and punched in a number.
“I have to get out of here,” she said into the phone. “Do you still want some ink on your Jane Doe?”
“I’m at the park right now,” Archie Sheridan answered. “Can you meet me?”
Archie sat on the damp ground, just yards from where a girl had been murdered. The weather had changed—the sunny day gone, replaced with a sad drizzle. The park smelled like death. Rotting logs, fallen branches, spoiled blackberries. Archie brushed some dirt off his pants and closed his eyes.
This is where it had all begun. Archie and Henry had responded to a call about a dead woman in the upper park. She was just a kid. Scalped. Burned. Badly mutilated. That was thirteen years ago. The Beauty Killer’s first victim. Archie’s first homicide.
Archie glanced down at the paperback next to him in the dirt. Gretchen looked back at him. He didn’t know why he had brought it, why he hadn’t left it in the car, why he hadn’t thrown it in the nearest gas station Dumpster. He knew one thing: This Jacob Firebaugh kid was going to get an earful.
There was a sudden rustling behind him on the hillside. Ferns bending under feet, earth sliding, vines snapping. Archie jerked back to alertness, opened his eyes, and in an instant found the gun on his hip, resting his hand lightly on the leather holster. He turned around and found a kid standing a few feet above him on the hillside.
The kid was maybe twelve, still panting from his trip down the hill, the ferns vibrating behind him. He was delicate looking, with pale skin and dark hair and a mouth full of glittery braces. He wore an Oregon Ducks T-shirt and a pair of knee-length shorts heavy with pockets and snaps, and his calves were straight and tiny, birdlike. He was carrying an old Peanuts metal lunch box. “Are you a detective?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Archie said, pulling his hand away from his gun.
The kid sat down next to Archie, folding his legs Indian style, the lunch box on his lap.
Archie picked up the copy
of The Last Victim
and moved it to his other side, away from the kid. “Can I help you?” Archie asked.
“I’m okay,” the kid said.
Archie tilted his head at the crime tape that surrounded them. “This is sort of a crime scene.”
“I know,” the kid said.
The two sat in silence for a moment, watching the stream gurgle by down below.
“Do you have kids?” the kid asked finally.
“Two,” Archie answered. “Six and eight.”
The kid nodded, satisfied. “I want to show you something.”
Archie looked at the boy. He was lonely. Looking for attention. Archie didn’t have time to indulge him. But there was something in his eyes, a seriousness that was enough to make Archie agree. What the hell. He’d look at the fort or whatever the hell the kid had, and then he’d go home to his family.
Archie stood.
“Don’t forget your book,” the kid said, pointing at
The Last Victim.
Archie looked down at Gretchen’s face, the pink background, the gold embossed lettering. “Right,” he said, stooping over and picking it up.
The boy scrambled a few feet up the hill. Archie took a few careful steps up the muddy embankment after him, remembering the patrol cop who’d lost his footing. But the kid grew anxious and extended an impatient arm. Archie tucked the book into his waistband and took the kid’s hand, and the kid led him up the hill, back to the main path, and started walking west, farther into the woods. The rain had picked up and was an insistent patter on the canopy of leaves overhead. The cuffs of Archie’s pants were black with mud and his palms were covered with dirt from trying to leverage himself up the hillside. The light was fading quickly. The kid walked at a forty-degree angle, driven with purpose, his feet moving double time. Archie had to work to keep up with him. Then the kid came to a stop and looked at Archie and then up another hillside.
“Seriously?” said Archie.
The kid took a few steps up the
“I have to get out of here,” she said into the phone. “Do you still want some ink on your Jane Doe?”
“I’m at the park right now,” Archie Sheridan answered. “Can you meet me?”
Archie sat on the damp ground, just yards from where a girl had been murdered. The weather had changed—the sunny day gone, replaced with a sad drizzle. The park smelled like death. Rotting logs, fallen branches, spoiled blackberries. Archie brushed some dirt off his pants and closed his eyes.
This is where it had all begun. Archie and Henry had responded to a call about a dead woman in the upper park. She was just a kid. Scalped. Burned. Badly mutilated. That was thirteen years ago. The Beauty Killer’s first victim. Archie’s first homicide.
Archie glanced down at the paperback next to him in the dirt. Gretchen looked back at him. He didn’t know why he had brought it, why he hadn’t left it in the car, why he hadn’t thrown it in the nearest gas station Dumpster. He knew one thing: This Jacob Firebaugh kid was going to get an earful.
There was a sudden rustling behind him on the hillside. Ferns bending under feet, earth sliding, vines snapping. Archie jerked back to alertness, opened his eyes, and in an instant found the gun on his hip, resting his hand lightly on the leather holster. He turned around and found a kid standing a few feet above him on the hillside.
The kid was maybe twelve, still panting from his trip down the hill, the ferns vibrating behind him. He was delicate looking, with pale skin and dark hair and a mouth full of glittery braces. He wore an Oregon Ducks T-shirt and a pair of knee-length shorts heavy with pockets and snaps, and his calves were straight and tiny, birdlike. He was carrying an old Peanuts metal lunch box. “Are you a detective?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Archie said, pulling his hand away from his gun.
The kid sat down next to Archie, folding his legs Indian style, the lunch box on his lap.
Archie picked up the copy
of The Last Victim
and moved it to his other side, away from the kid. “Can I help you?” Archie asked.
“I’m okay,” the kid said.
Archie tilted his head at the crime tape that surrounded them. “This is sort of a crime scene.”
“I know,” the kid said.
The two sat in silence for a moment, watching the stream gurgle by down below.
“Do you have kids?” the kid asked finally.
“Two,” Archie answered. “Six and eight.”
The kid nodded, satisfied. “I want to show you something.”
Archie looked at the boy. He was lonely. Looking for attention. Archie didn’t have time to indulge him. But there was something in his eyes, a seriousness that was enough to make Archie agree. What the hell. He’d look at the fort or whatever the hell the kid had, and then he’d go home to his family.
Archie stood.
“Don’t forget your book,” the kid said, pointing at
The Last Victim.
Archie looked down at Gretchen’s face, the pink background, the gold embossed lettering. “Right,” he said, stooping over and picking it up.
The boy scrambled a few feet up the hill. Archie took a few careful steps up the muddy embankment after him, remembering the patrol cop who’d lost his footing. But the kid grew anxious and extended an impatient arm. Archie tucked the book into his waistband and took the kid’s hand, and the kid led him up the hill, back to the main path, and started walking west, farther into the woods. The rain had picked up and was an insistent patter on the canopy of leaves overhead. The cuffs of Archie’s pants were black with mud and his palms were covered with dirt from trying to leverage himself up the hillside. The light was fading quickly. The kid walked at a forty-degree angle, driven with purpose, his feet moving double time. Archie had to work to keep up with him. Then the kid came to a stop and looked at Archie and then up another hillside.
“Seriously?” said Archie.
The kid took a few steps up the
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