Chapter Sixteen

CHELSEY IS IN LACEY, Arural town outside Olympia, in the passenger seat of a cop car winding through the quiet tree-shaded streets. She flexes and unflexes her toes inside of her black tactical boots. It's one of those rare spring days, cold but clear.

"We're nearly there," Montoya says. Chelsey forces her attention away from a burned-out bus on the side of the road and refocuses on Montoya. He is a detective, too. And has too many accolades to count, including an impressive stint in the capital's counterterrorism unit. But he's best known for his work on the White Mountain serial killer case. He's smart. Savvy. And handsome in a boy-next-door type of way. He also loves Creedence Clearwater Revival. "Born on the Bayou" is his favorite, with "Have You Ever Seen the Rain?" a close second. He clicks off the music. His fingers are slender, with clean round nails. He has admitted to her that he gets a manicure once a month. Nothing too fussy. Just a clip, file, and buff.

Chelsey has learned all this over the last twenty-four hours, working closely with Montoya to chase warrants, debrief the team, and set up the raid. Chelsey holds photographs in her hands—a picture of Lewis Salt and drone footage of his property.

Lewis Salt is an unemployed construction worker. He is the son of Timothy Salt, the inmate serving time at Riverbank for rape and armed robbery, whose DNA was a partial match for the blood on Gabrielle Barlowe's sweatshirt. Lewis Salt has had three run-ins with the police, all involving spats with his girlfriend. But none of these infractions led to any arrests or convictions. His DNA isn't in the system. Lewis has a license to carry a concealed weapon. He lives in a two-story house on fifteen acres in the middle of the woods. A busted-up barn is also on the property. The roof is partially caving in, the boards cracked and splintering. It is a place he could have kept Gabby and Ellie, Chelsey thinks. And the final nail in Lewis Salt's coffin: he drives a blue station wagon.

Chelsey rubs her hands together and focuses on the car in front of them. All in all, there are ten police units and one SWAT van. She'd wanted something a little more understated, but Abbott opted for flashier. A joint task force between Coldwell, Tacoma, and Olympia PD, co-led by Calhoun and Montoya. Once they get him, Chelsey hopes Ellie won't be so afraid. That she'll come to Olympia for a lineup. That she'll be able to raise her arm and point to Lewis Salt through the glass. That's him. He's the one. Maybe then she'll lose the haunted look in her eyes.

"What's his MO?" Montoya dips his chin to the picture of Lewis Salt, one hand on the wheel. "I always wonder what makes these guys tick."

Chelsey swipes a thumb over the photograph of Salt, right over his scraggly beard. "That's what we're going to find out."

"Yeah." They pass a splintered wooden sign with Smokey the Bear stating FIRE DANGER IS LOW TODAY. "Sometimes there is no method to the madness."

It often seems that way. But Chelsey knows that violent men are not inevitable. They are not a matter of course. Of nature. Of being born. Violent men are forged. They are made. All of this… all of it is preventable.

The cars drift to the side of the road, mowing down brush to park. Doors slam and officers don flak jackets and helmets and fit microphones into their ears.

"North road is secure," Chelsey hears on the radio. Then another voice: "South entrance secure."

Montoya speaks into his earpiece. "Copy." He looks at Chelsey. "Your call. We strike at your command." The team draws black masks around their mouths, places helmets on their heads, shifts their shields into position, readies their guns.

Chelsey inhales, her skin abuzz. She closes her eyes and gathers herself. For a moment, she is fifteen again, one year after Lydia's funeral. She's with her father in a GI Joe's, a store now out of business, but it had specialized in outdoor recreational equipment. They're buying camouflage for Chelsey, a bow and arrow, a rifle. After Lydia, there were no more ballet recitals or Barbies on the weekends.

Instead, Chief Calhoun drove his last daughter to the woods Friday through Sunday, someplace Chelsey could stay out of trouble, and if trouble did find her, she'd know how to handle herself. The first time he lectured Chelsey, his mouth was full of shoulds.

Lydia should not have gone out that night. Lydia should not have met up with that boy. Lydia should have known how to defend herself. Lydia should still be here. I gave you girls too much freedom, he finally finished with a swipe of his hand. No more.

It had been a relief, getting away like that, escaping to the woods with a gun. Her mom was a wreck. And the kids at school stared at her. She'd felt so alien. Lydia had been Chelsey's home planet; without her sister, Chelsey was adrift. But often, Chelsey wondered if her father, if people in general, should spend less time protecting daughters and more time worrying about sons. The dangerous things boys do. How they might be raised differently. She'd mentioned something similar to her father once, and he'd gazed at her hard, then said even harder, I don't have any sons.

Now, she opens her eyes and surveys the street, the team, the perfect day about to explode. "I'm ready," she says to Montoya.

He grins, dimples popping in his cheeks, and touches his earpiece. "All teams go."

Anticipation loose in her chest, Chelsey and the team pile into and around the edge of a BearCat, a black SWAT van, holding on to metal handles bolted to the sides. Lights turn on along with a siren, and they swarm the farm. The BearCat speeds onto Salt's property, swerving and stopping short of the front door. Teams of five dart left and right to surround the building. Chelsey and Montoya follow SWAT to the front door, rolling up the steps and onto the rotted porch.

An officer pounds his fist against the thin wood of Salt's door. Bang-bang-bang. "Lewis Salt. Olympia PD. We have a warrant for your arrest and DNA." Nothing from the other side of the door. Not a sound. A single light flickers above him. Cobwebs and dried-up moths hang from it. There's a soggy couch on the front lawn, haphazardly covered by a blue tarp—mosquitos swarm above water that has collected in the drooping plastic. Half the roof is nearly caving in, and the paint is peeling off the house. Blackberry vines snake around the foundation. All utterly still. Too quiet. Chelsey's nerves ratchet up a notch.

The team uses a battering ram, and the door splinters as it bursts open. Lewis Salt stands in the middle of the living room. He's as dirty as the house. Stained Grateful Dead T-shirt. Threadbare holey jeans. Greasy hair and yellow teeth. Chelsey grimaces, seeing him. "Hands behind your head," the front officer shouts, gun raised.

"I didn't do anything," Salt spits out in a slight southern accent. He folds his arms behind his head. He glances down at his midriff, where a dozen police have trained the red dots of their automatic rifles. "I didn't do anything!" he repeats.

Another team arrives through the back of the house. Salt is completely surrounded.

"On your knees," says Chelsey. She steps forward, fast food wrappers and cigarette butts crunching under her foot.

"I can't…" Lewis Salt sways and visibly pales. "I didn't do anything… I swear. Oh my god, I'm going to be sick." Then he spews all over the dingy carpet, and vomit splatters Chelsey's boots.

"Ah, shit. You want to cuff him?" Montoya asks Chelsey, keeping his rifle trained on Salt.

Chelsey nods. "I got him." She lowers her gun and sweeps into action, reading Salt his Miranda rights and zip-tying his hands together. The room reeks of puke. The team stands down, and Montoya directs them to start searching the house.

Chelsey squats next to Lewis Salt, wipes her forehead with her forearm, and stares at him. She tilts her head. This is him? This is the guy? Chelsey is… unimpressed, disappointed.

"I want my lawyer," Salt huffs, tears streaming down his face. It does not make Chelsey feel sorry for him. She wonders how many times Ellie wept while she was held captive. If Gabby cried while he had his hands around her throat. How many tears did Lydia shed before she died?

"You can have one soon as we get to the station," Chelsey says. "But first, I'm going to need to collect your DNA." She motions a lab tech forward. "Go ahead, be a good boy and open your mouth for me."

He draws up and purses his lips, ready to spit near Chelsey's feet. Chelsey darts forward and squeezes his cheeks. Good thing she's wearing gloves. "Go ahead," she says to the tech. The tech steps forward and circles around Salt's mouth with a sterile swab.

Chelsey straightens and picks through the house. Not much to see. A brown couch with a slice through one of the cushions, stuffing spilling out. A clunky coffee table from the seventies. The walls are bare and stained yellow. She wanders into Salt's bedroom. There is a mattress on the floor with a dingy white sheet twisted at the bottom. She opens a closet door. A belt hangs from a hook. A red bandana is next to it. All the hairs on Chelsey's arms stand up. She flashes to interviewing Ellie in her folks' living room. I didn't see his face. It was too bright. He wore a bandana, Ellie had said, then added, Red. It was red.

Chelsey shouts for a tech, warmth spreading through her chest, the slow burn of excitement, the heat of relief. She's got him. It is almost over. The tech appears in a white hazmat suit. "Bag this up," she says, pointing to the bandana.