by Andrew Mayne
“She’s in the house.”
“I need to talk to her.”
The paramedic steps back and takes off his gloves. “That’s going to be up to these men.”
Detectives Glenn and Whitmyer are standing off to the side. There’s a third man I don’t recognize.
I remember why I came here. The flashing red lights of the ambulance reflect off the trees in the woods behind it, and I get a knot in my stomach, feeling suddenly exposed. I want to shout out, to warn them, but I’m afraid it’ll only make me look crazier.
My shirt is ripped down to my chest, and there’s a Band-Aid right where I felt the exploding pain. Someone—probably one of the cops standing in the street wearing camouflage—shot me with a stun gun. I guess I should be happy it wasn’t a real gun, but I still feel sore all over.
They must have been waiting for me. And that means they probably never bought my faked death, or didn’t take long to see through it.
A man I don’t know takes a seat on the porch deck next to me. He’s wearing a black windbreaker and has a real clean-cut face. If I had to guess, he’s some kind of federal agent.
“Dr. Cray, do you feel like talking?”
“Is Jillian safe?”
“Yes. She’s inside.”
“What about Gus?”
“He’s inside, too. Care to tell us what you’re doing here? Or, for that matter, why you’re alive?”
My eyes are still on the woods. “The killer. He said he’d hurt them if I talked to you.”
“Did he? When did he tell you this?”
“Two days ago.”
“Was this in person? Did he write you a letter?”
I turn to the man. “Why are you patronizing me?”
“Am I? I’m just trying to figure some things out. Let’s talk about your confession.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Special Agent Seward with the FBI. You came to my attention after you started finding all those bodies. Ones you now say you planted.”
“That was a lie.”
“Really? It was a convincing lie.”
My mind finally focuses. “Seward, listen to me very carefully.” I speak up so Whitmyer and Glenn can hear me. “The man who killed those women. The man who killed Juniper Parsons. I know who he is.”
“Joshua Lee Clark,” says Seward.
“Yes, but that’s not his name now. He left Montana and came back with a new identity.”
“Okay, what is his name now?”
“I don’t know.”
Seward makes a smug little grin and turns to the others. “Well, that’s not very helpful.”
“They know who he is,” I say. “They’ve probably talked to him dozens of times.”
“Gentlemen?” Seward says sarcastically. “Have anything you need to tell me?”
Whitmyer rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but Glenn is listening intently. “Who is he?” he asks me.
I ignore Seward and speak directly to Glenn. “He knew Juniper was stranded. He drove past Chelsea and the others. He knew when someone was from out of town and didn’t have any connections.”
“And how is this?” asks Seward, trying to take control of the conversation.
I stare at him, unflinching. “Because he’s the fucking tow-truck driver. He’s the first person you call when you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with a flat tire or your car runs out of gas. He’s the one you tell your whole story to when you sit in the cab.” I look up to Whitmyer. “Did you ever find Chelsea’s car?”
“No . . .”
“No. But we found her body. Somebody hauled her car away.”
Seward stands up and walks over to Whitmyer and Glenn to talk. I can tell this has hit him by surprise. From his dismissive attitude, I got the sense that he believed my confession but not my death. He wasn’t really expecting me to name someone.
Glenn is nodding his head. Whitmyer is shaking his. They have a name in mind. They know who I’m talking about. They just don’t want to accept it.
“Who is he? What’s his name?” I shout.
Seward turns and glares at me. “Just wait.”
“Wait? My family isn’t safe. Nobody is safe!” I’m frantic. “Let me talk to Jillian. Jillian!”
There are footsteps behind me. I turn and see her standing at the door.
“Theo!” She puts a hand to her mouth when she sees the handcuffs.
“Go back inside!” shouts Seward.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“He’s coming for you and me and Gus and anyone else,” I yell.
“Who?”
“The tow truck guy. Whoever has this area and Filmount.”
“Joe Vik?” she says, then looks at the gathered cops. “Is this true?”
“We don’t know anything about that,” says Whitmyer. “We’re going to send someone to go talk to Joe.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with him?” I ask incredulously.
“Shut up, Dr. Cray,” snaps Whitmyer, “or we’ll have you tased again.”
“You don’t understand.”
Whitmyer pushes past Seward and crouches down in front of me. He shoves a finger in my face. “I’m sick and tired of your bullshit. Keep your mouth shut!”
“You don’t know what you’re messing with,” I say under my breath.
“Oh, really? What are you going to do?”
“Not me, dumb ass. Him! This Joe Vik. He’s a killer!”
“I’ve known him for twenty years. You’ve been here what, two weeks? I have a pretty good idea what I’m dealing with here.”
Glenn steps over and tries to calm things down. “Dr. Cray, we’ll take him in for questioning. We’ll see if his story matches up. This is under control.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. I’ve looked at his patterns. He’s not a man. He’s a monster that’s excellent at pretending he’s one of us, but all he really wants to do is kill. The bodies I found, they’re only part of it. This is only the beginning.”
A police radio crackles in the cool air, and we all freeze as a dispatcher calls out, “Officer down! Backup requested at 239 Valley Pine. I repeat, officer down.”
Whitmyer looks to the nearest Hudson Creek police officer and says, shocked, “That’s Joe’s place.” He runs to his police cruiser and motions for his other cops to follow. “Let’s go!”
“You want backup?” asks Seward.
Whitmyer gestures to a cop and points to me. “Keep track of that asshole!”
“Goddamn fool,” I reply. “He doesn’t understand. None of you do. Joe Vik has been waiting for this day. All these years, killing in secret. Hiding. Now he doesn’t have to. He gets to show you what he really is.”
“What do you mean?” asks Glenn.
“All he wants to do is kill.”
“I think our cops can manage this,” says Seward.
“How long has it been? Ten minutes? You’ve already got one, probably two officers down. Vik was waiting for them. He’s going to kill Whitmyer and the others. Then he’s going to come here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
PERIMETER DEFENSE
Seward is pacing around the yard, his hands clenched in fists pressed to his hips as he listens to the radio from the remaining Hudson Creek police officer at Jillian’s home.
The reports have been sporadic. A second police unit approached Joe Vik’s home and found one officer sprawled out in the driveway and the other crouched behind his cruiser, bleeding from the neck.
All we’ve heard from Whitmyer is that they are approaching the house and taking positions around the property to try to contain him.
Glenn has been on his phone talking to Filmount County, prepping them on what’s happened so far. I’ve overheard him say “Joe Vik” at least three times. I don’t think he knows him as well as Whitmyer, but he seems to be aware of the man.
The door opens, and Jillian steps out onto the porch and
takes a seat next to me.
“Ma’am, we need you to step back inside the house,” says Seward.
“Technically, I think I can ask you to leave my property.”
“Interfering with an arrest is a crime,” he replies.
Jillian nods to my handcuffs. “It looks like you arrested him. What is there left to interfere with?”
Seward turns away to check the radio.
“We’ve formed a perimeter. I’m going to get on the PA and ask Joe to come out,” says Whitmyer over the radio.
“Tell him to hold back and call in a SWAT unit,” I shout.
“Maybe we let Whitmyer do his thing?” says Seward.
Glenn stops talking to listen to the radio. “Maybe Whitmyer should hold off?”
“He and Joe go back. Probably better he deescalates it this way,” says a Hudson Creek deputy.
“What’s going on?” Jillian whispers to me.
“Joe Vik is going ballistic on the police. At least two cops are down.”
“Joe Vik . . . huh.”
“Who is he?”
“Joe runs the tow service, owns a parts yard and some other businesses. Sponsors Little League.”
“Yeah, but who is he?”
“Everybody knows him, but I don’t know if anybody knows him that well. He has a wife and two daughters. I think from her first marriage.”
Damn. I yell to the deputy, “Get someone who knows the wife and kids to call them!”
He waves me off. Seward glares at me.
“You don’t think he’ll hurt them?” asks Jillian.
“They’re probably already dead. They were a disguise. Now that they’re not needed anymore . . .”
People are beyond my understanding, but animals I can grasp.
“Going—” Whitmyer’s voice is stopped by the sound of rapid-fire shooting.
“Was that a TAR-21?” asks the deputy, his face wide with shock. “I need to go to this.”
He runs over to his squad car, turns the lights on, and races off.
“Can you get their channel?” Seward yells to the paramedic, still standing by.
“I’ll check,” he says, then starts flipping through frequencies on his radio.
Seward turns to Glenn. “Jesus Christ. How far out are your people?”
“Twenty minutes.” He points toward me. “Let’s all go inside and find out what we’re dealing with.” Glenn grabs me by my arm, helps me to my feet, and steers me through the door.
“Can’t you take the handcuffs off?” asks Jillian, following us in.
“This man is a suspected felon,” replies Seward. He shuts the door after us. “They stay on.”
“Let’s at least put them in front of him,” says Glenn. He takes out his keys and unlocks one cuff so I can bring them to the front of my body. “Sit down.”
I drop onto Jillian’s couch and realize how sore my arms are. She takes a seat next to me. Seward gives her a look, but she ignores him.
“What does Joe Vik look like?” I ask.
“Big guy,” says Glenn. “Maybe six and a half foot. Built like a linebacker. Red hair and beard. Quiet. Hard to imagine him as some stealthy killer.”
“Well, when he was leaner they used to mistake him for a cougar. Now he pretends he’s a bear.”
“Pretend to be a bear?” Seward is shaking his head. “I’m still not sure I buy your theory.”
“So, do you think an actual grizzly with a machine gun just killed those police officers?”
Glenn cuts me off. “Why do you think he’s coming for you? Revenge?”
“No. I don’t think he feels that the way we do. He said he’d kill Jillian and Gus if I didn’t do as he said. I think he puts a high value on following through on those kinds of threats. But that could be today or ten years from now. As far as I’m concerned, he wants me dead for a very practical reason—once he escapes, he wants to make sure that he can’t be found again.”
“And you’re the only guy that can do that?” Seward says derisively.
I glare at the asshole. “I’m the only guy that knew he existed. Where was the FBI during all this? Where were any of you? I had to literally drag up bodies to drop on your doorstep to prove my point. Even then—”
“Bodies you said you tampered with,” Seward cuts in.
“Jesus Christ. Are you still on that? Look around you! I made that whole thing up so he wouldn’t go after Jillian. I didn’t have a choice.”
“You could have contacted us.”
I groan. “To do what? You think Whitmyer is just playing radio hide-and-seek? The man is dead. I tried to warn him. But no!”
“All right,” says Glenn. “What do we need to know now?”
“Once he gets past the cops, he’ll probably be coming here.”
“Assuming he gets past the backup units,” replies Seward.
“He’s probably already left his house. He shot Whitmyer to draw everyone there.” I motion to the street. “The Hudson Creek cops already took off.”
“And you think he’s coming here?” asks Glenn.
“He’s coming to where he thinks I am. Here or the Hudson Creek police station.”
Seward shakes his head. “He’s not going to attack a police station.”
“How many cops do you think are there right now? One? Two?”
The paramedic steps inside and has a stricken expression on his face. “I just heard on the radio. Five down, possibly dead, including Whitmyer. They went into the house and found Vik’s wife and kids dead, too. Bullets to the head, killed in their bedrooms.”
“He did that before the cops even showed up,” I say, feeling a heaviness at the back of my throat. Guilt. “Vik probably did that the moment he heard my death may have been faked.”
“What about Vik?” Seward asks the paramedic.
“Gone. They’re not sure how. But they say he’s gone.”
“All right, we’re taking my car, the ambulance, and your car to my office,” Glenn says.
“That’s five times as far away as Hudson Creek PD,” says Seward.
“You’re welcome to hang around there when Vik shows up. I’d rather take my chance somewhere we can defend.”
Seward makes a disgusted sound. “He’s just one man.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
SAFE HOUSE
The ambulance wails ahead of us as we race down the highway toward Filmount County. Glenn drives, Seward is shotgun, and Jillian sits in the back next to me, her hands cupped around my handcuffed fists.
She’s still trying to make sense of things. “So he’s really coming for you?” she asks.
“If he thinks he can get to me, then yes. He would have killed me before, but he thought he had a perfect way to tidy things up and buy time.”
“By asking you to kill yourself?”
“Yes. I think he was expecting me to run to you if I didn’t go to the cops or do as he asked. He may have been near your place waiting.”
“Why doesn’t he just run?” asks Seward. “It’s what I would do.”
“As I said, he’s afraid that I’ll help you catch him. But he overestimates me.”
“So he comes straight at us? I don’t see it.”
“It won’t be straight. We won’t see it coming.”
“I’ll have more manpower in the next two hours than he knows how to deal with. He won’t see it coming.”
“I hope you’re right, but I don’t think he’ll go down easily. He took out the Hudson Creek cops because they underestimated him. When he comes for me, it’ll be indirect.”
“You think you know this guy?” asks Glenn.
“All I know are a bunch of numbers and equations that relate to him. Those bodies I found in the woods aren’t his only kills or type of victim. You said he ran several different businesses? Do you know who has been moving meth around your counties? How many warrants do you have out for dealers that you can’t locate?”
“You’re saying he’s a drug dealer, too?”
says Seward.
“Anybody seen the two junkies that helped me find Chelsea Buchorn’s body? You think they could go this long without getting stopped for some minor infraction?”
“He got them?” asks Glenn.
“That’d be my bet. I think killing is both a hobby and a profession for him.”
“Maybe so,” says Seward, “but serial killers run—they don’t try to pull a Terminator.”
“What do you know about a man like Vik? How many serial killers have we ever encountered that were this prolific?”
“How prolific?” asks Glenn.
“We won’t know until we start retracing his steps. But a conservative estimate? Three hundred.”
“Three hundred people?” Seward sneers. “Somebody has an inflation problem here.”
“Yeah? Ten or more a year over thirty years. Do the math yourself. Then take a look at Montana missing-persons numbers and ask yourself why they’re higher than Florida or California. It’s not just reporting anomalies. It indicates the presence of a highly active serial killer.”
“Yeah, but three hundred?” says Glenn.
“Gary Ridgway, the Green River killer, murdered forty-two women in just a two-year period. He wasn’t caught for another two decades. He had an IQ of eighty-two. How intelligent does Joe Vik strike you?”
“Very.”
“So if a low-IQ necrophiliac who liked to return to the woods to have sex with his victims can kill that many women in such a short span of time and get away with it for twenty years, how much damage do you think someone like Vik could do?”
“Three hundred people?” says Seward, still rolling the number around.
“Conservatively.”
“We’ve never seen anything like that.”
“That you know about. Ridgway left lots of DNA evidence. Gacy left bodies under his house. Robert Hansen, the guy that abducted hookers and hunted them down in the Alaskan woods, did this over thirty times and was only discovered when one of his victims managed to escape.
“I ran the numbers. Here’s a cold fact for you: statistically speaking, you don’t catch the majority of highly organized serial killers. And the really expert ones, the killers that don’t leave DNA, don’t kill within five miles of where they live, and carefully choose their victims and method of burial, you don’t even know they exist. You don’t have profiles for them at Quantico because you’ve never knowingly encountered one.”
