“Sure!” was the cheerful answer. “It’s a bit less than a quarter of a mile from here.” Harris pointed. “You’re lucky. Three years ago, a storm following Hurricane Helen tore off part of the church roof and left it on a silo two miles away.”
Amaia nodded in thanks. She headed around to the back of the Allens’ destroyed home. In contrast with the front yard, the field behind the house was littered with splintered wood, clothing, and smashed furniture. A six-armed standing lamp stood incongruously upright in the field, all of its bulbs intact. The roof was nowhere in sight.
“You’ll have to go down yonder to see it,” her new friend called after her. “It got stuck in a hollow.”
Amaia turned and waved her thanks. She saw that Dupree had left the supervising ranger on the porch and was headed in her direction.
She strode forward single mindedly, aware Dupree was behind her. There was no sign of the roof, but when she turned back, Trooper Harris waved her on.
The hollow was about six feet deep and seventy-five feet wide. And lo and behold, the roof was there, almost intact, still fastened to the joists that had anchored it to the farmhouse. The grassy field had been trampled by someone; the track ahead of her was as obvious as boot prints in a snowdrift. She turned and saw a similar grassy trail in her wake.
Dupree caught up with her and stood silent at her side. Behind them, the rest of the team emerged from the house and headed in their direction.
Amaia slipped down the slope, went forward on all fours, and looked under the edge of the roof. She stood up immediately and signaled to Dupree and the others. She commented to their huddle, “Where I’m from in Spain, there’s an old belief that the sacred space of a family home includes the foot or two just outside the walls. They call that outer perimeter itxusuria. If a family member was denied Christian burial in the village cemetery, they buried that person at home. In the shelter of the eaves.”
She stood watching as they spread out, crouched, and peered under the stranded roof. Someone took out a high-tech flashlight. Its dazzling beam played across the shrouded space until it came to rest on the bloody face of an elderly woman.
“There she is,” Amaia said. “The grandmother.”
7
DOUBT
Quantico, Virginia
Friday, August 26, 2005
Seated before a computer, Amaia again tried to keep her attention on the instructor’s explanation of how to structure case summaries in order to enter them into the international victimology registry. She was tired. She’d been up almost all night drafting her report and conclusions, and despite her best efforts, she knew that most of what was being said in class was escaping her. Her thoughts kept returning to her hypotheses, most of them disputed by the agents in Dupree’s unit. A good deal of her thinking was outside the box, driven by intuition.
But when all was said and done, that was what Dupree had demanded of her when they separated. He wanted three profiles on his desk by eight.
Amaia delivered them at seven. She checked her watch; it was past noon. She couldn’t get her profile of the killer out of her mind: White male, forty-five years or older. He has killed before using the same method. Organized and patient, waits for the right opportunity, unlike killers who seek victims. Caucasian who kills in his own racial group. Religious believer who may think the church is too indulgent of sin.
The class ended. The next one was underway before she had time to catch her breath.
Amaia was deeply fatigued, but she knew that was the price for being right, the unwelcome privilege of knowing where to find the piece that completed the puzzle. Irreverence for authority, the ability to detect the undetected and arrogantly contradict received wisdom, the courage to present those insights without ceremony or restraint—none of this was easy; it exacted a price.
Her discovery of the dead woman under the roof had sparked an open confrontation with Dupree’s team. The debate wasn’t theoretical anymore. The instant the light struck the smashed face of the old woman in that improvised tomb, Amaia felt the pieces of the puzzle snap into place and reveal the ferocity of the predator who had composed these dark tableaux. This crime scene was virtually untouched, unlike the living room, which had been trampled by so many law enforcement agents. She let her mind drift and saw the killer’s pursuit of the old woman, as well as the threats and coercion that forced her into this dark place.
He definitely wasn’t an annihilator. She was absolutely sure he wasn’t. His goal wasn’t to destroy families but instead to assemble one perfect family, its perfection cemented in death. Her intuition and ideas sparked an explosion of the resentment the FBI team had had trouble stifling since the meeting in Dupree’s office.
“They don’t have grandparents!” Johnson rebuked her, face to face, visibly angry but carefully controlled. “They were orphans; the parents of both spouses died long ago. Agent Tucker told you that!”
“This is the grandmother. Check it out and you’ll see,” she insisted. She stalked off toward the farmhouse.
“We did check!” Tucker called out angrily, following her. “I checked personally.”
“Then check again!” Amaia told her.
“Do you understand who you’re talking to?” Tucker snapped. “You have no authority here.”
Amaia stopped in her tracks and fixed her eyes on the ground, seeking calm. She was boiling inside. She was undecided whether to walk away across the field or just turn around, grab Tucker by the collar, and shake her until she saw the light.
She did neither. Without retreating an inch, she lowered her voice until it was almost inaudible, obliging the agents to lean in close to hear what she was saying. “Forget the official records. Ask the neighbors if that woman lived with them.”
Agent Johnson almost staggered back in astonishment at that. He glanced openmouthed at Dupree, trying to gauge the boss’s reaction.
Emerson, at the end of his patience, looked around. “What kind of nonsense is this?” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up.
“Check again,” Dupree ordered calmly.
“But, Dupree, we already have the information!” Johnson protested.
“Verify it.”
Dupree sent her away so he could speak with the others. She sat in the car, the naughty girl forbidden to play with the rest of the kids. She watched Dupree, Emerson, and Tucker, all with their backs to her; she could tell from their gestures they were arguing without raising their voices. She was certain they were talking about her.
She saw Johnson return from questioning a group of neighbors who’d congregated nearby. He said something to Dupree, and then the group turned simultaneously and looked in her direction.
Amaia got out as they approached the car. Dupree deputized Johnson with a wave of his hand.
Johnson admitted she was right. “The woman under the roof is Belinda Wright, a childhood friend of Hugh Allen’s mother. She took Hugh in when he left foster care. Hugh lived with her and her husband on a little farm nearby until he married and set up here. When Belinda’s husband died years later, she moved in with the family. She wasn’t really his mother, but she might as well have been.”
Dupree imagined the sequence of events. “Somehow the woman managed to get out of the house, or maybe she was already outside when the killer arrived. He caught up with her in the field, murdered her, and dragged her to the roof and shoved her under it.” Dupree gave Amaia a look that showed he was impressed.