Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [137]
“Jesus Christ,” Butts muttered, running a hand over his face. “Jesus goddamn Christ.”
“Mr. McNamara?” Lee said. “Are you Mr. McNamara?”
He nodded frantically, clutching Lee’s hand in his clawlike grip. His skin felt loose, and it was as thin as rice paper.
“Do you know where your son is?”
The old man shook his head violently, trying again to speak, producing more pathetic gurgling noises.
“He lives here with you?” Lee asked.
Mr. McNamara nodded, taking Lee’s hand in both of his, babbling incoherently. Lee felt his stomach lurch, and turned to Butts for help.
“Do you mind if we have a look around?” Butts asked.
The old man shook his head, and made a disturbing attempt at a smile, displaying pink gums with a smattering of teeth.
“Are you hungry?” Lee said.
McNamara nodded, tightening his grip on Lee’s hand.
“You go ahead and start looking around,” Lee said to Butts. “I’m going to get him something to eat.”
“Let Diesel do it,” Butts said. “You and me need to case this place as soon as possible.”
Lee called Diesel in from the yard and gave him the task of escorting Mr. McNamara to the kitchen for some food. Diesel said very little, but from the look on his usually impassive face, Lee could tell he was shocked and disturbed by the sight of the old man. He led McNamara gently off to the kitchen, talking to him soothingly, as Lee and Butts headed upstairs.
“It’s gotta be him,” Butts muttered as he lumbered up the steps after Lee. “Otherwise it’s just too goddamn weird.”
Lee agreed, but didn’t say anything as they reached the first floor landing. He turned right, and Butts followed him to the first room on the left. There was a lock on the outside, but it had been broken off, the nails ripped out of the wood, which was old and riddled with termites. It was clear someone had been locked inside that room, but had broken out. Lee and Butts exchanged a look.
“Jesus,” Butts said. “He kept his dad locked up.”
Inside the room was a single bed, a bureau, and a bookcase. It was not uncomfortably furnished—there was a red eiderdown quilt on the bed, and a hand-crocheted wall hanging of a rocking chair, over which were the words Home Sweet Home.
They continued down the hall to the next room. Pushing open the door, Lee entered a small room with candles on every surface—the bureau, the bookshelves, the small table under the window.
But it was the glass jar on the bookcase that drew his eyes. Hesitating, he approached it. As he got closer, he realized—without question—they had found their UNSUB.
The jar was full of eyeballs floating in a liquid he assumed was formaldehyde.
He looked at Butts. For once, the detective was speechless. He stared at the jar, then looked back at Lee, his face slack.
They had their killer’s identity. Now all they had to do is find him.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Caleb found what he wanted in the back of the little grocery store, and went up to the counter to pay for his two large bottles of Poland Spring water. You could never have too much water with you in the woods—he knew that from long experience. The woman behind the desk had a comforting look. Her face fell into itself, the skin deflated, her plump cheeks puckered in soft, round folds like a baked apple left in the oven too long. The sight of her full, matronly bosom seemed an invitation to lay his weary head on it. Looking at her, he yearned to nestle within those warm folds of femininity forever.
“That will be five ninety-five,” she said, smiling at him.
He handed her a twenty, inhaling her scent as she took his money and counted out the change. Even the smell of her was comforting. It made him think of things baking: the aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, and cloves rose gently from within the billowy sleeves of her paisley blouse. It brought to mind warm, toasty kitchens at Christmastime, with racks of grinning gingerbread men hardening gently as steam rose and condensed into droplets on windowpanes.
He wondered if his mother had smelled like that, but it was so long ago he couldn’t remember. He wanted to say something