The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(52)

“I’ll do my best.”

“Honestly, the warehouse was dusty and dirty and full of what will probably turn out to be useless trace evidence; however, I’m told that Lauren and Joyce hit the jackpot with the bus-station restroom.”

“I hope they found something worth their time in that hell.”

“Another footprint—same boot as before.”

“Excellent.”

“And a smudged handprint . . .”

“Don’t toy with me, Sorensen.”

“Do I ever?”

“A handprint . . . with fingers?”

“Yes, palm and fingers. It was low, about a foot from the ground, on the tiled wall. Someone tried to wipe it off, but we might find enough points for comparison on it. I have no idea why it was there, and it might be unrelated. Judging from the muck around it, though, it could be quite recent.”

“They swapped coats.”

“What?”

“The two guys who went into the restroom after Gray and grabbed him. One of them swapped his coat with him. He must have taken his gloves off at some point to put it on Gray.”

“It was a pretty small restroom . . .”

“You bet. Easy to lose your balance, and then you put your hand out on the tiles to steady yourself. He realized what he’d done and attempted to wipe it off. Are you running it?”

“Yes, it’s going through every system known to man. Just don’t hold your breath—we still don’t know for certain that it’s relevant.”

“With what I have, I’ll take every grain of detergent you’ve got.”


Madison briefed Fynn and Spencer on the day’s developments and then turned off her desk lamp. She wanted to go to Alki Beach and run. In a day that had given her more questions than answers she longed for the simple, straightforward joy of pounding her feet on the sand and letting everything go. The forest might come back unbidden and, with it, the scent of blood, but she could deal with those; she could run through those.

In her car, though, the rain still falling heavily over the windshield, Madison decided to go home, cook and eat, and think things over. Maybe not think too much, maybe not think at all. Vincent Foley’s presence was like a bitter scent in her cold, damp car. Somebody’s coming.





Chapter 23





Vincent Foley, twenty-three, stood by the door of Ronald Gray’s bedroom. He was quiet, and yet his misery was evident. Ronald ignored him; he knew what was coming and wanted none of it.

“I don’t want to go,” Vincent said.

Sweet Jesus, his voice could be so annoying. Ronald continued dressing, buttoning up the cotton shirt, which would no doubt become a sweat-fest as soon as he set foot outside the house.

“I don’t want to.”

Ronald sat on the bed to do up his shoes.

“I don’t—”

“It’s work, Vin,” he said. “We all go to work, right?”

“I know, but I don’t like it.”

“It’s going to be all right—you’ll see.”

Vincent leaned against the door frame; at twenty-three he looked barely fourteen. He could certainly sulk like a fourteen, Ronald thought.

“I don’t like him,” Vincent whispered finally.

Ronald looked up. He wished he could say something to make him feel better. Vincent had always been afraid of this thing or that thing, ever since he had known him. He seemed to have a direct connection with terror every God-given day, and, with the benefit of experience, Ronald knew there was precious little he could do to help him. Some things always worked, though.

“Why don’t we go for an ice cream tonight? Would you like that?”

Vincent shrugged, but there was a faint smile there.





Chapter 24





John Cameron had measured his cell in KCJC in every way it could be measured: how many steps it allowed him to take in any direction, how many of the sounds around him would reach him if he wanted to block them out, how much of himself would stay within those walls if, from time to time, he wanted to leave. The answer was not much: if he wanted to leave, he could, anytime he so wished. Ostensibly asleep, he lay utterly still on the bunk, and yet in his mind he was sitting in a deep leather chair, watching the pinpoints of light that were cars in the far distance, driving along the Alaskan Way Viaduct. It was the view from his home, and he had done some of his best thinking there—mostly at night, always alone.

The burn on his right shoulder was an inconvenience, nothing more. The pain had been sharp; the painkillers had taken care of it quickly, and what remained was a sense that the nature of his time there would be determined neither by the Washington State justice system, nor his own. As much as Nathan was doing all he could to get him out, there was much that was not in his hands. Cameron had followed the rules of the house so far; what would happen if anybody came at him with another one of those tiny little vials, he couldn’t say. He would defend himself, and that would be the swift and final end to any bail appeal and plea-bargaining conferences.