Cold Black Earth Page 21

  “Did you hear?”

  Rachel closed her eyes. “I didn’t have to hear. Matt and I found him.”

  There was a frozen silence. “Jesus Christ. You found McDonald?”

  “Yeah. Matt put his truck in the ditch coming home from the bar and I had to go get him. Coming back we found McDonald. We were up all night with the cops.”

  A faint exhalation came through the ether. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh, Rachel, I’m sorry.”

  She tried a laugh, which was not convincing. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Are you OK? Matt OK?”

  “As well as can be expected. We’re functioning.”

  “How did you . . . Where in the hell did Matt go off the road?

  “Oh, I don’t know. Let me see. We were on West 300 and then we turned west on, it must have been about 1200 North. I’m not sure. The first, no the second road north of Jack Swanson’s place. And he was at the bottom of a hill, maybe half a mile west of where we turned.”

  There was another silence. Dan said, “It sucks. Even if McDonald was a prick.”

  “‘Sucks’ hardly covers it. I’m a basket case, Dan.”

  “Ah, Jesus, Rachel. This is messed up. Are you all right? I can ditch work if you want, come over to your place.”

  “Actually, I’m OK. Matt’s here. And we’re expecting more cops. And more media. It won’t be a lot of fun. But maybe later would be good. I’ll call you.”

  “OK.” A pause, and then Dan said, “Look, Rachel. Roger’s full of shit, with this thing about Ryle targeting you. There’s no connection between Ryle and McDonald, couldn’t be. McDonald moved in here from Texas, ten or fifteen years ago. So this has nothing to do with Otis Ryle’s dad picking fights or any of that nonsense. That’s all horseshit. It’s just a fucking madman running around.”

  “So we’re all at risk. He’s right here, on top of us. Look at where the killings have been. Ed Thomas northwest of Ontario, Carl Holmes east of Rome, and now McDonald, just south of Alwood, right? They’re all three here in the north part of the county, within what, ten miles of each other?”

  “Yeah, that occurred to me, too. He’s hiding out somewhere around here. But that means they gotta catch him soon. I mean, they have to. He’s not invisible. He’s eating and sleeping somewhere. And they got every cop in the state of Illinois after him. He doesn’t have much time left. I bet you.”

  “God, I so hope you’re right. But that’s no guarantee.”

  “I know, Rachel. Keep the doors locked.”

  Rachel heaved a great sigh. “I’m past that stage, Dan. I decided when I woke up, I can’t live out here till they catch him. I’m too much of a wreck. I’m going to see if I can go stay with Susan in Warrensburg for a while. If I can convince Matt to come with me, so much the better. And you. You’re alone out there. You’re not that far from things.”

  “No, but I got a shotgun and a thirty-aught-six at home. He shows up at my place, he’s roadkill.”

  “Don’t let the guns make you cocky.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m looking over my shoulder all the time. Listen, I gotta go. I’m at work. But I want to see you, Rachel.”

  “I want to see you, too. Let me give you a call when I figure out what I’m doing with my life for the next few days.”

  They made their good-byes, and Rachel sat holding the phone for a few seconds, feeling dazed and hollowed.

  Matt came down the hall from the den, carrying a coffee mug. Rachel said, “Matt, I’d like to go camp with Susan in town if I can, just until this is over. I’m too scared to be here while that man’s on the loose. I don’t suppose I can convince you to go someplace safer, too.”

  He gave her a look, eyebrows raised. “Like where?”

  “I don’t know. Someplace less isolated.”

  He cocked his head in the direction of the Larsons’. “Who’s going to watch over Clyde and Karen?”

  “All right, I know it’s not practical. I’m sorry, Matt. I’m just too frightened.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat, giving her a thoughtful look. “Do what you have to do. But I’m staying here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what? After what you’ve been through, I’m surprised you’re still in the state.”

  Rachel put her face in her hands and suddenly she was crying, softly. “I wanted it all to be like it was. I wanted to come home and be babied.”

  “And we let you down.”

  She reached for his hand. “Nobody let me down. It’s just bad luck.”

  Matt squeezed her hand and released it, pushing away from the table. “The luck of the Lindstroms,” he said.

  “We’ll put you in Michelle’s room,” said Susan, leading Rachel up the stairs. “It’s become the guest room by default, since Abby still comes home on break and Jason’s room has never really recovered from darts in the wallboard and paint schemes out of Marvel Comics.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be perfect,” said Rachel, leaning against the weight of her overnight bag.

  And it was: clearly a girl’s room, but neutralized by the disappearance of knickknacks and favorite toys, a cozy nook under the slope of the roof with floral wallpaper and white-painted built-in bookshelves, with a window on the quiet street below. Rachel tossed her bag onto the bed and sank down beside it. “I love it.”

  “I put out towels for you in the bathroom at the end of the hall, which is all yours, at least till Abby gets home next week. Greg and I have our own.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Susan.”

  “My God, it’s the least I can do. I can’t believe what you’ve been through.” Susan came and sat beside her. “I’m worried about my parents out there. I think it’s a great time to go spend a couple of weeks in Florida, but Daddy’s too cheap. He’s like, ‘I’m not letting some maniac run me off my land.’ He thinks he’s John Wayne or somebody, waiting for the Comanches. But he’s locking the doors and not letting my mom go anywhere by herself.”

  “I’m terrified for Matt, too. He’s being stoic, a perfect Scandinavian male. He hasn’t shown any emotion about it at all. He’s gotten very good at suppression, I guess.”

  “He’s probably in denial. Nobody believes it can happen to them.”

  “Until it does. I believe it.” Rachel shuddered.

  Susan’s arm went around her. “You’re safe here.”

  “It’s awful. I was never this scared in Iraq. Never. Of course there I had the U.S. military to protect me.”

  “Well, we’re almost to that point here. The radio this morning said they’re bringing in more state police for the task force. I think it’s only a matter of time before they catch him.”

  “They have to find him first,” said Rachel.

  Aunt Helga was asleep in her chair when Rachel came in, head canted over awkwardly and mouth slightly open, her sunken breast heaving just perceptibly. Rachel lowered herself quietly onto the chair by the window and waited, glad of the chance to sit and be utterly vacant for a moment. Her gaze wandered about the room: the pictures on the shelf, the slightly rumpled bed, the Christmas cards crowded together on the small table. This is my future, she thought. Except there will be no grandchildren to visit. She drew a deep breath, remembering her aunt’s contempt for self-pity.

  Perhaps ten minutes went by. Helga stirred and opened her eyes. It took her a few seconds to focus on Rachel. “How long have you been there?” Helga said.

  “I just now sat down. I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “Oh, don’t be sorry. I have all the time in the world to sleep.” The old woman collected herself, locating handkerchief, paperback book and glasses in her lap. She peered at Rachel. “You don’t look well, honey.”

  “I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

  “Have they caught the Ryle boy yet?”

  “Not yet. There was another murder last night.”

  This brought a sharp look. “Who got killed?”

  “A man named Mark McDonald. He lived u
p near Alwood.” For a moment Rachel considered telling her what had happened, but she found she had no stomach for it. “He wasn’t from around here originally, so it doesn’t look as if this one was part of whatever vendetta Otis Ryle’s engaged in.”

  Helga blinked at her. “Well, there were some McDonalds that lived south of Ontario when I was young, but I don’t know what became of them. All the Scots that settled around here, that’s never been a particularly common name.”

  “Well, the vendetta theory is just a guess anyway. I’m starting to believe he’s just a madman.”

  “But I believe I remember John Black’s daughter married somebody named McDonald about twenty years ago. Though I don’t think the marriage lasted.”

  Rachel frowned across the room at her. “John Black? Is that Roger Black’s father?”

  “Yes, Roger was his son, I think. And the daughter was Marcia.”

  “I know Roger. That’s funny, I was just talking about Marcia with him the other day. He told me about how she sold all the land he was supposed to get.”

  “I recall hearing about that. And then she moved away.”

  To Texas, Rachel thought. She said, “And she married somebody named McDonald?”

  “Yes, I think so. But I doubt it’s the same one.”

  “No, probably not. That would be a long shot.”

  They sat without speaking for a time, not looking at each other. Helga said, “Are they sure it’s this Ryle who’s doing all the killing?”

  Rachel roused herself. “I don’t know that they are. But when a homicidal maniac escapes and then people in the area start getting murdered, the maniac is a good first guess. How many madmen are there likely to be running around at any given time?”

  The look Helga gave her was steady and grave, with no hint of irony. “More than we really want to know, honey. More than we could stand to know.”

  27

  There was a missed call on Rachel’s cell phone; the number was Roger’s. Rachel brought up the voice mail. “Hey, Rachel. It’s Roger. Just wanted to bring you up to date on things. I could have coffee again this afternoon if you want. Matt says there’s reporters looking for you, so keep your head down. He had to chase away a few today. Call me if you want to meet.” Rachel thought about it for a second with the phone in her hand and then punched Call.

  They went for the same place, at four o’clock this time. “But no pie,” Rachel said as she slid into the booth opposite him. “I’m having dinner at Susan’s in a couple of hours.” Something in Roger’s look froze her. “What?”

  “You haven’t heard from Matt, huh?”

  “What happened?”

  Roger frowned at his coffee cup. “Nothing to panic about. But the investigators from the task force decided they needed to sit him down for a longer talk. He’s over at WPD right now.”

  “They arrested him?”

  “They brought him in for questioning. They haven’t charged him with anything, and I don’t think they’re going to, because they don’t really have anything. But they couldn’t really ignore the fact that he was on the scene for all three of the killings.”

  Rachel sat with her eyes closed and a hand over her face until she felt Roger’s touch on her arm, gently. She looked him in the eye and said, “He didn’t have anything to do with it. That’s stupid, it’s ridiculous.”

  Roger nodded, looking grave. “You don’t have to tell me. But they have to take a hard look at him. Just because of circumstances.”

  Rachel inhaled sharply; suddenly queasy, she almost bolted for the bathroom. She managed to steady herself and said, “I know Matt. I know people we love aren’t perfect, but you know what they’re capable of. Matt’s not capable of anything like that.”

  “I agree with you. I think they’ll put him through the wringer and cut him loose.”

  “They’re going to railroad him, aren’t they? They’re already suspicious because of what happened to Margie. I know there was talk at the time. They’re already prejudiced against him.”

  “Rachel.” Roger had raised his voice just enough to get her attention. “If Matt didn’t do it, they can’t charge him. They can’t charge him without evidence. And they can’t charge him if he’s got alibis. And it sounds like he’s got a good one for last night, anyway. There’s several people that can put him at the bar for a couple of hours before you found McDonald.”

  A waitress appeared and Rachel managed to order coffee. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to act like a grown-up. So Matt’s got to be in the clear for last night, right?”

  Roger cocked his head slightly, a gesture of reserve. “Probably. The forensic guys found tire tracks on the shoulder last night that matched the ones at Ed Thomas’s house. It looks like Ed’s truck was used to block the road to get McDonald to stop. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “They don’t know when McDonald was killed. Apparently rigor mortis was starting to set in when the forensic guys looked at him, which means he’d been dead for a while when you found him. And since cold retards rigor, he could have been killed pretty much anytime yesterday afternoon or evening.”

  “What, you mean he’d been sitting out there for hours?”

  “Could have been. There’s not a lot of traffic on that road. Or he could have been killed earlier, stashed somewhere, then set up after dark.”

  “So Matt’s not in the clear.”

  “Rachel, I don’t think Matt did it any more than you did. But right now they have to look at anything that comes up. And Matt jumps up at them, big time.”

  “I know. I can’t blame them.”

  Roger’s look softened a little. “Anyway, with McDonald being the victim it’s looking more like a random thing again. Nothing to do with old Ryle grudges. I don’t know if that helps.”

  “Not really.” She sighed and stared out the window at the leaden sky. Ask him, Rachel thought. Ask him if McDonald was his brother-in-law. Instead she said, “We’re in the danger zone, aren’t we? It’s all happening right out there where we live. Everyone I know is in danger.”

  Roger nodded, his frown deepening. “North central Dearborn County is where it’s at, yeah. But we got more manpower from the state police, extra patrols. There’s still a lot of land out there, but he can’t hide forever. I think when we get a break it’ll be because somebody stumbles onto something. Some citizen, I mean. It’s bound to happen sooner or later. But that worries me because that immediately puts that citizen in danger. Whoever’s doing this, one more won’t bother them.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Rachel’s coffee. When she had doctored it Rachel said, “Whoever. You don’t think it was Otis Ryle?”

  Roger held his mug in both hands as if to warm them. He frowned into his coffee for a few seconds and said, “It could be. That’s been the most likely scenario ever since he went missing from the prison. But there’s some funny things about it, if it is him.”

  “Like what?”

  Roger set the mug down, clasped his hands and gave Rachel a piercing look. “Well, to start with, look at what he was in jail for.”

  “For killing his wife and kids.”

  Roger nodded. “For dismembering them and partially eating them. That’s the work of a very sick man.”

  “I think we’re all on the same page there.”

  “You know how he actually killed them?”

  “No, Roger, I somehow missed that.”

  “He strangled them. And then he dismembered them with a kitchen knife and a hacksaw.”

  Rachel nodded. “And?”

  “So look at what happened to our victims. One was killed with a sledge hammer. And then cut up with a saw.” He put a hand on Rachel’s arm. “I’m sorry to go through this.”

  “That’s OK. Go on.”

  “That was the only case of dismemberment. And there was no suggestion of cannibalism.”

  “Thank God.”

  “The other two, one had his throat cut and one was run through with a p
itchfork. Three different methods, only one dismemberment, no strangulation. Now, it’s perfectly possible Ryle did them all. People can learn, people improvise. But serial killers usually have a preferred methodology. They like to do things the same way. And these three killings are all improvised, and every one’s different. And another thing.”

  “What?”

  “What’s his motive?”

  “Does a sick person need a motive?”

  “I think so. Even a sick person needs a motive. In Ryle’s case, whatever weird psychological kick he got out of cannibalism, along with whatever it is makes guys kill their wife and kids, which happens a lot. If it’s Ryle out there doing this, why’s he doing it? What kick’s he on now?”

  Rachel sat looking Roger in the eye, the bottom of her stomach dropping out. “So what are you saying, Roger?”

  “I’m just saying there’s no guarantee Otis Ryle did these murders, that’s all. He might have, but it’s not for sure.”

  Outside, the light was going, traffic purring along the strip with the headlights on. Rachel heaved a great breath. “Have you talked with the detectives about this?”

  “Oh, they’ve been thinking along these lines all along. But they’re happy to let the media play up Otis Ryle.”

  “So if not him, who did them?”

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? I don’t know. Not yet.”

  Rachel shoved her mug away from her. “But that’s even worse, if it isn’t Ryle. If somebody . . . somebody else is doing this.”

  “Somebody sane, you mean?” Roger smiled, and there was nothing charming about the crooked grin. “Yeah, that’s a lot worse, isn’t it?”

  “For God’s sake, stop,” said Greg Stevenson. “We don’t scour the stovetop more than once a month. Don’t go raising the standards around here or it’ll mean more work for me.”

  Susan’s husband was a large hearty man whose hairline was creeping back as his waistline pushed outward; he had bright mischievous eyes and a chin that would be double in another year or two. He had confounded Rachel’s stereotype of mild-mannered accountants with his bluff humor and a steady stream of wicked local gossip over dinner. The act had distracted them all from thoughts of Matt in an interrogation room.