Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [139]
“Butter—milk?” said Diesel.
“Buttermilk!” Lee cried. “Buttermilk Falls!” He seized Mr. McNamara by the shoulders. “The photo—it’s Buttermilk Falls?”
The old man opened his mouth and made a sound that was his version of a laugh, though it was more like the mooing of a dyspeptic cow.
“What’s Buttermilk Falls?” Butts said. “You know the place?”
“It’s up the Delaware, near the Water Gap,” Lee said. “It’s a county park with hiking trails. I went there once or twice as a teenager.” What he didn’t say was that his first trip there was with his father.
“You think he took her there?” Butts asked, frowning.
“I think it’s very possible,” Lee replied.
“Yeah, but why drag her all the way up there?”
“There’s been a progression in his killing—from a bathtub to the East River to Spuyten Duyvil, each location has been successively more dangerous and turbulent.”
Mr. McNamara began nodding vigorously, making strained yelping sounds.
“You think he went there?” Butts asked him.
The old man nodded some more, looking at each of them, his face earnest.
“Did he tell you he was going there?” Lee asked.
McNamara hesitated, then grabbed a pencil from a canister on the shelf and wrote on his napkin. I saw his hiking map!
“You heard the man,” said Butts. “He wouldn’t be trying to protect his son, would he?” Diesel asked.
“When he’s been lockin’ him up for God knows how long?” Butts replied. “C’mon—let’s go!”
As they started out through the dining room, Lee thought he heard something—a faint scratching sound, like a mouse in the woodwork. He turned to Butts.
“You hear that?”
Butts listened. “Naw, I don’t hear anything.”
But Lee heard it again—a rustling, like a small animal burrowing inside the walls. “There it is again,” he said. “I think it’s coming from—from there.” He pointed to one of the paneled dining room walls. A sudden loud clattering came from somewhere behind the walls, like the sound of cans being overturned.
Lee stepped closer to the wall and ran a hand over the wood, which was coated in peeling blue and white paint. He moved along the wall, pressing and tapping on the panels one by one. When he reached the end of the wall, he noticed the last panel sounded different—more hollow, somehow. Then he saw the floor—it had a deep scratch in the shape of a half-moon. He realized all at once that what he was looking at was not a wall, but a door.
His heart jackhammered against his chest as he pushed against the panel where it met the wall—and it gave way. A narrow stone staircase snaked down to a hidden basement—perhaps originally built as a hideout from the Indians who roamed these lands in the nineteenth century when the house was built.
He turned to Butts and motioned him over, a finger to his lips. The detective pulled his gun from its holster and crept toward the stairs.
“Shouldn’t you call for backup?” Lee whispered, but Butts shook his head and started down the steps. Lee followed, searching for a light switch, but found none.
There, at the bottom of the stairs, they found her. Bound, gagged, and exhausted, Elena Krieger sat on the cold stone floor, crumpled amid a pile of overturned paint cans. When they removed the gag, she shivered so violently she could barely speak.
“Did he hurt you?” Butts said, dispensing with the formalities of greeting.
“N-no, I’m okay,” she said through clattering teeth, but she didn’t look okay. She tried to rise, but her legs failed her and she collapsed into their arms.
“Easy, easy,” Lee said, removing his light jacket to wrap it around her shoulders.
They called for Diesel, who scooped her up in his powerful arms and carried her up the steps as though she were a child.
“Now,” Butts said, turning to Lee. “That waterfall in the picture—can you get us there?”
“I think so. Do you have a map of Jersey in your car?” “Of course,” Butts replied. “Never go anywhere without it.”
“Good. We’ll start off on the River Road.” “What are we waitin’ for?” Butts said,