Hostage

Dreyer stepped up behind, his own light beam dancing into the room.

'Shit. What is that?' Dreyer's voice was hushed.

Mikkelson stepped in, holding out her light. Gallon-sized glass jars lined the walls, jars that you get when you buy the big pickles in one of those discount stores, lining the walls, stacked to windows that were latched tight to hold out the air. Shapes floated in the jars, suspended in yellow fluid. Some of the jars were so jammed with fleshy shapes there was almost no fluid.

'Goddamn. I think it's rats.'

'Jesus.'

Mikkelson squatted for a better look, wanting to cover her mouth, maybe put on a gas mask or something so she wouldn't have to breathe the fetid air.

'Shit, it's squirrels. He's got squirrels in here.'

'Fuck this. I'm calling.'

Dreyer left, keying his radio as he fled to the safer night air.

Mikkelson backed out of the room, stood in the door, thinking what to do. She knew she should go through Krupchek's things, look for identifying information, family phone numbers, things like that which might help Talley at the scene. She went back to the kitchen, looking for the phone, figuring to find what she needed there.

Mikkelson, thoroughly creeped out, stood by the phone but stared at the oven. She had this creepy feeling, she would later say, that's all there was to it; the smell, the squirrels, all those mutilated boxes. She took a deep breath as if she were about to plunge into cold water and jerked open the oven.

More Count Chocula.

Mikkelson laughed at herself. Ha ha, like what else did she expect to find?

Tension now gone, she opened the cupboards, one after the other, all with Count Chocula, bound and burned. She returned to the phone, but hesitated again, then found herself standing at the refrigerator.

Outside, Dreyer called, 'You coming out?'

'I'm okay.'

'Wait out here. The Sheriffs are sending detectives.'

'Dreyer?'

'What?'

'You ever notice, a refrigerator is like a white coffin standing on end?'

'Jesus, would you just come out?'

The refrigerator came open without effort, empty and strangely clean against the squalor of the trailer, no soda, no beer, no leftovers, just white enamel that had been lovingly polished. This refrigerator, Mikkelson would later testify, was the cleanest thing in the trailer.

A thin metal door was set in the top of the box; the freezer. Her hand had a mind of its own, reaching out, pulling the door. Her first thought was that it was a cabbage, wrapped in foil and Saran Wrap. She stared at it, stared hard, then closed the doors, never once, not once, tempted to touch that thing in the freezer.

Mikkelson left the trailer to wait with Dreyer in the hot night air, the two of them saying nothing, waiting for the Sheriffs, Mikkelson thinking, Let them touch it.

CHAPTER 18

Friday, 11:40 P.M.

Santa Clarita, California

GLEN HOWELL

Howell took three rooms in the Comfort Inn, all at the rear of the motel with outside entrances. Marion Clewes had the woman and the girl bound hand and foot in one room, tape over their eyes and mouths. Howell had checked to make sure they were secure, then went back to his own room even though the place smelled of cleaning products and new carpets. He didn't like being around Clewes.

Howell was sitting on his bed when he received the call from Ken Seymore, his heart trying to jump out of his nose as he heard that Walter Smith had been removed from the house.

'Did the cops go in? What the fuck is happenin' out there?'

'No one went in, it was just Smith coming out.'

'He just walked out?'

'They carried him. He's fucked up. One of the pricks in there must've beaten him. They took him out in an ambulance.'

Howell sat silent for a moment, thinking. Smith out while his kids were still inside was a problem. Smith in the hospital where they'd pop him full of dope, get him high, that was a problem, too.

'Did anything else come out of that house?'

'Nothing they're telling the news pool.'

Howell hung up and immediately phoned information for the Canyon Country Hospital's phone number and address, then called the hospital for directions off the freeway. He found the location in his Thomas Guide to double-check the directions, then he used his cell phone to call Palm Springs.

Phil Tuzee answered. Howell filled him in, then waited as Tuzee talked it over with the others. It was Sonny Benza who came back on the line.

'This is fuckin' bad, Glen.'

'I know.'

'He have the disks on him?'

'I don't know, Sonny. I just heard about this two minutes ago. It just happened. I'm going to send someone over.'

'Find out if he has the disks and see if he's been talking to anyone. That won't be good if he's talking. His kids are still in that house?'

'Yeah.'

'Sonofabitch.'

Howell knew they were all thinking the same thing; a man desperate to save his kids might say anything. Howell tried to sound hopeful.