THE INSIDE OF the Atkinson house was like a museum. Miles of glossy hardwood floors, large modern canvases hung on two-story-high white walls. Lights came on when we stepped into a room.
It was like a museum after hours: no one was home.
And it was creepy. No pets, no newspapers or magazines, no dishes in the sink, and except for the food in the refrigerator and a precise lineup of clothing in each closet, there was little sign that anyone had ever lived in this place.
That is, until we reached Hawk’s room in a wing far from the master suite.
Hawk’s roost was large and bright, the windows looking west over the mountains. The bed was the least of the room. It was single, with a plain blue bedspread, speakers on each side, and a headset plugged into a CD player. One long side of the room was lined with a built-in Formica desk. Several computers and monitors and high-tech laser printers were set up there and the adjacent wall was lined with thick corkboard.
Pidge’s drawings, many of which I recognized from 7th Heaven, were pinned to the board. But there were new drawings, too, and they looked to be works in progress for a second graphic novel.
I’m thinking that this was their workshop,” I said to Conklin. “That they cooked it all up in here.
Conklin took a seat at the desktop, and I examined the corkboard. “Book number two,” I said to Conklin. “Lux et Veritas. Got any idea what that means
Easy one,” Rich said, lowering the seat of the hydraulic chair. “Light and truth.
Catchy. Sounds like more fires in the making
Rich called out, “Hawk’s got a journal. I touched the mouse and it came up on the screen.
Fantastic
As Rich scrolled through Brett Atkinson’s journal, I continued my study of the drawings on the wall. One of them nailed me as if I, too, were pinned to the corkboard. The drawing depicted a middle-aged man and woman, arms around each other’s waist, but their faces were flat, expressionless. A caption was written beneath the drawing.
I recognized the handwriting.
It was the same as the printing we’d seen on the title pages of the books left at the houses of the arson victims.
Requiescat in leguminibus,” I said, sounding out the syllables. “Rest in what
Rich wasn’t listening to me.
This map on Atkinson’s computer,” he said. “He’s starred San Francisco, Palo Alto, Monterey. Unreal. Look at this! Photos of the houses they burned down. This is evidence, Lindsay. This is frickin’ evidence.
It was.
I peered over Conklin’s shoulders as he opened Web pages, scanned research on each of the victim couples, including the names of their kids and the dates of the fires. Long minutes went by before I remembered the peculiar drawing pinned to the corkboard and was able to grab Rich’s attention.
Requiescat in leguminibus,” I said again.
Rich came over to the wall and looked at the drawing of a couple who might be the Atkinsons. He read the caption.
Leguminibus,” Rich said. “Means legumes, I think. Aren’t they a kind of vegetable? Like beans and peas
Peas?” I yelled. “Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ
What?” Conklin asked me. “What is it
I hollered out to Jacobi, who was working the rest of the house with the sheriff’s department. With Conklin and Jacobi behind me, I found the stairs to the basement. The freezer was of the trunk variety, extra large.
I opened the lid and cool air puffed out.
Requiescat in leguminibus,” I said. “Rest in peas.
I started moving the bags of frozen vegetables aside until I saw a woman’s face.
This freezer is deep enough for two,” Jacobi muttered.
I said, “Uh-huh,” and stopped digging.
From her approximate age, I was pretty sure I was looking at Moira Atkinson, dressed in her finest, frozen to death.
