by Ted Dekker
THEY BROUGHT THE VAN into the garage for inspection. Daniel slid out of the Dodge Caravan’s cab, glanced around, then walked to the back, nodding at the mechanic in charge. He squatted and ran his finger along the edge of the right rear tire. “Decent tread. Can we get this up on a hoist?”
The mechanic headed for the lift levers on the wall. “Sure.”
He and Lori had arrived before the technicians, who would get to the van this afternoon. Lori had insisted he return to the hospital for a follow-up after lunch. Evidently the doctor wanted to keep him overnight for a battery of tests. Daniel had agreed, but not before spending some time with the van.
Together they watched the mechanic operate a hydraulic lift that raised the van until it perched just above their heads.
“So no luck on the other vehicles Eve left behind?” Lori said.
“Unfortunately, no. The soil samples matched local terrain. Typical debris from highways. Nothing unique. But the tires on both vehicles were worn thin.”
“Less tread, less debris and dirt picked up and sprayed inside the fenders.”
“Right.” He ducked his head and stepped under the right rear tire. A hundred thousand miles of wear had sagged the springs and corroded the undercarriage. He ran his hand over the lumpy metal surface. Felt like asphalt, which would yield them nothing. Most of the roads in the United States were constructed of the oily tar.
Daniel angled a work light on the tire and turned the wheel.
The technicians would remove all four tires and examine every tread for residue. But Daniel was after something different.
“What are you thinking?” Lori asked so the mechanic couldn’t hear.
He glanced up at her, saw the fascination in her eyes. “A killer is made in the mind. Years of abuse, a traumatic breakdown. It’s all about the mind.”
“You’re looking at a tire,” she said.
He returned his stare to the black rubber. “Am I? You see a tire, I see his choice. More importantly, I look past his choice into his world. The roads he travels. The stores he shops at. The women he stalks.”
“Imagination: the making of a killer, the making of a priest,” she said, quoting from his second book.
“One and the same. Fortunately, the same imagination that drags a killer into death allows people like us to understand him. We imagine enough, and every once in a while we get lucky and actually peg him. That’s what I’m doing. I’m trying to get lucky.”
“Hmm.”
Daniel returned his focus to the slowly rotating tire. Tiny pebbles lodged in the tread, several small twigs, probably pine from the brush where he’d abandoned it by Cave of the Winds. Some chewing gum or . . .
“You have a knife?”
Lori disappeared and returned with a knife and an evidence envelope. Her attention to detail was natural for a pathologist, but she seemed to thrive as much on fieldwork. He took the knife and pried a thin milky strip of what had looked like gum out of the gap between two treads.
“Looks like plastic.”
“Or wax,” she said.
He sliced through the material. Small black grains of something that looked like asphalt were laid into the cloudy substance. Dropping the evidence into an envelope, Daniel made a quick inspection of the other rear tire, then both front tires. Three of them had at least one sample of a similar material.
“Whatever this is, he drove through a wide path of it.”
“Assuming it was Eve, not the previous owner, who was driving at the time,” Lori pointed out.
Where have you been, Eve? “He already has the next hole picked out. Maybe two or three holes. He thinks ahead of us and puts redundancies in place. Three or four escape routes, more than one mode of transportation, at least two possible killing holes. He’s thought it all through like a chess player. Calculated, not passionate.”
“To make a point?”
“No. Because he needs to. Because it’s his ritual, and it must be observed with reverence.”
“He works alone?”
Daniel hesitated. “Yes. At least when he kills.”
She held out her hand and he set the sample in her palm. Their eyes met. His wife had accused him of making quick character judgments, and he’d never argued the point. Years of studying behavioral patterns had taught him to read a subject’s every movement, every look, every word, every breath.
But looking into Lori’s eyes, he felt as much the subject as she. She was studying him, piecing together his profile, deciding if she would trust him, pursue him. They shared a palpable intensity bound by the same passion for discovery.
Daniel’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He blinked and turned away from Lori. “Tell them I need the mass spectrometry analysis on that as soon as possible. It may be nothing, but we might get lucky.”
“Consider it done.”
He flipped open his phone, saw the number. Heather Clark.
Daniel stared at the black phone vibrating in his hand. Only one explanation for a call from her: Brit had told her about his death. Heather and Brit talked on a regular basis, he knew that, and he knew that Brit was keeping her updated on any progress with Eve. But the last time Daniel had talked to her was two months earlier. She never called him. Protecting herself, she said. From what? From any unnecessary emotional entanglement. It wasn’t like she didn’t love him.
The phone stopped ringing. He punched the accept button, hoping he wasn’t too late. “Hello?”
Dead line.
“You okay?” Lori asked.
“Fine.” He walked away and punched in Heather’s number. In all honesty he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about her any longer. He’d come to accept the fact that she was right about the barrier between them. Not just Eve, but his obsessive compulsion to hunt them all down.
“Daniel?”
“Hello, Heather.”
The line breathed static, and he knew immediately that something was wrong.
“What happened?”
“You okay?” she asked. “Brit told me what happened.”
So it was his death. “Crazy, huh? Can’t get rid of me that easy.”
“No, you always were stubborn. You sure you’re okay?”
“Apart from a hole in my scalp, a thumping headache that refuses to stay down, and the dizzy spells, I’m alive as they come.”
“I’m afraid, Daniel.” She didn’t bother with small talk. Never had.
“I’m fine, Heather. Seriously. And if it makes you feel any better,
I haven’t changed my will. The Ford Pinto goes to you.” He didn’t have a Ford Pinto, didn’t even know if any of the ridiculous old cars could be had.
“I don’t want any stupid Ford Pinto!”
“What do you want, Heather?”
The line quieted. Figured.
“I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t know if that—”
“No. Listen to me. I need to talk to you as soon as possible.” A beat. “It’s about Eve.”
“It’s always about Eve. You want me to give up Eve. You want me to let it all go. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Stop it, Daniel! I’m afraid!”
The urgency in her voice was new, he thought. Something had happened. Then he remembered that he’d died, and his concern faded.
“I’ll be back in LA tomorrow. Can I call you then?”
“Yes. Come over to the house?”
Something was definitely up. “What time?”
“Eight?”
“I’ll be there.”
ELEVEN
THE BATTERY OF TESTS that Daniel subjected himself to turned up nothing but what could be expected from a horrendous thump to the head. His loss of memory was normal considering the concussion, his headache would pass, his sporadic narrowing vision was consistent with trauma to the visual cortex. All were predictable presentations of such an injury.
But both Dr. Willis and Lori were more interested in finding presentations symptomatic of death and resuscita
tion, of which nothing was remotely predictable.
As it turned out, coming back from the dead, as it were, wasn’t exactly understood. Defibrillating a heart within a few seconds to even a full minute was no real mystery, but beyond that, luck of the draw had more to do with resuscitation than science did.
Near-death experiences, or NDEs, were a different matter. They were far more predictable and better known by science, never mind that most people would rather bask in the supernatural possibilities of the afterlife than accept the medical reason for the common experience.
Daniel knew that medical science estimated eight million Americans alive today had experienced NDEs, tunnel of light and all. Some while clinically dead, others during traumatic experiences—everything from giving birth to suffering acute illness.
He, on the other hand, had not, unless his memory of it had been suppressed. Of far greater interest to them was whether he was mentally stable after such a blow. And the answer became clear with each additional test: banged up but stable.
Lori left him at eleven, promising to return at seven in the morning to catch a private flight back to Los Angeles. The crime scene investigation had turned up nothing new on Eve. By all indications it appeared that Eve had done what he believed he was on the earth to do, then casually walked through their fingers to do it again.
The only break they might still pursue was Daniel’s sighting of Eve. He’d stared into the killer’s face and lived. But his memories had not. With time, those memories could emerge intact. Maybe. It might take days or weeks. More likely months, or never.
Hypnosis, however inexact a science, might jog his memory. At this point he would try anything.
Daniel threw back four Advil and retired, feeling defeated. Half-dead. Trapped by the hopeless cycle of which he was the most protracted victim.
Not true. Eve was a victim. A malicious killer, yes, but as much a prisoner of his own devices. The deep psychosis of most serial killers eventually drove them to claim themselves as their last victim, if not in death, then by subconsciously yielding to a growing need to be caught.
Eve obviously suffered no such compulsion. Not yet. He would soon begin final preparations to take his next selected victim.
The last time he sneaked a peek at the alarm clock’s glowing red numbers they read 1:12 a.m. And then he settled into a fitful sleep.
A scream woke him.
Not a distant shout for help, but a raw cry that crashed through his mind, repeating itself like a looped guitar riff with the volume twisted up full. Behind the piercing cry, a whisper rattled. An indistinct voice. Fear mushroomed like a noxious cloud.
His scream, he realized. The whisper wasn’t his, but the scream was. Terror woke him. And that fear became a sledgehammer when he realized that he wasn’t really awake at all.
He was conscious, but still trapped by sleep. A black form hovered at the end of his bed. A shadow against the darkened hospital room wall.
Not a face. Just a form hulking in silence, staring at him without eyes. Whispering.
Eve.
Daniel cowered, unable to move. His cry broke and then came again, tearing at his vocal cords.
Oddly enough, he knew what was happening. He was seeing what he most feared in his mind’s eye: the hidden form of the man who’d slain sixteen women.
Something smashed into his cheek, breaking him loose from his fixation. The dark form had slapped him?
“I see you, Daniel Clark.”
A slap again, on the other cheek.
“Mr. Clark . . . Mr. Clark . . .”
He opened his eyes and gasped. A nurse stood over him, speaking in a hushed voice. “Mr. Clark. It’s okay. I can see you, you’re fine. It’s just a dream. Just relax. Sh, sh, sh.”
Daniel sat up, clawing at soaked sheets that clung to his bare chest. He hardly recognized the face staring back at him from the vanity mirror. Drawn and pale—the face of an older man who hadn’t been touched by sunlight for a year. Spikes of hair stuck out from the black headband. His chest expanded and contracted with the muscles countless disciplined hours at the gym had formed. From neck down, this was him, staring back.
From head up . . .
Daniel took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and lay back down. “Nightmare.”
“No kidding,” the nurse said. She was an old, thin rail with short red hair. Actually, his face had looked a bit like hers. Death warmed over. Minus her ruby lipstick.
“You okay?”
“Fine. Sorry about that.”
“Happens to us all. That was a doozy, though. You need anything for your head?”
He touched his bandage. Now that he considered the matter, his headache was gone. “I’m fine. What time is it?”
“Six thirty.”
Daniel tossed off the sheet and stood in his boxers. “I’ve got to get ready. My ride’s here at seven.”
DANIEL TOSSED THE BLACK headband in favor of a gray beanie Lori had purchased for him, climbed aboard the Cessna Citation, and made it to the descent into LAX before the fear revisited him.
It was hardly more than a flash that spiked through his mind as the plane lined up with the runway, but for that moment Daniel was gripped with a terror so overwhelming that he passed out.
For just a moment. Facing a dark form at the end of his bed.
“I see you, Daniel Clark.” Like a clicking insect. “I see youuuu . . .”
He snapped his eyes wide. Lori sat in the facing seat, watching him with those bright eyes. “You okay?”
A side glance out the window showed the ground coming up—he’d been out for a second or two.
“Fine. Just nodding off.” He forced himself to breathe through his nostrils. You don’t start hyperventilating while nodding off.
She handed him a bottle of water. “You look like you could use a drink. Head’s still okay?”
“Fine, I said!” He took an open-mouthed breath. Closed his eyes. Settled himself and forced as much ease into his demeanor as he could manage. “Sorry. Just tired.”
Daniel stared outside and willed himself to find peace. The mind was a mysterious, often misunderstood piece of art only beginning to reveal its secrets to diligent researchers.
The results of a placebo study just released made the point clearer than anyone could have guessed. The power of belief in a drug (which was in reality only a sugar pill) had eliminated significant pain among 68 percent of subjects tested. It explained the majority of spontaneous “healings” attributed to belief in the supernatural. A prayer or pill, take your pick. Both can trick the mind into spontaneous, genuine healing.
Which was what Daniel needed now, gazing out the Citation’s window. Whatever sickness afflicted those who craved priestly prayers could not be more mentally disturbing than the fear he’d now felt twice. Heaven help him.
Mind over matter. He decided then, as the plane’s wheels touched the ground, that he simply would not allow the fear to return.
It came again an hour later, as he sat in his office, like a freight train that crushed him in one horrendous blow and then thundered over.
This time his body jerked once, beyond his control. A chill swept through his limbs. He effectively stifled a scream to a soft whimper by clamping his mouth shut.
Once again, the dread left as quickly as it had come.
He glanced back at the door to his office, relieved that he was still alone. Lori had started the autopsy, and he would join her after collecting a few items to take back to his apartment.
Daniel sat hard and stilled his trembling fingers. “Get a grip, man. You’re losing it.”
“A bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”
Brit walked in, grinning.
“What?”
“Talking to yourself,” Brit said. “You were thumped pretty good. Give yourself a break.” The man put one hand on Daniel’s desk. “So it’s true?”
“Is what true?” Daniel asked, withdrawing his Eve file from the credenza.
“Montova says you’re taking a leave to heal up. Not that you shouldn’t. Heck, you haven’t taken a day long as I can remember. It’s just hard to imagine. You off the case, I mean.”
“I’ll be keeping tabs, trust me. It’s not like I’m dead.”
“Touché.” Brit tapped the desk with his knuckles. “Anything breaks, you’ll be the first to know.”
“My primary contact is Lori. Montova told you?”
Brit arched his brow and offered a whimsical grin. “He did.”
Daniel set seven files related to Eve alongside his framed picture of Heather in a box, then scanned the room for anything else he might need. He would have remote access to his computer, where most of the information he might need was stored. This was his life: files of Eve, memories of Heather.
Turning the lights off, Daniel headed for the morgue, box under his arm.
He made it through the hall, into the stairwell, down the stairs, and was halfway to the metal door with the word Morgue stenciled in black letters above a small observation window when the train slammed into him again.
This time he involuntarily dropped the box and fell to one knee.
He pressed his palm onto the cold concrete to steady himself. Easy. Okay, just take it easy. The mindless fear was gone, but now a new emotion flooded his veins.
Panic.
He was losing it. A nightmare was one thing. So was a recurrence, even a third episode. But now panic attacks were closing in. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that his mind had suffered more than he’d been willing to admit.
Daniel staggered to his feet and ran for the door.
MAN OF SORROW:
JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS
by Anne Rudolph
Crime Today magazine is pleased to present the third installment of Anne Rudolph’s narrative account of the killer now known as Alex Price, presented in nine monthly installments.
1983–1986
ALEX AND Jessica Price, known in Southern California as Alex and Jessica Trane, moved into apartment 161 at the Holly Street Apartments on August 21, 1983, with the help of Father Robert Seymour. In order to stay, at least one of them was required to maintain employment. Alex started working as a dishwasher at Barney’s Steak House on Union Street the same week.
