The killer made no effort to hide the bodies; if anything, he displayed them. At first, Chris had wondered if this indicated a desire on the killer's part to be caught. That was not uncommon among serial killers. Then he concluded that it was probably a reflection of the killer's overweening self-confidence, a gauntlet thrown at the feet of the investigators.
"Awful, isn't it?" Unannounced, Gwen had come over to stand at Chris's side and was looking down at the screen that now showed the second victim, Elizabeth Livens, a sales clerk at Holt Renfrew. She had been mutilated in the same fashion as the Frazier woman. Like the others, her hands were folded piously on her abdomen as if she were at peace. It was obscene. Chris scrolled down and clicked on the name of the third victim, Theresa Thompson. There could be no doubt but that all three were the work of the same sadistic brute. Sickened, he looked away from the screen and glanced up at Gwen.
"I thought you'd be interested in this," she said. "I just heard from a friend of mine at the courthouse that the Harris jury has come back in."
"And?"
"And nothing. The foreperson told the judge that they haven't been able to reach a verdict, and she does-n't think they will be able to."
"What did the judge do?"
"Told them to keep trying."
"Good psychology on her part. Today is Friday, and being sequestered over the weekend should help them concentrate."
"Like knowing you are to be hanged in a fortnight," said Gwen, blithely paraphrasing Samuel Johnson.
"Not exactly," Chris said, grinning in reply. "I go along with most of the crusty old lexicographer's sayings, but I've never bought that one. For my part, I think the prospect of being hanged in a fortnight would make it impossible to concentrate. You really couldn't think of much else."
After a solitary lunch at the Hyatt, Chris was back at his desk, still brooding about the multiple killings. He was convinced that the first three were the work of the same individual, almost certainly acting alone. But the Vinney case? The modus operandi seemed to be the same—the victim had not been killed where the body was found, she had been rendered unconscious before being mutilated, and the mutilation pattern was the same. Except for the untouched breast implants. And the cross. Like the others, it was identical in design to the one used to crucify Christ. Everyone's idea of what a cross looked like. But it was on the wrong hand. Maybe that didn't matter. Maybe what was really bothering him was the victim herself—a high-profile lawyer responsible for important and complex files. Maybe the killer just wanted to up the ante. Or maybe, as Mason kept insisting, he had seen her out jogging and couldn't resist. Chris had switched off the computer and was staring into space, a light frown creasing his forehead, when the telephone rang.
"Forget everything you read in Madison's annual report," Jack Adams said when Chris answered. "They've just come out with a press release as soon as the market closed."
The stock market closed at two o'clock, and it was two-thirty now. Jack hadn't wasted any time in calling him. That must be some press release!
"It's a disaster!" Jack's voice was hushed. "I'll fax the release to you, but the gist of it is that the Lost Horse field has watered out."
"What?" Chris was thunderstruck. Oil fields eventually did go to water as they were produced and the reservoir pressure dropped, letting salt water from the ancient inland sea that once covered Alberta flow into the well bore. It was called "coning" in the oil patch, and it normally happened only after years of profitable production as a reservoir was gradually depleted, certainly not after just over a year.
"It's true. It's all in the press release. The carnage when the market opens Monday morning will be appalling. I've got to hang up now, Chris. I've got a bunch of calls to make. Calls I dread making. There will be some very unhappy shareholders out there. One hell of a way to start the weekend."
"Before you go, what happened to the stock today?"
"Nothing unusual. It closed at $18.52, down ten cents for the day. Four thousand shares traded, which is pretty much the normal pattern. But the shit will hit the fan on Monday!"
Would it ever! The carnage awaiting the Madison shareholders when the market opened on Monday would be awful. Horrendous. If anything, the press release Jack faxed over to him was worse than what he had told Chris over the phone. The three wells Madison had drilled and put on production had turned to water almost overnight. In the eighteen months or so since the discovery Madison had drilled two stepout wells. The stepouts were located two miles apart to delineate the extent of the reservoir with the expectation of drilling infill wells to fully exploit the potential of the field. There would be no more wells. Only the cost of abandoning the initial wells to add to the millions of dollars already spent.
Chris read the fax a second time before putting it down on his desk, bemused to find himself treating it gingerly, as if it might explode in his face. He paused for a moment to absorb an almost giddy sense of relief that he was not personally involved in the debacle. It had been so close. But those poor devils who were long on the stock! His copy of the Herald was back in the pent-house, but Gwen always brought the paper with her to work. She wasn't at her desk, but the paper was. Chris picked up the paper, pulled out the business section, and turned to the stock quotations. Madison had closed yesterday at $18.62, with a trading volume of 6,982 shares. And Jack had said today's trades were normal.
He had come awfully close to investing in the Madison flow-through shares. They had come out at $10.25 and had climbed steadily up into $18.00 territory. Chris had kept his eye on the stock and more than once regretted the handsome profit he had foregone. He had comforted himself with the fact that the shares had been encumbered with that long hold. Twelve months before they were free to trade; too long to have money tied up with no control over what happened to it. The twelve months must be up by now; it had been sometime last spring that Jack had told him about the upcoming share issue. Could that explain the evasiveness he had encountered at McKinley?
Chris flipped through the annual report, now outdated and rendered meaningless by the Lost Horse disaster. As expected, there were no details of the flow-through shares nor any conditions attached to them. The report contained little other than glowing accounts of Lost Horse. Jack would know when the hold period expired, but there was no point in trying to reach him now. He would be working the phones, spreading the unthinkable news. He would call Jack at home in the evening. That would be a bit of an intrusion into his personal life, but the broker would overlook that. Chris and Jack were not close personal friends, beyond an occasional lunch, but Chris was a preferred client. Besides, the circumstances were extraordinary.
The door of the cage was still in place when Chris arrived home that evening. Nevermore was squatting on the floor, dismantling a collection of wooden blocks and bells braided through a strip of leather. The blocks were chewed until they were mere splinters, and the bells were strewn around the floor. The breeders had told Chris that a destroyed toy is an enjoyed toy. If that was the case, Nevermore certainly enjoyed his toys. Chris chuckled to himself as his avian pet, well satisfied with the day's work, climbed onto his hand.
Chris waited until eight o'clock before calling Jack. By then, the broker would have finished dinner. It was also obvious from his slurred speech that he had finished off more than a few drinks. Chris didn't blame him; he would have put in a soul-searing afternoon.
"Everything about that damn stock is burned into my mind in letters of fire," Jack growled, in answer to Chris's query. "The hold period expired at the close of business last Monday, May 26."
That meant that the shares were free to trade on Tuesday, May 27, which was what Chris wanted to know, but he continued to chat for a few more minutes, commiserating with Jack for having to be the bearer of bad tidings, before ringing off. If the broker wondered about Chris's interest, he didn't mention it. Maybe he figured that Chris had bought some of the shares through another house.
Adrienne Vinney's memorial service was to be held on Monday, June 2, at 1:30 p.m. at a funeral home on Elbow