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DOWN AMONG THE BONES
A Skye Cree Novel
Published by Beachdevils Press
Copyright © 2020
Vickie McKeehan
All rights reserved.
Down Among the Bones
A Skye Cree Novel
Copyright © 2020 Vickie McKeehan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, locales, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, businesses or companies, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-10: 8678008725
ISBN-13: 9798678008725
Published by
Beachdevils Press
Printed in the USA
Titles Available at Amazon
Cover art by Vanessa Mendozzi
You can visit the author at:
www.vickiemckeehan.com
www.facebook.com/VickieMcKeehan
http://vickiemckeehan.wordpress.com/
www.twitter.com/VickieMcKeehan
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Down Among the Bones
by
VICKIE McKEEHAN
Prologue
Five years earlier
East of Issaquah
Washington State
At the height of summer, he’d come back to pay homage to the natural beauty and serenity of Taylor Mountain. He couldn’t help that it was home to Ted Bundy’s dumping ground.
On this Sunday morning, he shouldered his backpack and headed northward, taking the trailhead to an old bridge before walking across and then changing direction. It wasn’t paranoia to make sure no one had followed him. It was common sense to abide by training and protocol. Taking a few extra precautions was part of his DNA. His father’s strict discipline in life had taught him that.
He’d been here before, once after first moving to Seattle, and then again last year when he’d come for inspiration. That’s when everything had changed.
Altering his course now, he veered toward the old farm road, past whitebark pine, bay laurel, and soaring oak trees, littering the ground with last year’s crop of acorns. He breathed deep and took in the fragrance of young cedar and summer foliage. He loved it here among nature. If it were up to him, he would never leave this place, but stay here among the forest, maybe find an acre or two of land nearby and build a house. But he had responsibilities that prevented that dream from happening. Maybe one day…
Stopping for a time to admire the wildflowers peppering the fields—woodland stars, fire-colored poppies, and curlicue golden fiddleneck—he could take his sweet time to appreciate the landscape before starting his climb to the summit.
Standing under a canopy of maple trees, a filtered stream of golden sunlight touched his face. He felt the warmth. Stretching his neck to catch a glimpse of smoky clouds drifting over the mountains, he plopped down on a log to re-tie the shoelaces on his hiking boots. He took out his GPS, studied the digital readout with great care, checked his bearings, to make sure he was on the right track.
When he was satisfied that he could find his destination, he pushed to his feet—zigzagging through sagebrush and larkspur until he reached the foothills. There, a fork in the trail had him veering off the main path and up a steep incline to where the landscape leveled off. Instinct had him deviating, yet again, to head up a steeper switchback that connected to the face of the bluff, a spot that had special meaning for him.
Out of breath, it was here he looked down, down into the abyss that still held its secrets, especially if you knew where to look. It always amazed him that, decades earlier, law enforcement had missed this slice of Bundy’s graveyard. He’d only stumbled upon it by accident several years back when he’d been on one of his solitary treks into the wilderness. But that time had been a turning point.
On days like today—with the morning sun at his back—he liked to get the lay of the land from above. It was the best way to survey the big picture, to take in what had happened here.
Last weekend, he had returned to Aurora Avenue, the Sea-Tac Strip Gary Ridgway used for his hunting ground. He’d retraced Ridgway’s steps, getting a feel for what it was like to open the door of a pickup truck and have the prey slide in next to him. Even though it wasn’t really his style, he might give that approach a try and see what happened.
He’d even stood on the Peck Bridge and looked down on the very spot where it had all started back in August 1982. He’d tried to imagine the woman’s body floating there in the Green River, and then the many bodies that would come after left there to bloat and rot. What the ordinary Ridgway lacked in Bundy charm, Gary made up for in sheer brutality and number count, surpassing Ted’s totals, etching the name Ridgway into the record books.
But it was Bundy the media obsessed over, creating documentaries, recreating his crimes countless times, and putting him on camera, again and again, to talk about himself. Narcissistic. Absolutely. The public seemed fascinated with the talented “almost” lawyer with his good looks and skills. Every time he opened his mouth to speak, they seemed enthralled with what he had to say. It didn’t hurt that he targeted attractive college students, flight attendants, and little girls he snatched off the street. This adoration only proved that it didn’t take much for the media to become besotted with a good-looking, charming serial murderer versus an ordinary loner who painted trucks for a living.
If the Green River offered Ridgway a convenient dump site on the edges of urban sprawl, Taylor Mountain gave way to the solitude of a tranquil sanctuary.
Location. Location. Location.
Bundy let the western face of the Cascades hide his darkest deeds, using the lush forests of deep, green cedar to his advantage. Ridgway, on the other hand, snagged his nickname because he chose to toss his first victims into the water, tying them down with rocks. Rudimentary for sure.
Different styles. Different techniques. Same result. Same necrophilia.
He knew now that he was far superior to both of them. He showed more finesse, more creativity, more stamina.
But here he stood, a mere seventeen minutes east of the bustling metropolis called Seattle. No seedy motels around or dingy dives for miles around, just plenty of fresh air—and possibilities.
The trip he’d taken to Spokane to study the handiwork of Robert Yates was hardly worth a mention. He decided Yates might have had an impressive body count but found the guy was way too dull and boring. Any killer could take a handgun—an MP-25 Raven—and do away with their victims as Yates had done. But the man showed no originality whatsoever.
And who knew that little Colville, Washington—the hometown of Israel Keyes—would refuse to offer up any inspiration at all. They should have called it Dullsville, USA. It was that much of a disappointment.
The truth was, he didn’t need these guys anymore, didn’t need motivation at all, didn’t need to waste another minute thinking about them, or using them as a yardstick. He’d begun to work on building up his own body count as well as his own unique way of disposing of his victims.
Besides, those idiots had gotten it all wrong. They’d gotten caught. Their downfall was rife with stupid mistakes, like speeding, driving recklessly through small towns, leaving DNA behind. He promised himself he’d never be done in by bite marks.
From on high, he studied Bundy’s handiwork. Oh, the actual remains were long scattered in the wind. But he’d been down among the bones a couple of times before this trip. It served as a reminder that for all Ted’s intelligence and slick wit, the state of Florida had fried his ass just the same. He didn’t intend to make the same sloppy missteps. With DNA what it was these days, he’d vowed to leave no trace evidence behind that might trip him up.
His methodology would never stand out. That was the beauty of it. Unlike Bundy and Ridgway and even Yates, to some degree, he had no particular type of victim. He liked to think that he was an equal opportunity killer as long as he could maintain control, so much the better.
The wind whipping out of the north brought him out of his musings and got him moving again. He shook off his philosophical thoughts.
For now, he had places to go and things to do.
One
Present Day
Seattle, Washington
Brayden Lachlann loved everything about his summer classes at Bellevue College. He loved strolling through the campus or riding his bicycle from building to building. He’d made friends hanging out at the nearby coffee shop. He even had a few girls interested in going out with him.
Over the last few years, his sandy-colored hair had turned a shade darker. But his blue eyes, once trusting and a bit naïve, were still wary of new people, cautious in the presence of those he didn’t know.
This past year, he’d taken that next step into manhood. He was no longer a scared, skinny kid afraid of his own shadow, no longer anyone’s victim.
A growth spurt had added three inches to his height. At five-eleven, he’d filled out, added muscle to his lean frame. Thanks to a strict workout program and eating right, he’d buffed up his nineteen-year-old body so that no one could ever mess with him again.
For two years of his life, he’d gone through hell and back. He’d been beaten, chained to a wall in a basement—still had the physical scars as an everyday reminder of the ordeal. His captor had forced him to wear a dog collar wired with a detonation device. He’d suffered intimidation, humiliation, broken in spirit, and defeated.
He’d lost his entire family to a serial killer, a sadistic man named Michael Smith. Those relatives who remained behind had turned against him, still convinced that he’d been the one to kill his family and not Smith. Brayden would never be able to convince them otherwise or change their minds.
He was a long way from St. Louis now, a long way from the childhood he’d left behind. Today, he lived on his own in a studio apartment at a place called The Sun Dance. In the evenings, from the third-floor unit he called home, he often looked down on Puget Sound and watched the boats come and go.
But on those nights when he couldn’t sleep, when bad memories kept him awake until dawn, his gut churned remembering the evil he’d tried so hard to forget. Sometimes he had to remind himself that Michael Smith was dead and would never hurt anyone ever again, least of all him.
He knew how lucky he was to have survived at all. And Brayden Lachlann didn’t take luck for granted. Not ever. He owed his life and most everything else he had to two people—Skye and Josh—they were his family now. Because of them, he had his GED and a good-paying job. Because of them, he sat in a classroom tonight working on a computer science degree, specifically in software design and implementation.
He no longer had to ride the bus wherever he went. Instead of relying on Metro Transit, he tooled around town in his own pickup truck he’d nicknamed Black Beauty because of its smokey metallic color.
Sitting in class at one of the computer stations, Brayden clicked away on his laptop. He’d just wrapped up the coding-oriented project for the semester when he paused long enough to spare a glance at his lab partner, Daniela Torres. The attractive brunette with huge brown eyes and long dark hair managed to smile and scoot closer. She wore a navy skirt with little white flowers and a fitted V-neck top in white.
To Brayden, she looked like an exotic goddess. No study-buddy had ever exuded so much sexual energy as Daniela. He had wanted to ask her out since that first study session week ago but hadn’t worked up the courage yet to do it. Now, it was the last night of class, and he regretted dragging his feet. Every time he lost himself in her dark brown eyes, though, he tried to play it cool. But now he realized the words coming out of her mouth might give him renewed hope.
“Could we go somewhere and talk…after class?” Daniela whispered. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
Brayden found he could only choke out a one-word answer. “Sure.”
“Are you almost ready to upload our project?” Daniela asked in the same soft, sexy voice he’d heard six weeks earlier. “I’m sorry I didn’t contribute as much as I should have. But…”
“That’s okay. I just need to attach and send.”
“Mr. Duplinsky says you’re the smartest guy in our class. Which makes me super glad I got you for a lab partner.”
Brayden did his best not to blush as he finished writing the email to their professor. He hit send before powering down his laptop and snapping the lid shut. Pivoting in his chair, he gave Daniela his full attention. “There. All done. And it would be pretty lame if I failed this class since I already work at a gaming company and do this sort of thing every day.”
“I know, right? Ander All Games. My little brother is a fanatic about playing Desolation Zone.” Daniela shoved her laptop into her backpack and slung the bag over her shoulder. “What I’m trying to say is thanks for helping me through this. My mother talked me into taking this class even though I told her I didn’t know a whole lot about software design.”
Brayden grinned as he stood up, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. An air of confidence moved in. “Lucky for me, you followed your mom’s advice. I’m pretty sure you’ll rake in an A.”
“We,” Daniela corrected as she got to her feet. She coiled her arm around Brayden’s. “Is it too late to go for coffee?”
“I came straight from work so I could use a pick me up. But I’m also starving. I haven’t eaten since
lunch. Do you like Thai food? Because I know this great place north of the college.”
“That sounds fine by me. I rode the bus so as long as I make the last one for the night…”
“No problem. I’ll drive you home.”
“Thanks. But we have one stop to make before heading out. I need to check on my cousin.” She steered him down the hallway to another classroom. “I need to look in on Professor Clarkson’s class, see if my cousin made it tonight. She’s the reason I had trouble concentrating on the lines of code.”
“You guys didn’t ride the bus together?”
“Not tonight.” Daniela stopped to stare into the open doorway to what was an empty classroom. “I guess they finished up early, too.”
She took out her phone, began to key in a text message. “I’m starting to worry.”
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
Daniela nodded, waiting impatiently for a reply from the text. “I’d hoped Emilia would’ve shown up by now. But if she had, she’d be standing right here in the hallway with us. I don’t know, but this is starting not to feel right to me.”
“Maybe your cousin decided to wait in the parking lot.”
Daniela let out a sigh and started to chew on a nail. “Maybe. You’re always so easy to talk to.”
“I am?”
“Yes, you are.”
They broke apart when they reached the parking lot. And there was no sign of the wayward cousin anywhere. Waning sunlight trickled through a smattering of clouds to the west and turned the sky a pinkish purple. Brayden unlocked the truck, stowed his laptop bag under the seat, and the two settled next to each other on the bench seat.
He stuck the key in the ignition only to have ear-splitting hard rock blast from the radio. “Sorry about that,” he said as he leaned across her bare legs to adjust the volume.
Daniela lifted a shoulder and cracked a grin. “Not a problem.”
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