by Laurel Dewey
“It’s John,” Bartosh replied. “I’ve wracked my brain. There’s nothing I can point to that Emman—” Bartosh stopped, “Lou said that alludes to where he’s holding the child.”
“He had to have said something to you!”
“I’m telling you the God’s truth! We talked about the things we always talk about. Salvation, our love of God, the future—”
Jane ran her fingers through her hair. She went through the basics in her head. Criminals follow patterns; patterns with victims, patterns with crimes, patterns with locations. She thought of Ashlee and Pico Blanco. “Pico Blanco. White Peak,” she muttered to herself as she grabbed the large map. “A peak could be a mountain. His Forum post made a strong reference to mountains. It was within a thread about ‘The Power of Sacrifice.’ Sacrifice and mountains! How do they interconnect?”
“Biblically?”
“Of course, Biblically!” Jane yelled impatiently.
“Sacrifice...mountains....” Bartosh repeated.
“Abraham,” Ingrid said in the background.
“Yes! Abraham was told by God to sacrifice his son on the mount of the Lord!”
Jane recalled Kit telling her the story. “Right. It was a metaphor for the Lamb of God...Jesus...who would be sacrificed on the same mountain 2,000 years later.”
“Exactly!”
“Well, he’s not headed back to Pico Blanco!” Jane stared at the map. “Wait a second, there’s a Pinoche Peak. It skirts the outside of Yosemite.”
“Ingrid’s bringing me the atlas.” There were a few moments of page turning before Bartosh returned to the phone. “I see it. I don’t know of its relevance—”
“I saw Lou drive north on Highway 41 and turn left. Based on approximately where I was that day, Pinoche Peak would still be miles away from where he turned.”
“Wait! He was driving north on Highway 41?”
“Yes!”
“That’s in the direction of our youth camp—”
Jane recalled the letters of the camp: CCYM. “Congregation Christian Youth Ministry—”
“No, the Congregation Christian Youth Mountain Camp—”
“Mountain?”
“My God....”
“That’s gotta be it! It’s not the same mountain, but it’s an offshoot of the same camp where there’s a peak of a mountain named Pinoche in sight. Where’s the camp?”
“It’s almost impossible to find in the winter. All of our signage is taken down.”
“You gotta give me something! Anything! A landmark?”
Bartosh struggled under pressure. “We...we have a large lake on the property where we do baptisms. Look on the map and you’ll see it. It wraps around a valley that’s about three miles off the highway.”
Jane remembered the distinctive body of water Bartosh referred to. She quickly located it on the map and marked it with a pen and arrow. “Got it!”
“Three cabins surround the lake—”
“Cabins? Shit! He’s copying exactly what he did to Ashlee!”
“I just realized something. The lake doesn’t have a name. But we refer to it as ‘The lake of sacrifice and resurrection.’ I think that’s your connection, Miss Perry.”
Bartosh told Jane of a gate that led to the property and gave her the combination. They said their good-byes as Jane focused on the map.
“What’s this about the camp?” Kit asked Jane. Jane traced her finger on the map, along the nameless roads, and toward the lake of sacrifice and resurrection. “That seems like an easy enough trip for you,” Kit offered.
“Shit!” Jane exclaimed. “The highway is shut down!”
“When the truckers leave, you’ll know it’s open and you can go.”
“What about Clinton?”
“I’m sure you can evade him in that Mustang.” Jane paced. “Lie down, Jane. You’ve got to conserve your energy for whatever lies ahead.”
“I can’t sleep. I have to focus.”
“I’ll wake you when the trucks leave. Get some rest. Do it for me. Please?”
Jane tiredly agreed. Indeed, she was too exhausted to fight Kit. Kicking off her boots and removing her Glock and holster, she crawled into bed fully clothed.
“Goodnight,” Kit whispered as she slid into bed and turned off the light.
JANUARY 5
Somewhere in Jane’s dreams, she felt herself falling. But each time, before she hit the ground, a wave of ocean water lifted her up. She could almost smell the sea air and feel the sting of saltwater on her face. The monotonous drone of whales whined in the distance. It was so deeply seductive. So soothing. So perfectly planned.
Jane opened her eyes. The room was dark, but she could see whispers of daybreak creeping through the crack in the drapery. Still half asleep, she realized the sounds of her dream still vibrated. She turned to the side table to see Kit’s tape recorder and the circling tape of whale sounds. Jane turned on the light. The covers were pulled back on Kit’s bed; there was the sound of water running in the bathroom behind the closed door. “Kit! What time is it?” Jane leaped out of bed and threw open the drapes. The last freight truck was preparing to leave the lot. Across the way, Clinton stood outside his SUV, talking feverishly on the phone and making frantic hand gestures. Jane looked closer at his car. His front tires were completely flattened. She spun around and grabbed her Glock and holster, securing it around her chest. “Kit! You said you were going to wake me!” No answer. “You’ll never guess what happened to Clinton’s SUV!” Jane grabbed her coat, cell phone, and the map. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a note on her computer in Kit’s handwriting.
Jane,
T.S. Eliot wrote that: “And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” Wise words.
I know you won’t be far behind me. Don’t worry about Clinton. I took care of him.
Kit
Jane ran across the room, bursting open the bathroom door. Kit had left the faucet running. The full impact hit Jane. “Oh God, Kit,” she whispered to herself. “Don’t do it.”
CHAPTER 35
Jane flung open the cabin door. Her earlier interest in the trucks and Clinton’s car trouble had prevented her from seeing that the Buick was gone. Clinton was still on his cell phone screaming for someone to get him alternate transportation when he saw Jane bolt to her Mustang. He wasted no time and sprinted to a delivery truck just as it was about to leave the parking lot. Jane peeled the Mustang around the truck and burned rubber onto Highway 41. She laced the car in and out of traffic, keeping an eye out for the blue Buick. Running the timeline through her head based on when the trucks left the parking lot, she hoped that Kit was only five minutes ahead of her. If that was the case, she figured she could make up the time by speeding. The only problem was the road. The rain had finally stopped, but there were sporadic stretches of soupy mud slicks that had to be maneuvered around carefully. Jane’s cell rang. Checking the number, she saw that it was Weyler.
“Boss! I need your help! I’m pretty sure I know where the kid is!” Jane ran down the details of the location, giving as many references as she could. “I need backup! You gotta call it—” With that, Jane lost cell phone service. “Shit!” Checking the rearview mirror, she saw the delivery truck Clinton had nabbed bearing down fast. Knowing Clinton, he probably used his name and the promise of celebrity if the driver did whatever it took to follow her up the highway. Jane pressed the pedal to the metal.
Forty-five minutes later, there was still no sign of Kit. The morning sun crested over the farthest peak, illuminating the puddles on the asphalt with a golden luminescence. The seeming peacefulness and staggering beauty belied what was taking place on the other side of the ridge.
Jane sped past the Shell station and The Hummingbird Motor Lodge. She’d successfully created distance between she and Clinton. The thought occurred to Jane that there was a gate with a combination lock. She had memorized the combination but not given it to Kit.
That was sure to slow Kit down. Checking the map, Jane slowed down and kept an eye out for several mile-markers she used for reference. Locating them, she approached three separate dirt roads on the left and came to a screeching halt. Jane scanned the map again, trying to determine which road led to the camp. Each road had crisscrossing tire tracks. None of the three roads showed a speck of disturbed debris left from the Buick tearing up the gravel. Jane was about to abandon the area when her eye caught the edge of a wooden sign that had been placed behind a large rock. She swung the Mustang into the middle road and got out to check the sign. In large, yellow, hand-painted letters, it simply read CCYM with an arrow. Jane ran back to the Mustang. In the distance, she heard the fast approaching rumble of the delivery truck. Jane gunned the Mustang up the narrow, steep hill, but her tires began to shift and sink into the wet earth and gravel road. Pockets of dirt and pebbles spewed from the rear of the Mustang as Jane shifted gears and fishtailed farther up the hill. The field of debris gave the trucker an easy heads-up to Jane’s destination. She snuck a glance in her side mirror. About 500 feet behind her, the truck began the tricky ascent. Jane spotted a patch of flat ground and turned onto it. She gained immediate traction and was able to speed forward with greater resolve. Behind her, the truck moaned. There was a loud clank of shifting gears, then the sound of tires losing their grip against the gravel. She was almost certain she heard Clinton screaming a stream of expletives as she gunned the Mustang up the hill.
Jane pressed forward another half-mile. About 1,000 feet ahead, she saw what looked like a gate. She figured Kit would have to be stalled somewhere at that point. However, as she moved closer, the image became clearer. The gate had been smashed and driven through, leaving only the remnants of blue paint against the twisted metal. This was a woman on a mission, Jane realized.
She gunned the Mustang through the broken gate and quickly came to a flat clearing. The Buick stood alone with the driver’s door wide open. Jane sped toward the car, sliding to a stop. Grabbing her cell phone, she noted only one bar of service. Hoping for the best, she dialed 911 and purposely didn’t disconnect the call. If Weyler couldn’t send help from his end, Jane figured the cell would have to function as a GPS beacon.
She raced around the Mustang, eyeing the Buick, and then scanned the immediate area. A stone-cold stillness descended over the landscape. The only sound was Jane’s pounding heart and rapid breathing. She spotted a footpath that led down into a thick stand of pine trees. Jane pulled out her Glock and steadily made her way down the slippery trail. The silence was heavy and held a tortured tremor. Two hundred feet in front of her, Jane spotted a cabin. She sprinted off the footpath and into the woods in order to make a stealth approach to the cabin. Coming up on the side window, Jane peered into the place. She saw nothing. Racing around to the front door, she held the Glock forward and kicked in the weather-beaten door. Inside, Jane spun around the large room lined with bunk beds. Nobody.
She ran outside, searching the dark woods for the other two cabins. Her gut twisted as a pervading sense of death hung in the air. Suddenly, the trees swayed slightly in the wind, allowing a splinter of sunshine to touch the forest floor. It was just enough to shine a spark of light against a metal stovepipe that sat atop a cabin roof. Jane headed toward the cabin at full speed, sliding across wet, matted pine needles. As she neared the tiny bungalow, she could see the front door swung open. A cold chill darted down her spine. Jane moved to the edge of the front door and then rotated into the cabin, Glock extended. The stench quickly gripped her senses. It was the fetid smell of sweat, blood, vomit, shit, and piss merging together. The main room held three single beds, a wood stove, and small table. It was typical camp counselor lodging. Visually inspecting the room, nothing seemed amiss. But the stench grew stronger the closer Jane crept to the far corner, where a door stood slightly ajar. With Glock outstretched and holding her breath, Jane inched open the door with the toe of her boot.
A narrow, cedar-walled closet stretched in front of Jane. Dangling from a chain, a dusty light bulb dimly illuminated the psychotic scene. Dried vomit crusted the corners of the closet while urine soaked the floorboards. Streaks of blood and feces spattered across a bedsheet bunched in the center of the closet. Next to it lay discarded pieces of duct tape and cut strands of twine. The infamous red leather jacket lay in a shredded clump, presumably for the child to use as a pillow. Taped across the main wall were the remains of the mysterious missing newspaper sections. Their significance quickly made sense to Jane. Lou had clipped the strings of words he wanted from each headline. YOU CAN SAVE YOURSELF and YOU MAY REDEEM YOUR SELF were taped low on the wall, eye level for someone prone on the floor. The word “sing” was shortened to “sin” in the banner that read, SIN! SIN! SIN! IT’S ALL YOU WANT TO DO. A slender mirror hung on the inside of the closet door. Taped along the side was the headline, WHAT WILL YOU SEE WHEN YOU LOOK IN THE MIRROR THE NEXT TIME? As expected, Jane spotted the newspaper photo of Charlotte from her Christmas pageant pinned to the opposite wall.
She spied the same black backpack she had found in Lou’s locker at the Motor Lodge and dumped the contents onto the cabin floor. Two hunting knives slammed against the wooden planks, along with a full roll of twine, duct tape, and an orange plastic prescription bottle. Jane picked up the bottle. The prescription was made out to Rachel Hartly and the drug was Ambien. Patterns, Jane thought to herself. He was recreating what he did to Ashlee.
“The lake,” she whispered. No sooner did Jane take a step around the cabin than she heard Kit’s screaming voice echo across the valley.
“Stop!” Kit wailed.
Jane reeled toward the sound of Kit’s terrified scream. She tore through the slick woods, her heart pounding in fear. Breaking through the dense forest, Jane emerged into a shallow valley that gently sloped toward the glistening lake. The scene 200 feet in front of her momentarily halted her movement. Kit stood at the rim of the lake. Lou, naked except for a loincloth, hovered with a hunting knife over Charlotte’s nude, unconscious body, which he’d placed faceup over a large rock outcropping in the shallow end of the lake. The brunette wig sat askew on Charlotte’s head. Lou’s countenance was driven, and yet disconcerted by Kit’s appearance.
“Lou, don’t do it!” Kit screamed.
“I know not of whom you speak, woman!” he yelled back.
Jane aimed the Glock at Lou’s head. But given the distance, pulling the trigger was a dicey proposition. “Let her go!” Jane bellowed.
Kit spun around, stunned. Lou scooped Charlotte into his arms and, still clutching the knife in his right hand, moved backward toward the deeper water. “My Judas has appeared, Lord!”
“Lou, stop!” Kit demanded as she slogged into the chilling lake.
“Kit!” Jane screamed, running to the edge of the lake. “Stay away from him!”
Lou lifted Charlotte over his head. Her limp arms dangled across his crazed face. “My lamb will be sacrificed and we will be resurrected in my Kingdom together!”
Jane lowered the Glock to Lou’s head, but Charlotte’s torso and arms prevented a clean shot. “Kit!” Jane screamed, “Get back!”
Kit continued to trudge through the frigid water toward Lou. “Lou! It’s me! Kit!” Lou’s maniacal eyes stared at Kit. A split second of clarity bled through the madness. “Don’t do to her what you did to my Ashlee! I forgive you, Lou! But the world won’t!” In that moment, he briefly came back into himself and lowered the child’s body from above his head. “Let this child go, Lou! Give her to me!” Kit stood within five feet of Lou, her arms outstretched. “Give her to me!”
Jane trained the Glock on Lou, taking measured steps into the lake. There was a tenuous pause between Kit and Lou. And then, the blink of clarity dissolved and the darkness descended once again.
“Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?” Lou bellowed into the wind. Suddenly, a cascade of small rocks tumbled down the slope behind Jane. She turned for only a second toward the sound. “It is finished!” L
ou screamed.
Jane reeled back around just as Lou plunged Charlotte into the water and thrust the knife with deadly aim toward Kit’s heart. Kit staggered several feet, falling backward into the icy water.
“No!” Jane screamed and fired off a round into Lou. He let out a bloodcurdling cry as he grabbed his bleeding side and thrashed through the lake to the shore. Charlotte surfaced, floating slowly on her back toward the deeper end of the lake. Jane ran to Kit. Her grey face was just above the lapping water; her eyes heavy as they stared skyward. “Kit!” Jane screamed, holstering her Glock and dragging her onto a bed of pebbles.
“Save her,” Kit whispered, a gurgle of death rattling in her throat.
Jane threw her jacket onto the rocks and strode toward Charlotte’s floating body. Lou collapsed on the ground, writhing in agony as blood gushed from his bullet wound. Jane reached Charlotte just before her porcelain face sunk into the chest-high water. Lou’s painful wails echoed across the valley as Jane carried Charlotte to shore. She covered the child with her jacket and checked for vital signs. “Charlotte? Can you hear me?”
The child turned her head slightly and whispered, “Mommy?”
Lou let out another scream of agony as he staggered back onto his feet. “Forgive them Father!” Lou howled. “They know not what they do!”
