The Scarecrow

“I was right,” Carver said. “She’s in L.A. ”

Stone dropped the bag he was filling and crossed the concrete floor. He looked over Carver’s shoulder at the middle screen. Carver double-clicked the photo to make it larger.

“Is that her?” he asked.

“I told you, all I got was a quick glance when I went by the room. I didn’t really even see her face. She was in a chair sort of to the side. I didn’t have the angle on her face. It could be her, but maybe not.”

“I think it was her. She was with Jack. Rachel and Jack, together again.”

“Wait a minute. Rachel?”

“Yes, Special Agent Rachel Walling.”

“I think… I think he said that name.”

“Who?”

“McEvoy. When he opened the door and went in the room. When I was coming up behind him. I heard her. She said, ‘Hello, Jack.’ And then he said something and I think he said her name. I think he said something like ‘Rachel, what are you doing?’ ”

“Are you sure? You didn’t say anything about a name before.”

“I know, but you saying that brought it back. I am sure he said that name.”

Carver got excited by the prospect of McEvoy and Walling being on his trail. It raised the stakes considerably to have two such opponents.

“What’s that story about?” Stone asked.

“It’s about her and an L.A. cop getting the guy they called the Bagman. He cut up women and put them in trash bags. This picture was taken at the press conference they had. Two and a half years ago in L.A. They killed the Bagman.”

Carver could hear Stone breathing through his mouth.

“Finish gathering your things now, Freddy.”

“What are we going to do? Go after her now?”

“No, I don’t think so. I think we sit back and wait.”

“For what?”

“For her. She’ll come to us, and when she does, she’ll be a prize.”

Carver waited to see if Stone would say anything, whether he would object or offer his opinion. But Stone said nothing, showing he had apparently retained something from the morning’s lesson.

“How’s your back?” Carver asked.

“It hurts but it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

Carver cut the Internet link and stood up. He reached down behind the computer tower and detached the keyboard cable. He knew that the bureau could gather DNA from the microscopic bits of skin that fell between the letters on a keyboard. He would not leave this board behind.

“Let’s hurry up and finish now,” he said. “After that, we’ll go get you a massage and take care of that back.”

“I don’t need a massage. I’m fine.”

“I don’t want you hurting. I’m going to need you at full strength when Agent Walling shows up.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be ready.”

FOURTEEN: One False Move

On Monday morning I went on eastern daylight time. I wanted to be ready to react when Rachel called from Washington, so I got up early and cruised into the newsroom at six A.M. to continue my work with the files.

The place was completely dead, not a reporter or editor in sight, and I got a stark feeling for what the future held. At one time the newsroom was the best place in the world to work. A bustling place of camaraderie, competition, gossip, cynical wit and humor, it was at the crossroads of ideas and debate. It produced stories and pages that were vibrant and intelligent, that set the agenda for what was discussed and considered important in a city as diverse and exciting as Los Angeles. Now thousands of pages of editorial content were being cut each year and soon the paper would be like the newsroom, an intellectual ghost town. In many ways I was relieved that I would not be around to see it.

I sat down in my cubicle and checked e-mail first. My account had been reopened by the newsroom techs with a new password the Friday before. Over the weekend I had accumulated almost forty e-mails, most from strangers in reaction to the stories about the trunk murders. I read and deleted each, not willing to take the time to respond. Two were from people who said they were serial killers themselves and had put me on their list of targets. These I kept to show Rachel but I wasn’t too worried about them. One of the writers had spelled it cereal and I took this as a hint that I was dealing with either a prankster or someone of deficient intelligence.

I also got an angry e-mail from the photographer Sonny Lester, who said I had double-crossed him by not putting him on the story as I had agreed. I fired back an equally angry e-mail asking him which story he was talking about, since none of the stories on the case carried my byline. I said I had been left out to a greater extent than him and invited him to take all complaints to Dorothy Fowler, the city editor.