Broken Dolls Read Online Free PDF Page A

through the undergrowth and the trees swallowed me up. Branches whipped against my face and flicked against my body. Mud splattered my boots and the bottoms of my jeans. Hatcher was a few steps behind, swearing and complaining and wanting to know what the hell I was doing.
    I tuned him out and, for a while, just stood in that clump of trees, oblivious to the icy flakes of snow pricking my face. I knew with absolute certainty that the unsub had been here two nights ago. Hunting was in my blood.
    When I was a kid my father used to take me on camping trips to the wide rolling forests of Oregon, the same forests he then took his victims to. He taught me how to shoot and how to track, taught me how to field-dress the animals we killed. Taught me that the strong endured while the weak perished, and that that was the way of the world. I lost count of the number of times I’d heard that one. It was a cynical piece of philosophy that made a hell of a lot more sense after the arrest.
    I crouched down and moved around, searching for the best vantage point. From here the unsub would have had a great view of the lake, and the path that led up to the Fighting Cocks. The cathedral loomed off to my right, and I could see Johnson and Barnaby, two shadowy shapes in the distance. Hatcher’s barked questions melded with the background noise as I slid into the zone and was transported back in time to that evening. I could picture the scene as clearly as if I’d been there.
    *
    There’s Graham Johnson being dragged along the lakeside by Barnaby. He’s walking into the rain with his head down, glancing up every now and again to check where he’s going. He notices a movement on the path off to his left and freezes. He relaxes a little when he sees it’s Patricia Maynard, and that she’s alone. What threat could a woman on her own pose?
    He doesn’t relax all the way, though. The part of the brain that helped our cave-dwelling ancestors stay alive is whispering warnings and although we stopped listening to that voice generations ago, it still has the power to stop us in our tracks and pull the switches if need be, even if we don’t realise. Graham looks over at Patricia, then glances over to where I’m hiding. He doesn’t see me, but he senses my presence. I’m just one more shadow amongst all the other shadows. Patricia stumbles drunkenly towards the lake and Graham grabs her before she tumbles into the dark, icy water, a single spontaneous act that transforms him into the hero of the hour.
    *
    I clambered from the bushes, straightened out my jeans and took a drag on my cigarette. The snow was heavier than ever, the flakes fatter and thicker. That cold wind blowing down from the Arctic cut right through me. I pulled the hood of my top up and huddled deeper into my jacket but it didn’t really help. Hatcher had given up bitching at me and was on his cellphone talking to someone from forensics.
    ‘Okay, here’s a question,’ I said. ‘You’re the unsub. Why risk coming here? Why not just dump your victim and get the hell out?’
    Hatcher killed the call and put his cell away. ‘Isn’t that why we’re paying you that large consultation fee? To answer those sorts of questions?’
    ‘And why dump them in such a public place?’ I added, ignoring him. ‘He did the same with the other victims. All three were dumped in public parks. Why take the risk? Why not dump them somewhere remote?’
    I took another drag on my cigarette and thought about the unsub hiding in these bushes on a rainy evening. Watching and waiting. But waiting for what? And then I got it. I smiled and said, ‘He wants them to be found.’
    ‘Assuming you’re right, then that answers the second question,’ said Hatcher. ‘But what about the first question? Why does he need to be here?’
    ‘Because he wants to make sure they’re found.’
    ‘Okay, I’ll buy that. I guess the next question is, why is that so important to him?’
    Hatcher was looking at me