Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

the Tuttle shooting.
    “Key’s under the gull by the front door,” the man had said.

Chapter Thirty-six
    Monday, 11:30 P.M, Copper Beach, Washington
    When Emily and Christopher got within ten yards of the cabin’s front door, a porch light-a floodlight, no less-went off like a paparazzo’s camera. Flash! They blinked back the sudden, silent explosion of brightness. Who was that? Their eyes had barely adjusted to the flash when a figure, the silhouette of a man, appeared in the doorway, then disappeared.
    “Come on in,” a voice called out from somewhere in the pool of light. “I’ve been expecting you”
    It was a familiar voice: the voice of a thousand cheap documentaries with prison interviews over which he presided whenever a pretty producer would call. It was Dylan Walker.
    “Put your hands where we can see them, Walker.” Christopher used his don’t-mess-with-me voice. It was a far cry from the tough voice he’d use on a garden-variety suspect.
    For a cop, Dylan Walker was the unholy grail.
    “Why should I?”
    Walker lingered for a beat before turning his back and sauntering farther into the cabin, out of view. It was as if he hadn’t a care in the world and loved the attention of two guns pointed at him. “You arrest me,” he called out. “You shoot me in the back. Either way, you’ll never see your daughter again.”
    Both guns pitched in front of them, the two went up the steps. Emily knew that if Jenna wasn’t there-and she knew that possibility was next to nil-then only one person would know where Jenna was. The man who would be king of the serial killers was the only one who could save her daughter.
    Dylan Walker was a man without compassion.
    Emily, just behind Chris, whispered, “We’re going in.”
    The wind howled behind them. Chris gave a slight nod, as if to say everything would be fine.
    “Stay close,” he said.
    She wouldn’t have it any other way. He always could read my mind, she thought.
    The pair stepped out of the windy night and through the open door. Sand moved under their feet like fine grit sandpaper. A carving of a seagull on a piling crouched in the space next to the doorway. Dead houseplants lined the entryway, a kind of graveyard of neglect that indicated no one lived in the cabin full-time. Neither could see Dylan Walker just then. Flames crackled through the driftwood logs in the river rock fireplace that went from the floor to the ceiling like a stone temple, hollowed by fire. It was a cozy scene.
    Cozy for a serial killer.
    Walker appeared, coming out of what Emily was certain was the rental’s tiny kitchen. She’d been there. She knew. Dylan Walker held a beer and a gun.
    “Thirsty?” he asked. “I have some Doritos, too”
    Christopher almost shook his head at the remark. “Maybe you’re blind and you don’t see the guns here? Drop yours now.”
    Dylan shrugged at Christopher, but addressed Emily. “Maybe you don’t know how to have a good time? Do you, Emily? I mean, you haven’t had a good time since Reynard Tuttle went down. Since Kristi Cooper.” He set the beer on a lamp table and grinned. “Didn’t you shoot Tuttle right here?”
    Emily stayed mute. She wanted to speak, but she was fighting the memories he was callously flinging at her. Walker pointed to a spot on the worn pine floorboards. “Still stained.”
    Emily glanced at Chris who kept his weapon punched toward Dylan. Then, almost reluctantly, she cast her gaze downward. The wood floor was scuffed and scratched, but its color was golden, a perfect Swedish finish. There were no stains. No blood. By the time she looked over at Walker, she knew he’d gotten what he’d wanted. His self-satisfied grin told her everything.
    “Made you look,” he said.
    “You’re a real piece of work, Walker,” said Christopher.
    “Oh, you really scare me”
    “I mean to ” Christopher’s mouth was a straight line of anger.
    Dylan laughed and patted his firearm. He backed into a chair, stretching out his sinewy legs to meet a tattered, upholstered ottoman.
    Emily tried to gather her wits. She willed her heart to slow its rapid pace. Where is all of this going? The scene was surreal with the three of them, guns drawn at each other in a bizarre stalemate. She and Chris both knew that if Jenna and Nick weren’t in the cabin with Walker, they could be anywhere. The man with the perfect body and piercing, cold eyes was the only one who knew just where that could be.
    “Where’s my daughter?