from the girl. My mind was mush—in ten minutes, I wouldn't be able to recall any detail except for … her.
Get it together, Lou.
“Let's take pictures of everything,” I croaked, “since we can't touch her until the ME comes.”

The music from the box stopped.

I jerked. “He's here.”

“
Who's
here?” Colin asked.

I pointed to the music box with a steady finger. “He had to wind that up to play.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez squinted at me, then his eyes widened.

“A music box only plays for a few minutes,” I explained to Colin. “He can't be far.”

Lieutenant Rodriguez whirled away from me, whistling and shouting for more bodies to find the monster.

Colin led the group to strip-search the hillside, looking again for a clue, any clue.

And I stayed with the girl.

Do the work.

I pulled a pencil and small pad from my jacket pocket and sketched the hillside, the girl, trees and shrubs, and her proximity to trail 5. Then, I stared at those hills covered with wild sage and chaparral. Far in the distance, the Hollywood sign twinkled on another LA hillside. My eyelids fluttered, and my knees threatened to lose all strength. A part of me did collapse in the dirt, paralyzed as the smell of death overwhelmed me and forced its way into my nostrils, my skin, my clothes. But the other part of me—the tiny part that always survived—gripped her pen so tight that it creaked.

My phone vibrated—a text from Victor Starr.
Just give me a chance. I'm not a bad person. I'm trying to do better. Please.
An exhausted whimper slipped from my lips.