by Leslie Wolfe
Reaching down, she felt for the gun with trembling, frozen fingers. It was there. She pulled it out of his pocket, and he felt that. He groaned, cursing, and released the pressure around her neck. She filled her lungs in a raspy, choked breath that hurt like hell, then pulled the trigger just as his hands were reaching for the gun.
The shot echoed against the rocky mountain slope, then another shot came.
Then everything went dark.
Fifty-Six
Another Woman
She’d woken up with a start, panic raging in her weary mind and rushing blood through her veins. Noises she’d never heard before had her springing to her feet and pacing the room silently, then pasting her ear against the door and holding her breath.
Somewhere nearby, the noise of a hard blow, then a woman screaming. A few moments of silence, then the same sounds painted the picture of what was going on, vividly, beyond any doubt, because she’d been at the receiving end of the beatings, and she’d screamed until her throat was raw.
The sick son of a bitch had taken another woman.
Tears burned her eyes and slowly rolled down her cheeks. She clenched her hands into fists and pounded against the door, uselessly, knowing it was for little else but a show of sympathy for the other woman if she could hear it, a wordless encouragement. She knew just how scared she had to be, terrified into a primal state of sheer panic, feeling the entire world had opened up and swallowed her whole, leaving her at the mercy of a savage animal.
Then silence ensued for a few moments, and Wendy breathed, slowly, afraid the sound of the air leaving her lungs would cover distant noises she so desperately needed to hear. For a while, nothing could be heard, silence filling the room like heavy smoke, choking her.
The distant sound of a child crying was faint, barely recognizable. She’d heard it before, coming from upstairs somewhere, almost as desperate as her own cries yet immediately subdued. Who was the child, and where was his mother? Had she fallen into the hands of the same brute, and somehow met her demise?
Wendy heard a door open nearby, and heavy footfalls rushing, approaching. She stepped back from the door, fearing the man’s approach and putting as much distance between them as possible. But he walked right past her cell, then up the stairs, his shoes thumping against the steps in a fast, urgent rhythm. A few moments later, the child’s sobs ceased, and silence reclaimed its territory.
She breathed again, this time deeper, her lungs hungry for air, deprived, eager to fuel her weakened body in the brief respite she’d been offered. Another woman, captive, meant he might not come that night. He might visit her instead. Wendy’s head hung, ashamed for the relief she felt at the thought of another human being’s suffering instead of her own.
The sound of a thump coming from the same room nearby caught the breath in her chest. She tiptoed to the door again and listened, her own heartbeats too loud, thumping in her ears. The sounds of someone scraping the floor, something being dragged across the tiles, then light footfalls rushing out of the room and up the stairs in rapid bursts of a few steps, then a pause, while she most likely watched and waited, fearing her captor.
That woman had escaped!
Exhilaration swelled her chest with renewed hope. The brave stranger would soon make it to safety and tell people about that place of horrors, and cops would come and find her, set her free.
Her entire body pressed tightly against the door, she listened, visualizing the woman as she lurched toward freedom, every second bringing her closer to the door, to the outside world. Then her footfalls faded away, leaving silence behind them like wet footprints in heavy snow. The man was somewhere else, probably upstairs, and had not heard the woman leave.
A faint squeak marked the moment the woman opened the main door, bringing a rush of frigid air inside, sneaking underneath the door and chilling Wendy’s feet. She was outside… she’d made it!
Then Wendy heard the woman’s voice, hailing someone in the distance, by the sound of it, and saying, “Hey! Over here!”
Tears streamed across Wendy’s cheeks without her even feeling them. There were others… Other people out there who would soon come and set her free. That man would never touch her again. Never hurt her again. She’d soon go home.
But the woman’s call must’ve been heard from upstairs, because a door swung open somewhere above Wendy’s head, then the man rushed down the stairs and out the door.
Her blood froze in her veins and she covered her mouth with both her hands to keep the scream rising from her lungs trapped in silence.
When the first gunshot pierced the air, right outside the tiny window of her cell, she froze, hoping the man had met the fate he so deserved. But no matter how intently she listened, she didn’t hear his body fall and hit the pavement. Nothing, just a subdued grunt, and a woman’s cry of pain.
Then a second gunshot sent echoes in the valley, the sound ripping through Wendy’s heart. The sound of a body hitting the ground was the last sound she heard, before fear rose in her chest, suffocating her.
She climbed to the tiny opening in the wall and peeked outside, struggling to catch anything in the thick darkness. The window faced the ravine, but it caught a tiny section of the paved driveway at the side of the entrance. In the dim moonlight, she saw a woman’s leg lying on the ground, blood dripping from her ankle where she’d been tied up just like Wendy had been, the rest of her body obstructed from view by the corner of the house.
He’d killed her.
A wave of despair filled her lungs and she let it out, the cry searing her throat as she pounded against the door with both fists.
Nothing but silence met her agony.
Fifty-Seven
Detective
The first thing Kay heard was Elliot’s voice directing the collection of evidence from the cabin. He wanted deputies to inspect every room and pack everything they found in evidence bags, no exceptions.
She opened her eyes and blinked a few times until her double vision cleared and the two images of her reality overlapped in one clear picture. She was lying down on the sofa, covered with a blanket, and there was something at the back of her head that didn’t belong. Lifting her hand there, she felt some gauze bandage and tape, probably put there by an EMS.
She shifted and tried to rise, then gave it up for a moment, overcome by dizziness and nausea. She tried to swallow, but the excruciating pain in her throat made her regret it.
“You’re awake,” Elliot said gently, crouching by her side. “How do you feel?”
Kay tried to reply, but only a hoarse whisper came out. She touched her throat and felt it tender under her fingers, painful with every breath and every move. Grabbing hold of Elliot’s arm, she sat on the side of the sofa, pushing the blanket away. She recognized the pattern of the blanket and winced. “Are you kidding me?” she said, her words a strangled, raspy whisper.
It was one of the blankets the unsub used to wrap his victims in before burying them.
“Sorry,” Elliot replied. “We didn’t have anything else.”
She stood, a little unsure on her feet at first, but then found her strength. The cabin swarmed with cops, and daylight was breaking, coloring the windows in misty pink and purple. She went to the door and looked outside, curious to see the location of the place in the light of day.
The paved patio was packed with ATVs and four-seaters, and there was a crew from the fire department getting ready to descend into the ravine. There was no access road leading to the cabin, only a path through the woods.
“The children?” she asked, looking at Elliot.
“We found them,” he replied, after a brief hesitation. “We found Matthew and Hazel,” he added, lowering his gaze to the ground. “Ann is dead.” He gestured toward the ravine.
“He killed her,” she said, wondering how she’d gotten that piece of the profile so wrong.
“Seems it was an accident, an escape attempt gone bad,” Elliot replied. “But he made the other kids bury her.
”
“To silence and subdue them,” she whispered, realization dawning. “Can I talk to them?” she asked, hurting with every syllable that left her mouth.
“Social Services has them, back in Mount Chester,” he replied. “We took them out of here as soon as we could.”
“And the woman?” she asked, remembering the wails and pounding against the door she’d heard.
“She’s fine, as good as could be expected.” Elliot said, sadness seeping in his voice. Then he cleared his throat and continued, “Wendy Doyle, a tourist from Phoenix, Arizona.”
Kay stared at the rising sun, burning through the mist and promising a clear sky. She felt the cold air touching her soul, and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, her teeth clattering. Elliot took off his jacket, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Feeling the heat captured inside it warm her, she gladly slid her arms through the sleeves.
“I don’t know how you do this,” Elliot said. “How can anyone do this type of work for a living?”
She shrugged, the sudden movement igniting pain in her skull. “Someone has to,” she said, smiling sadly. “As long as people like Stevens exist, someone has to.”
“But why you?” Elliot asked.
She looked in his eyes for a moment, seeking the reason for his unusual question. Was he doubting her ability to do the job? After what had happened last night, she doubted it too. She’d thrown herself in harm’s way without thinking it through, without playing it safe. She could’ve been killed. Stupid bravado… and yet, she’d do it all over again, if that would’ve cut those children’s ordeal shorter, even if by a minute.
But what she saw in Elliot’s eyes wasn’t doubt; it was something personal and deep, something she was afraid to discover, unsure where it would take her. She veered her gaze away from his, deciding to give herself some time to heal before looking into those blue eyes again. “Because I’m good at it.”
She watched the coroner’s office load a stretcher over the top of a roll-caged four-wheeler and secure it in place with straps. As they were about finished, she approached the stretcher and asked, “May I?”
Climbing on the side of the ATV to unzip the body bag enough to see Nick’s face, she barely recognized him. Color had drained from his face completely, but there was still some of his deep-seated rage forever burned into his features, as if he wore a grotesque mask.
“Why do you think he let the kids go?” Elliot asked. “Some he let go, others he kept, but they weren’t hurt, not physically.” He shoved his hands in his jeans’s pockets, shivering. “You were right about that,” he added. “How did you know?”
She smiled. “Can I offer you that blanket?”
“I’ll pass,” he replied, jogging on the spot to warm himself up.
“He was reenacting,” she replied, taking a hand to her throat and feeling where it hurt the most. She could barely touch her skin; it would probably take her a while before she could feel normal again. As for forgetting what had happened on the eastern versant of Mount Chester, that was never going to happen.
“Reenacting? What, exactly?”
“His childhood,” she replied. “He was shunned because Meg Stinson, his mother, feared for the safety of his younger siblings.” She paused for a moment, wondering how much she wanted to share from the profile that had already served its purpose. “And me.” She tried to swallow again, and this time it wasn’t impossible. “His mother didn’t trust him to be around younger children. He was trying to prove her wrong.”
“So, he’s trying to do what? Raise them as his own?”
It was an intriguing thought, but the unsub’s pathology pointed toward a different explanation.
“He’s reliving his past, recreating it in detail,” she said, lost in thought. The theory made sense; everything Stevens had done pointed to reliving his childhood trauma. “Matthew Hendricks represented Stevens’s younger brother Sam, and Hazel Nolan represented his sister Judy. I believe that’s why he let Tracy go. Shannon’s daughter didn’t fit anywhere in the picture; his fixation called for one girl and one boy, and Tracy was extra. He wanted it to be as close to reality as possible, to prove to his mother he could be trusted with young children.”
“Trusted?” he scoffed, eyebrow raised in surprise. “Like that, holding kids hostage in the middle of nowhere and killing their mothers? Seriously?” He looked away, in the distance, something obviously bothering him. “I sort of know him, as much as a cop can know the prosecutor who puts him on the stand at least twice a year. Nevertheless, he never struck me as delusional.” He paused for a moment, while a frown settled on his brow. “Well, he never struck me as a serial killer either.”
She patted him on the elbow. “That’s why some don’t get caught for years, or never. They’re too good integrating into society, and no one suspects them. But somewhere inside, they have a totally different world, one fueled by trauma and rage, where values shift and reality melds with twisted urges and homicidal fantasies. They’re compelled to act on them, and they do.”
The ATV carrying Nick Stevens’s body disappeared into the woods, going at slow speed. She was done with that place, ready to go home, take a shower, sleep. But she had one more thing left to do.
Jacob.
He didn’t belong in jail, and she needed to tell someone he’d also been a victim, a prop in an entrapment play. Who could she call? His lawyer, for one.
“Dr. Sharp,” she heard a voice call her. She turned and saw Sheriff Logan, a slight smile on his lips.
“Sheriff,” she replied, her voice still coarse, barely audible over the background noise of the scene. “I wanted to ask you to set the wheels in motion for my brother’s release. He was set up. I can testify to that.”
His smile widened. “Already in the works, Doctor. Which brings me to the reason why I wanted to catch you before you leave.”
He drew closer and took something out of his pocket, but kept his hand low. She couldn’t see what that was.
“When Jacob is released, and I hope that will happen today, you’ll probably want to go back to San Francisco, to your prestigious job with the FBI and the glamor of big-city living.”
She nodded slightly. She hadn’t thought that far. She glanced at Elliot, but his expression was impenetrable.
“I can’t compete with that,” the sheriff continued, “but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try.” He opened the object he was holding and exposed a gold star affixed to a two-sided black leather holder. “I hope you’ll accept to stay and be a detective here, in Mount Chester, for about a third of the FBI pay and none of the glamour.”
Wide-eyed, she stared at the sheriff for a moment, then reached out and took the seven-point star, running the tip of her finger over the shiny metal.
“I’ll let you think about it,” Logan said, then took two fingers to the brim of his hat in a quick greeting and walked away.
“Well, Detective,” Elliot said, grinning widely.
He was beaming, so visibly thrilled at the thought she might stay that it made her smile.
“Not yet,” she replied. “I need to think about this. But I’m ready to wrap up here and hitch a ride on an ATV going to Nick’s house, where I left my car. I’m dead tired, and I think all questions have been answered here.”
“All except one,” he said, showing her a photo on his phone. “Your father’s knife.”
Her heart stopped beating for a moment. With trembling fingers, she took the phone from his hand and stared at the photo.
At first, she didn’t recognize the knife, photographed through the clear plastic of an evidence pouch. It was a hunting knife with a three-rivet metallic handle, engraved with his name, Gavin Sharp. It must’ve been a gift from someone, maybe his coworkers.
She closed her eyes, processing every implication of what she’d just seen.
The knife her father had stabbed her mother with was still buried, rusting near his bones, where no one knew about it. That was a plastic-handle
d kitchen knife, not an engraved hunting knife.
Then, how did Nick know about her father? Or did he? And where did he get the hunting knife from?
She remembered that Sunday morning, when she woke to find Elliot mowing her lawn, he’d sworn he’d found the garage door open. She knew she’d closed it the night before. Her father’s knife must’ve been somewhere inside the garage, and Nick must’ve rummaged through the junk in there until he found something he could use. Then he’d left the door open… maybe because Elliot arrived so early, before the break of dawn, and surprised him.
“I can understand how, as district attorney, Stevens had me arrested, and I understand why,” Elliot said, seemingly surprised she was silent. “Stopping the lead detective in his tracks can derail an investigation. As the case is handed over, details could fall through the cracks. But why did he bring your father into this?”
She didn’t speak, still wondering the same thing. How much had Nick known?
“What is it you’re not telling me, Kay?” Elliot insisted, a frown of concern appearing on his brow.
She repressed a shudder in the cold breeze. “Maybe he knew something I don’t,” she said. “He knew I was working the case with you; he’d known that all along. Probably he was hoping he’d throw me off if I’d worry my father was involved somehow.” She breathed in the crisp morning air, enjoying the sun’s rays on her face. “Too bad he can’t talk now.”
“Uh-huh,” Elliot replied, and she felt a pang of sorrow descending over her heart. She’d always have to carry the weight of what happened that night. She’d never be rid of it, and neither would Jacob. But maybe there was a way to live with what happened, to live a good life, free of the ghosts of the past.
“Ready to go?” Elliot asked, pointing toward an ATV parked a few yards toward the forest. “We can grab that one.”
She walked toward the four-wheeler quickly, happy she was about to leave that place, the seven-point star still in her hand. She tried to put it in her pocket, but it didn’t fit, its holder too wide. Out of options, she slid the back cover over her belt and wore it the way most cops do.
