Blood Ties

by Sigmund Brouwer

  It added up to four hours. At high speeds, then, with no traffic, yes, the person who had received the ticket could have been at Mad Dog’s cabin at three o’clock in the morning and reached – just barely – mile marker 325 on I-15 by 7:12 a.m., the time Fowler had written down.

  Still puzzled, Clay set the file aside and leafed through the next file folder. As he set the first folder aside, the report on Nathan Yancey’s death slipped out. Clay picked it up and noticed a single handwritten line written across the back of the final page: M. has no alibi for the night in question.

  He went to the other reports. The back of the report on the ski instructor’s death showed the same terse words: M. has no alibi for the night in question.

  For several minutes, Clay stared at the shadows on the dirt wall of the root cellar. The obvious question went through his mind again and again. Who was M?

  He finally turned to the last file folder. He found only a series of fingerprint cards. He glanced through them a couple of times, but nothing made sense. There was writing on the back of the cards, in light pencil that was difficult to see by the yellow lantern light: M’s prints match corkscrew.

  M? Murray Paul Evans, better known as Rooster? Corkscrew? The murder weapon found in Doris Samson’s body?

  When they spoke next, Fowler would have a lot to answer for. Why hadn't Fowler acted on the obvious conclusions? What had triggered him to gather the three separate reports?

  Clay shut down the hissing of the gas lantern. He lay back, not expecting to sleep. His mind would keep sorting through what he’d learned, trying to find impossible answers. It was the way he was built, and the way he had handled cases through the years.

  There was one crucial difference with this situation, however. It was not merely a case. Even if he could shut down his mind, sleep would be impossible because of his worries and fears and the sense that time was slipping away.

  Was Kelsie still alive? Was the monster with her, delighting in some of the horrors that Clay had witnessed over the years?

  It would have been easier on Clay if he had never tracked serial killers. Where other men could place their hopes and prayers in God and accept their own helplessness, Clay was driven by the sense that he should be able to do something. It made the helplessness and urgency that much worse. Where other men had no idea of the evils one human could do to another, Clay knew them too well. More than once, mercy had dictated that he lie to a grieving husband, holding back the details of the terror of his wife’s final moments.

  What details awaited Clay?

  10:47 p.m.

  The boy woke from a nightmare, staring wild-eyed at the dim grayness of the ceiling. It took him a moment to remember. His mother was in Las Vegas and wouldn’t be back for five days. He was at the old lady’s house in the second-floor bedroom.

  The boy heard heavy breathing. Then a cold hand touched his throat.

  The old lady boas sitting beside his bed!

  “Bobby...”

  He hated that sound; he hated her touch.

  He flailed his arm to strike at the old lady. His hand, which was above his head, wouldn’t move forward. He tried to hit her with his other hand. It took him several seconds to realize he’d been bound to the bedposts.

  “It’s okay, Bobby,” she said. “Your mommy is here.”

  “You stupid old witch!” he screamed. “Let me go!”

  She turned on the lamp beside his bed.

  For a moment, he forgot to scream. She was wearing a blond wig. Her face was ghost white with powder, her lips a slash of red.

  “I’m calling the cops!” his voice rose. “Let me go!”

  “Bobby, you ran away today,” she said. “That wasn’t nice. I worried about you the entire time.”

  He tried to kick at the bedsheets and discovered his ankles were tied to the other bedposts.

  “Bad boys aren’t allowed to go outside.” She kissed his forehead. “Mommy is going to keep you in bed until you learn your lesson.”

  “Untie me! You can’t do this!”

  She smiled. Her lipstick, smeared from the heavy kiss, looked to him as if she had just drank blood.

  “Bobby needs to learn not to raise his voice.”

  She kept smiling as she pinched his nostrils. She waited until he gasped open-mouthed for breath, then shoved a sock inside his mouth.

  “Can Bobby stay quiet now 7”

  He fought a gag reflex. He nodded frantically.

  “Good. Mommy likes it when her little boy listens.”

  She pulled the sock out and let go of his nostrils. The boy drew shallow, scared breaths.

  “Mommy’s going to read you a bedtime story,” she said. “Listen closely. We’re going to have so much fun for the next few days, you and I in our little room here together.”

  It was late evening. The Watcher had worked hard the entire day, juggling his schedule to take care of Anderson and Fowler and managing the difficult task of moving Taylor without getting caught. For lesser humans, it would have been impossible.

  And now was the payoff...

  For one delicious moment, the Watcher placed his hand on the trunk lock of the BMW. He had not yet covered his face. All he had to do was lift the trunk lid, and she would finally understand.

  No, he told himself sternly. There was power in remaining hidden. He’d exalted in that power over the years as he waited to have enough wealth to make everything right for their new life together. He'd gloried in the secret that she could not know who it was who watched her. When she was ready to give herself to him, then, and only then, would he reveal himself to her. Oh, what a moment that would be...

  The moment of temptation passed, and he lifted his hand. He was far too disciplined to succumb this late in his game. Secrecy was power. Power was secrecy.

  He pulled a black hood over his head to match his black raincoat and the black gloves he was wearing.

  He popped open the trunk. For a moment, she was still. Then she exploded into a frenzy of kicking.

  He’d been ready, of course. His eyes had adjusted to the remaining evening light. Hers would be blinking at the sudden contrast after the darkness of the trunk.

  He easily dodged her kicks – she was hampered by her bound ankles – and clamped his gloved hand over her mouth, pinching her nostrils with his other hand.

  She bucked and twisted.

  He smiled beneath his hood. Ether took away all the fun of a struggle, and he preferred causing her to lose consciousness this way when he had the luxury of time. Such wonderful spirit she showed. That meant it would be all the more sweet when she surrendered later to his complete control.

  He continued to press with his hands. The kicking and twisting gradually grew weaker. When it finally subsided, he kept one hand across her mouth and the other holding her nostrils closed for another ten seconds. He doubted she was faking her unconsciousness, but why take chances?

  When he let go, he waited and watched.

  He placed a hand on her upper ribs, enjoying the sensation of the steady rise and fall of her lungs. His love.

  After a few moments of admiration, he peeled the hood from his face and placed it over her head, backward, so she wouldn’t be able to see through the eyeholes.

  He pulled her out of the trunk, then he checked her wrists and ankles to make sure the bonds were still in place. Satisfied, he picked her up. He moved out of the trees and toward the floatplane on the nearby lake.

  It took some effort to carry her onto the pontoons and then into the floatplane. He had had practice moving bodies in such a manner over the years. The only difference was that now he held a living body, not a dead one. The Watcher set Kelsie down in the cargo area. Beside her son. The float plane would take them to another faster plane. Then, all three would fly to their new home. A family.

  10:54 p.m.

  Consciousness was a surprise to Kelsie. Her last memories were of waiting in the trunk so long she’d screamed against the pain of her cramped muscles,
so long she’d been forced to release the contents of her bladder. Her memories were of the horrible hooded face, of the hands on her mouth and nose. In her last memories, she had believed she was dying.

  But she was alive.

  Her wrists and ankles were still bound, however, and she was lying on her side. This time, however, the darkness around her face was complete. It took her several moments to realize a hood had been placed over her head.

  It took her only a few more moments to understand she was on a small airplane. The engines droned. Occasionally the floor shook from the unmistakable sensation of passing through turbulence.

  She heard another sound, one that took her longer to figure out because the wind and engine noise seemed to pluck the notes away at random.

  “Taylor?” she cried.

  The harmonica stopped playing. She felt a small hand on her shoulders.

  “Taylor!”

  His hands wandered to her face, feeling for the source of her cry.

  “It’s Mom,” she said. “Taylor, it’s your mom.”

  Taylor hugged her.

  She held her hands in front of her. “Pull the rope, Taylor.” It was a long shot. She doubted Taylor would understand the need to have the knots untied, let alone have the dexterity to actually do it.

  She was right. He pulled at her hands first, then her wrists, then at the ends of the rope.

  “My face,” she said. “Take this off my face.”

  His hands felt for the source of noise. From the sensations on her face, she guessed he had leaned over and was resting his head against hers.

  “Let me see,” she explained. “Lift this off my face.”

  Taylor remained pressed against her. Her usual frustrations returned. Words were the way she earned her living, yet words were not effective with her own son.

  She felt the warmth of his breath through the cloth hood. “Mom’s here,” she said. “Everything will be all right.”

  The airplane’s engines continued to drone vibrations into her body. Everything will be all right?

  She was on an airplane, hooded and bound by a man who had been stalking her since she was sixteen. It sounded like a small jet. Even a small airplane covered one hundred miles every hour. She knew that from hours of conversations she’d shared with Rooster, Lawson, and Michael. Twin engines pushed the speed up another seventy-five miles per hour or more. A jet travels four hundred miles per hour. Every passing minute moved her miles away from Kalispell. How could any searchers ever find her?

  Taylor lay down beside her. He cuddled spoon-style in front of her, the way he usually did Saturday afternoons with Clay, when Clay fell asleep on the couch watching golf.

  Kelsie felt remorse at the endless opportunities she’d missed with Taylor. If she had it to do over again...

  Stop, she told herself, you aren’t dead yet.

  She told herself she was a survivor, and she’d fight as long as she could.

  The engines droned, Taylor fell asleep, and Kelsie counted the seconds. She didn’t know how much good it did, trying to figure out the amount of time they were going to be in the air, especially since she had no idea how long she’d been unconscious from the beginning of the flight. But counting was all she could do. The alternative was to wonder what lay ahead of her when the airplane landed.

  Day 4

  6:00 a.m.

  Clay waited, awake, until his watch chimed an alarm. He called Johnny Samson, spoke briefly, dressed, and stopped by the cabin. George was already up.

  “Take this coffee,” George said, meeting him at the door with a cup. “The less time you spend here in the cabin, the better. Go on up to the bench. I’ll be there soon.”

  Clay accepted. the coffee and the instructions.

  Dew soaked the bottom edges of his blue jeans as he walked through long grass up the hill beyond the cabin. Clay wore a sweater and jacket so the early-morning chill did not affect him. Sunshine felt good on his face. He was grateful for a clear morning; after a sleepless, worried night, clouds and rain would have been an extra burden.

  The bench was not far from the cabin. George had built it from logs and set it into a clearing, which took advantage of a western exposure. Clay had been there on occasional evenings. In still air, with long shadows through the pine trees at the edge of the clearing and with the sun’s rays softened by dusk, the bench was – as George had expected it to become – a peaceful place for contemplative thoughts.

  Clay pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and sat on the bench. A distant chittering squirrel was the only noise to break the silence. He left the cell phone on the bench, cupped his hands around the coffee mug, and closed his eyes.

  He was exhausted. There seemed little hope the day would bring him rest. Or progress. He’d spent the night going through Fowler’s files again and again, but without speaking to Fowler first, little made sense. Nor had word from Johnny been encouraging.

  At the sound of footsteps, Clay opened his eyes. George was carrying a basin with two hands. He had a towel draped over his shoulders and a gentle smile on his face. As George walked closer, Clay saw the basin was filled with hot water, for vapors were rising into the chill air.

  George set the basin on the bench near the cellular phone. He folded the towel and draped it over the back of the bench, then reached into his back pocket and one by one handed Clay a shaving brush, razor, and tube of shaving cream.

  “First thing you do,” George said, “is put on a good face. You feel lousy inside, I understand. Shave, take care of yourself, like today is a day worth getting ready for; It will give you strength.”

  George was right.

  When Clay’s hair was slicked back and his face fresh from the hot-water shave, he did feel brighter and more alert.

  “I called Johnny,” Clay said.

  The old man looked puzzled.

  Clay pointed to the cell phone. “You think you’re out of reach of civilization, but you’re not. He says, as of last night, no fax arrived. He’ll call me as soon as it does.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Johnny tells me I made the news. You are now officially committing a felony by harboring a fugitive from the law.”

  George sighed. “This makes it worse for you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Clay said. “If I don’t find Kelsie before the sheriff finds me, it will be too late.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Everything in my experience points to it.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Wait for a call. From Johnny. From Russ Fowler. He told me he’d check in. I’ve got questions about the box he left me. Aside from that, there’s not much. I mean, if I go back into town...”

  “Teach me,” George said. “Tell me what you’re looking for. It can’t hurt to have another pair of eyes, old as they are.”

  "Sure." Clay smiled. He knew exactly what George was trying to do – get Clay away from waiting helplessly with nothing to do. “Maybe after this you can apply to the Bureau.”

  * * *

  They chose a spot just off the road, well screened by bushes, just below the cabin. If any cars passed, specifically cars from the sheriff’s department, Clay would have plenty of time to slip into the woods and escape.

  For chairs, they used firewood, tilted on end. The air was already warm. In the thinner mountain air, it heated in daytime as quickly as it cooled at night.

  Clay put the contents of the knapsack on a blanket between them. There were file folders filled with the reports and photographs, notebooks, and fingerprint cards. What George didn’t know was that Clay had already removed anything to do with Doris. He felt it would be extremely unfair for the old man to have to view the autopsy reports and crime-scene photographs of his own granddaughter, even if it had happened nearly a quarter of a century earlier.

  “From what little you’ve said over the years,” George said, surveying what was on the blanket, “I have gathered your job was to look into the minds of ki
llers.”

  “When wolves roamed this valley,” Clay answered, “ranchers hunted wolves by thinking like wolves, trying to look through the eyes of wolves, trying to understand what wolves would do in a given situation. My job was similar. I caught killers by learning how to think like them, by coming up with profiles based on their crimes.”

  Human hunters preying on human victims... What was happening to Kelsie right now as he and George spoke?

  “I can tell by watching your face this is difficult,” George said, breaking Clay’s thoughts. “Perhap...”

  “No. It’s not like I could get my mind anywhere else anyway.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes. A flock of chickadees, small black-and-white bundles of flitting energy, darted among the branches of the trees searching for food. When the collective chirping faded, Clay spoke again.

  “There are some assumptions I can make. It won’t hurt to share them with you. After all, whoever did this has been close to Kelsie in some way for a long time.”

  “I’m listening,” George said.

  “There are two types of killers,” Clay said. He’d lectured on this plenty of times, but he had never expected to be lecturing because his own wife had disappeared. “Organized and disorganized. Someone who has kept himself hidden for twenty-three years is not disorganized. So we’re looking for someone who has the characteristics of an organized killer. Simple conclusion, right?”

  Clay outlined for George everything he had been refreshing himself on during the night as he went through the evidence files. Whoever it was, chances were he came from a dysfunctional home. More than likely during early childhood his mother had been distant or neglectful, and later, when a male role model was important, he had been abused or punished by a father, stepfather, or mother’s boyfriends. He’d never learned what a normal, loving relationship was. All serial killers, without exception, had been subjected to serious emotional abuse during their childhoods, and many to physical or sexual abuse, leading them to lonely childhoods and disturbing fantasies that would eventually be acted out in adulthood.