by Mary Burton
Ann removed the box top. “Is there anything I should be aware of?”
“Goes without saying, it’s nothing you want the boy to see.”
“I’ll keep the office locked when I’m not here.”
“Read through the officers’ reports and the forensic files and give me your best theories. I’m trying to figure out who the hell this guy is and what’s driving him.”
“I’ll get on it as soon as Nate goes to sleep.”
“I appreciate it.” When they were away from the chaos of the crime scene, his unasked questions turned more personal: How was she really doing? Had any more reporters tried to break into her university office or ambush her at the grocery store? And how was it going with the community at large? Had they rallied around or taken a step back, as many do to victims of violence? “You take care. Call if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
Under the politeness, he sensed a rigid streak of independence. “I mean that. Call me if you need anything.”
“You’re kind. But I need to figure this one out alone.”
He followed her to the front door, offered his thanks one last time, and then headed to his vehicle. Too bad Clarke Mead was dead. He should have been punished for murder and arson and the pain and suffering he had caused Ann. Death had robbed Bryce of the pleasure of seeing him rot behind bars.
I pin the top half of the delicate skin to the board and stretch the chin section as deftly as I can. I am not known for a subtle touch, but I am going slowly here. It is important to be careful. Meticulous. Still the skin, which is starting to dry out, is getting more difficult to handle.
I am getting better at all this. Practice does make perfect, as Mom used to say.
When all four corners are finally pinned, I wash my hands, dry them, and reach for the scalpel. If it were a deer hide, I would use a pressure washer and skim off the underlayer of fat and flesh with it. But human hide is more delicate and requires a subtle touch. Which, as I said, I do not have. But I have discovered a quiet, meditative quality in the work.
My blade picks up the pink flesh and gently pulls it away from the skin. Spray from a water bottle rinses away the blood. Next will come the salting and after that the tanning solution.
It’s not a pretty process and would turn the stomachs of most who wear leather belts, shoes, or rawhide vests without a second thought. It’s dirty work, but the end product—a prized trophy—is going to make big headlines one day.
I am excited about the coming attention my little crime spree is going to garner. You might think less of me for craving notoriety, but we all want to be famous. We might demur and insist we do not like the attention, but we all crave it.
I examine the taut skin, and satisfied, I grab wipes and wash my hands again. Restless, I remove a beer from the mini refrigerator and then dig a DVD from my backpack. I pop it in my computer and hit “Play.”
The footage is not terrific. The lighting was terrible, and the focus went in and out. But there is enough to remind me of a special night.
The camera captures my hand reaching for the doorknob.
Twisting it, I slowly push open the door. The interior is dark, but I hear the scratching of feet and metal against wood.
I flip on the light switch, and the single bulb in the center of the room dangles from a wire and spits out enough light to illuminate the woman. I have stashed her in this small shed in the country because I have not found the courage to kill her yet. This is my second murder, after all. The first time happened in the heat of anger. No planning, no thinking. Now I am going to kill with intention, and it’s daunting.
This place is not more than a hunting shack, and the structure is not sound. Still, there is a heavy wood-burning stove fixed to the floor that gives me an anchor for the rope securing her.
I hold up the grocery bag. “I brought you ginger ale like I promised.”
She looks at me wild eyed. Her long hair is all tangled around her dirt-smudged face. She has cried a lot these last few days, but now is ominously silent.
I twist off the top and approach her. She flinches and does not reach for the soda.
“Go on and take it,” I say. “It’s real soda, not that diet stuff that tastes like chemicals.”
Dark eyes cut to the bottle and then back to my face. The prey is summing up the predator, wondering whether fear is more powerful than thirst. Finally, grimy fingers wrap around the bottle, and she raises it with trembling hands to her mouth.
I am glad to see her enjoy the cool drink. As I have said before, my intent is never to hurt anyone. Causing pain is a needless cruelty, and seeing her like this reminds me I have to get on with it.
She gulps the last of the drink, swiping her moist lips with the back of her hand. “What are you going to do now?”
“Let you go. I told you I needed time to think.”
“I want to go home.”
“You will. Today.”
“Why did you do this?”
“It doesn’t matter.” As I approach, she looks up at me with eyes filled with a blend of fear and hope.
I remove a knife from my pocket and open it. The blade glints in the moonlight seeping in through the cracked chinking sandwiched between the logs. She tenses and scurries back as far as her rope tether allows. “Are you really going to let me go?”
“I said I would.”
“I know that look on your face.”
Though curious about my telling expression, I ignore the comment. “You swore you wouldn’t say anything, right?”
Her bobblehead nod is comical.
“See?” I say. “You and I have nothing to worry about.”
Her lips falter into a smile. “Yes. Yes.”
I reach for the rope. The soda will have given her some energy, and she is scared. Never underestimate scared.
She gazes up at my steady hands sawing the blade back and forth over the hemp. She nibbles her bottom lip and tries to remain still. As the rope frays, the stress in her body eases a little.
The soda and this new hope are my last gifts. No sense being mean.
Without hesitation I jab the blade into the side of her neck. The spray of blood tells me immediately that I have hit a big vessel. I dig the sharp edge deeper, and her body arches as pain and shock rocket through sinew and bone. I step back and take a seat in an old rusted lawn chair in the corner, knowing Mother Nature will take her course.
“No sense in fighting, Sarah,” I say. “Lean into it. It’ll be over before you know it.”
Blood gurgles from her mouth, streams down her neck, and soaks her shirt. Her eyes transmit shock and then finally a resigned acceptance. When her eyes close, I sit for a moment, listening until her breathing slows to a stop.
Finally, I rise and press my fingertips to her neck. When I am certain she is dead, I cut the rope loose.
I watch the recorded image of my hands clumsily working around the contours of the woman’s face. I botched that job, and by the time I was finished, there was nothing worth saving.
I made a lot of blunders that day, which I suppose is why I watch the video over and over. I am never going to make those mistakes again.
CHAPTER SIX
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, August 18
10:15 p.m.
Ann had been staring at the gruesome images of the bodies found near Helena and now Anaconda for close to two hours. Classical violin played softly from her phone as she jotted more thoughts on a yellow legal pad already half-full.
According to Bryce’s notes, there were no missing-person reports filed in any of the jurisdictions around the time of the murders or in the months since. However, the hypothesis that someone might have reported these people missing assumed the victims lived locally, which at this point she believed was not likely. They either were tourists or seasonal workers who were here today and gone tomorrow.
On a map she traced her finger along the interstate from Helena to Anaconda. “Are you h
eaded south or southwest? Is this some kind of journey?”
Assuming the westward progression was correct, she theorized that this killer could be accustomed to working across county and possibly state lines. Many prolific serial killers had jobs that required travel. Truckers, salespeople, road crews. All were gone for extended periods of time, which gave the cover they required to hunt and kill. She pulled up Bryce’s name on her phone and texted:
Ann: Have you fed these cases into ViCAP?
Bryce: Yes.
ViCAP was an FBI database of violent offenders, but the repository depended on local law enforcement submitting detailed questionnaires on the crimes they saw. Given that most officers were overworked and underpaid, this extra layer of paperwork often led to offenses not being tracked.
Ann: Killers evolve. What about bodies that were burned but not mutilated? Or mutilated but not burned.
Bryce: Thirteen fit that criteria. Six have been solved. Seven pending.
Ann: Where?
Bryce: East Coast.
Ann: Dates? Locations? Is there a directional pattern in any of the cases?
Bryce: Stand by.
A rustling sound had her looking over her shoulder. She expected to see Nate, but when she did not see the boy, she rose, phone in hand, and stepped into the hallway, glancing toward his room and the bathroom. She peeked in his room and saw him lying curled on his side fast asleep. Quietly, she noted the gentle rise and fall of his chest and relaxed.
She moved to the front door and confirmed the dead bolt was locked. As she stood in the darkness, her heart foolishly pounded as she pushed back the curtains covering the front window.
Moonlight slashed across the yard and her car where she had left it hours ago. The trees swayed in a breeze. A cat howled and a dog barked. No signs of a reporter or that blogger Paul Thompson looking for an exclusive interview. Just the night, doing its thing.
“Nothing,” she breathed.
Her phone chimed with a text, startling her. She let the curtain fabric slide from her fingertips.
Bryce: Two cases include stabbing and mutilation. One in Kansas and another in Knoxville, TN. Both victims were female. Both stabbed. Neither victim was burned but the Tennessee victim suffered significant postmortem facial mutilation indicated by marks on the skull. She vanished in May but her body wasn’t found until early June.
Ann: Can you access the case files?
Bryce: Consider it done.
Floorboards creaked and she whirled around to see Nate. He stood in the middle of the hallway, dressed in blue pajamas that hit well above his ankles. His hair was sticking up as he knuckled his right eye.
“What are you doing, Mom?” He yawned.
“I heard a cat outside,” she lied.
“That must be Whiskers. He belongs to the people across the street.”
She did not bother to ask how he knew. Her kid had a talent for absorbing details. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard something outside.”
“Maybe it was Whiskers,” she said.
“What I heard didn’t sound like a cat, Mom.”
She stepped away from the window, laying a deliberately calm hand on his shoulder. “What did it sound like?”
“Footsteps.”
She did not want to stoke his worries because of her active imagination. “There’s a lot of wind out there tonight.”
“I also know what wind sounds like.” As they moved toward his bedroom door, he stopped. “I don’t want to sleep in my bed tonight.”
“Well, then you can doze on the couch in my office. I’ve a little more work to do.”
“Okay.” He rushed into his room, grabbed a blanket and pillow, and quickly brushed past her to claim the couch. He arranged his makeshift bed and opened a paperback.
“What are you reading?” she asked.
He held up the cover. “King Lear.”
“Wow.”
“That’s what Bryce said when we packed it. But I dug it out so I could read it before bed. Have you ever read it?”
“Sure, in college.” And never for fun.
He settled under the covers, and she tucked the edge close to his chin. “Did you like it?”
She dodged the question with another one. “What do you think of it?”
“I don’t know. Weird.”
She waited for more.
“Children play a part in their father’s death. It’s kind of odd.”
The play struck too close to home. “Where did you get this book?”
“At computer camp. There was a big pile of books for free.”
“Oh. Let me know if you want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
She kissed him on the forehead and turned back to her desk, but found concentration impossible as she listened to him turn the pages, which grew slower and finally stopped. When she looked over her shoulder, he was asleep, the book resting on his chest.
As he slept, she searched for little hints of herself in his features. The shapes of his ears and feet were hers. His sense of humor was all Bailey, and until recently, she had attributed his intellect to herself. Clarke had been blessed with raw cunning, which had served him too well, but he was by no stretch a scholar. He never would have read a copy of King Lear.
Nate’s intelligence now reached far beyond hers and Clarke’s. Nate was reserved, he loved science fiction and fantasy, he did not enjoy crowds, and he obsessed over the arrangement of his bedroom. He had eaten the same cereal for breakfast for the last five years.
She had slept with two men in her life, Clarke Mead and Elijah Weston. She had been faithful to Clarke, but during their brief breakup in college, she’d had sex with Elijah twice. When she found out she was pregnant, she was certain the baby was Clarke’s, and she had willingly returned to him.
She tipped her head back and thought about Elijah Weston. Even without a DNA confirmation, she acknowledged Nate and Elijah were carbon copies of each other. Anyone who saw Nate and Elijah together now could not miss the truth.
Outside, the wind whipped up, cracking tree branches that scraped against the side of the house. She gently picked up Nate’s book, replaced the bookmark, and closed it.
Ann had protected her son from one monster. And now she worried there might be another circling close.
Elijah had not approached her about the boy, but it was a matter of time before he claimed his parental rights.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Missoula, Montana
Thursday, August 19
9:15 a.m.
The hustle to get Nate up, dressed, and ready for his camping trip had begun early, and by the time Ann had him fed and ready to go, her brother and Joan were approaching her front doorstep. Nate ran past Gideon and Joan to his cousin, Kyle, and the two boys chatted as if they had not seen each other in years.
Gideon, a homicide detective with the Missoula Police Department, was two years older than Ann. He had a tall, lean body with broad shoulders. His dark hair had turned salt and pepper, and the lines around his eyes had deepened more in the last couple of years. Joan was short, petite, fit, and for as long as Ann could remember, had walked with a cop’s confidence.
Gideon hugged Ann. “Ready to go it alone?”
“I’m not sure about me, but Nate’s been ready for days,” Ann said.
“You can always come with us,” Joan said.
“I’ll be fine. There’s still a lot to get done here at the house and prep for the new school year. And I’m attending the autopsy of Jane Doe today.”
“I hate to miss it,” Joan said.
“I told you to stay behind,” Gideon offered.
“No, the whole point of this fresh start is not to let the job drive my life. I’m camping with you boys.”
Gideon winked at her. “It’ll be fun.”
Joan shook her head. “From your lips to God’s ears.”
Gideon looked at Ann. “Come with us. All this can wait. You can read the autopsy repor
t later.”
Since Ann had stepped onto her first crime scene, the thrill of the hunt had infected her blood. “No, camping is your thing. Never was it mine.” She handed him Nate’s pack.
Gideon hefted it. “Is this all? The way he was talking, I thought I’d have to hitch the trailer on the back of the truck.”
“Sergeant McCabe dropped off files for me yesterday. He helped Nate prioritize.”
“I hear you held your own at the crime scene yesterday,” Gideon said.
“I’m fascinated by the case,” Ann admitted.
When Gideon looked as if he would argue, Joan nudged him. “We need to get going. And your sister will be fine.”
“I won’t be within cell service range, so if you need anything, call the station,” he said. “Officer Smyth will be on call this week.”
“I’m fine, really.” She turned him around and gave him a gentle shove toward the boys, who were in the back seat, belted in and ready to go.
Gideon and Joan settled into the truck. Her brother tossed her one last worried look, and she scrounged for one last smile before he pulled away. She stood on the porch, waving as she watched the vehicle vanish around the corner. When it was gone, a breeze caught the ends of her hair, conjuring memories of last night’s noises, which had not been Whiskers or the wind.
She walked around the side of the house toward Nate’s bedroom window. There were a few sticks, likely culled in the wind, but nothing out of the ordinary. She tugged on the lower sash and discovered it was indeed locked.
As she turned, she felt a little foolish until she spotted a flicker of silver glimmering in the mulch bed. She knelt and picked up what looked like a chewing gum wrapper folded into the shape of an airplane.
Ann stepped back, held it up to the light, and studied the sharp, clean angles. As tempted as she was to crush it, she carried it into the kitchen. She carefully set it on the windowsill and poured coffee into a paper cup. As she sipped, she stared at the tiny plane that honestly should not have been threatening in the least. But it had been under her son’s window, and the precision folds and razor-sharp angles reminded her of Elijah.
