by Rick Mofina
He’s going to kill us all.
Every vein in her body stood out as again, Claire battled to stand. Breathing hard and straining like a power lifter, she got to her feet. Slowly, steadily and by sheer will, she progressed to the kitchen for a knife. But Claire’s chair leg clipped the kitchen table, toppling the candle onto the newspaper, igniting a fire.
The newspaper burned in seconds, the flames spread to the wooden table, smoke rising. Thinking fast, Claire turned her chair to the flames and moved her plastic-cuffed wrist into them. The heat was excruciating, and she fought through her tears as her skin cooked, pulling against the restraint until it gave way.
As her burned flesh throbbed, she hobbled to the drawer, got a serrated knife and cut herself free as fire spread.
The flames now reached from the kitchen to the living room.
Claire seized the fire poker and ran into the bedroom where Robert was on top of Amber. Raising the steel poker like a club, her two-handed swing knifed through the air as she brought it down, striking him repeatedly. As he turned to defend himself, she continued beating him until he fell to the floor-then she stabbed him, forcing the poker’s point into his stomach.
Claire cut Amber free and began pulling her to safety out the rear door. By the time she’d returned for Julie, the fire had spread to the hallway. The smoke was choking, the heat was intense.
Claire had to get down on her hands and knees.
She cut Julie free. They started for the rear door, hindered by the flames, heat and smoke. Using all of her strength, she got Julie through the door, but Claire couldn’t get out.
Something had locked on to her lower leg.
She turned. In the churning inferno of smoke and flames, Robert had crawled on his stomach, bleeding and dying, to seize Claire in a death grip. His grotesque face contorted as he growled.
“I’m taking you to hell with me!”
65
Big Bear Lake, California
It was just after dark when the call came out of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.
“Captain says this is a priority, Lee.”
“All right, raise Marv. He’s at Thirty-eight and Pine Oak. Get Duke to send the Marine Unit, so we’re covered from the water and we need air support to stand by. We’re on the way.”
Lee Hespler, a deputy with the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department, was posted to the Big Bear Sheriff’s Station.
Any thought of a sleepy night shift had just gone out the window.
The urgent request from LACSD came from Joe Tanner. They wanted Big Bear sheriffs to secure a property on Vista Lane, belonging to Robert Bowen of San Marino.
If they were to encounter Bowen, they were to exercise extreme caution, meaning get backup, arrest him and alert the task force.
Warrants were signed.
From what Hespler gathered from the call, guys across L.A. and up in Van Nuys were executing warrants, as well.
As he rolled out of Big Bear and over Stanfield Cutoff, he grabbed his microphone again for his dispatcher.
“Allison, tell Marv and Duke no lights or sirens. We’ll keep this low-key.”
Hespler could get to the address in twenty minutes, but he’d wait until the others were in position, he thought as he sailed along North Shore Drive. It was not long after that, about eleven minutes beyond Stanfield Cutoff, Hespler would later write in his report, that he first saw the flicker of the fire at the Bowen property.
He called for fire and paramedics, then hit his lights and siren.
Don’t this change everything? Hespler thought.
Emergency crews found the cabin fully involved with flames soaring into the night sky.
After rapid work they kept the blaze from igniting the surrounding forest, but the structure was lost.
Paramedics rushed the survivors to Bear Valley Community Hospital.
The Coroner’s Office was alerted to stand by.
One victim with third-degree burns to eighty-percent of their body was airlifted to the Burn Center at USC in Los Angeles.
66
Big Bear Lake, California
Claire Bowen stared up at the hospital’s blurry ceiling lights flowing by as they wheeled her into the E.R. where emergency staff worked on her.
That was all she remembered.
When she woke the next morning, the horror overwhelmed her like a tidal wave and she cried out.
The nurse in the chair set down her magazine and went to her.
Claire was in a private room with a large window. When she lifted her hand to accept the tissue from the nurse, she felt the hospital wristband over her bandages, the IV tube in her arm.
She was groggy from sedatives.
“Can I get you anything, Claire?”
“Water, please.”
The nurse helped her sip from the cup at her bedside.
“How are you feeling?”
Claire swallowed and nodded her thanks, then finished drinking.
“Amber?”
“She’s stable, heavily sedated, but the doctors say she’ll recover.”
“Julie?”
The nurse blinked several times and Claire knew.
“She’d suffered trauma to her head. It led to bleeding in her brain. She did not survive her injuries. I’m so sorry. Her family in Minnesota’s been contacted. They’re making arrangements.”
Claire covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Then the nurse said, “Robert died at USC in Los Angeles.”
Claire felt nothing for him.
A short time later the nurse allowed Claire a private moment with Amber. She entered her room quietly, rolling her IV pole. She sat in the chair next to her bed. Amber was unconscious. Claire took her hand.
“Please, please forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
She held on to Amber for a very long time.
Back in her room, Claire mourned Julie as she sat by her window, thinking of her friend until more tears came. As she wept she tried to remember Julie’s smile, her laugh. She was lost as she struggled to come to terms with it all until they allowed Martha Berman to visit her.
“I’ll never understand what happened,” Claire said.
“It’s okay. It’s all right. Right now you need rest,” she said. “I’m going to stay with you in San Marino. I’ve been making calls. There are people who want to help you-Kallski at Irvine, and Constance West-Hatcher at USC. And they’re already arranging help here in California for Amber, too. She’s going to need it.”
“I want to help her.”
“You already did, Claire. You saved her life. You’re not in any shape to help her further. Let other experts take it from here.”
Understanding, but not understanding, Claire nodded.
“I’ve been in touch with Alice to take care of things,” Martha said. “We’ll extend your absence while we decide how to deal with your practice. We’ll take care of everything. I’ll be back to see you.”
“Thank you, Martha.”
After Martha left, a doctor checked on Claire while the nurse waited.
“You’ve got some first-degree burns, smoke inhalation and lacerations. We’d like to keep you here for another day or two,” he said. “Taking everything into consideration, you’re doing well.”
About ten minutes later, Detectives Tanner and Zurn visited her.
They spoke with her on the case for nearly an hour. They told her that they’d gone to USC the moment Robert arrived to question him, but he died one hour after his arrival.
Claire had no words for his death and looked away.
Through her tears, she cooperated but was still unable to overcome her guilt.
“It’s because of me that Julie’s dead.”
“No.” Tanner snapped his notebook shut. “It’s because of Leon Elliott, or whoever the hell he was.”
“It’s my fault. I should’ve known. How could I not know?”
“Listen,” Tanner said. “Leon Elliott was a
deceiver, that’s how he existed. He fooled air-industry security people, he fooled cops, he fooled a lot of people for a long time, but not you. You stopped him. It was only through your suspicions about him that Julie and Milt Thorsen dug into his past. Julie’s actions saved lives. Your actions saved Amber, remember that.”
Claire appreciated the kindness in what Tanner had said.
Zurn told her how the news of the events concerning the Dark Wind Killer was all over the internet-that press requests for interviews with her were coming to the task force and the hospital.
“Satellite news trucks from L.A. are in the parking lot,” Zurn said, “but you don’t have to talk to them.”
Claire shook her head.
“I don’t want to. I don’t want to answer questions about how I could be married to a monster and not know it, or how it feels to be the idiot psychologist. No one will ever understand.”
“I understand,” Tanner said. “Believe me.”
Claire found warmth in his eyes and the beginnings of her healing.
After the detectives left, Claire called the nurse.
“I need to know something confidential, something important.”
“Anything I can do to help you.”
“Does my chart show that I’m pregnant?”
The nurse cleared her throat.
“You’re not pregnant.”
Claire shut her eyes.
67
San Marino, California
The Forever in Peace Cemetery was situated on twelve acres of immaculate grounds south of Huntington Drive, west of Del Mar Avenue.
In the time after the funeral, Claire visited nearly every day, placing flowers at the headstone for Julie Dawn Glidden. Each time, she thanked Julie for saving her life, asked forgiveness and whispered a prayer.
It was her way of coming to terms with it all.
Healing a day at a time.
Like the burns on my wrist.
And whenever she could, Claire went to see Amber, who was staying with a friend in Torrance. For weeks after, Amber’s face still bore the traces of cuts and bruises.
“I have good days and bad days,” Amber told her over tea.
Her divorce from Eric was final. He no longer contacted her. It was over and she was rebuilding her life with the help of the “excellent” psychologists Martha Berman had arranged.
“Claire,” Amber said. “You don’t have to keep checking on me. I never ever blamed you. Eric’s loser relatives thought I should sue you. I told them we were both victims of the same monster. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be dead. I told them that he wanted to kill you, too. I got the whole story from Detective Tanner.”
This time, Amber took her hand.
“We have to move on, Claire.”
That’s what Amber was doing. During Claire’s last visit she’d noticed a bouquet of fresh roses for Amber. They were from Les Campbell, the Alhambra police officer. “He’s been very nice. I like him,” Amber said.
Now, as Claire sat on the bench near Julie’s headstone, a warm soothing breeze caressed her, as if nudging her to take the next steps.
After police had released the crime scene at Big Bear Lake, Claire hired a contractor to remove the charred ruins and erase any trace of all structures on the property. Then she listed it for sale. A film executive, known for notorious acquisitions, was interested.
Claire also listed the house in San Marino.
Martha was helping her transfer her practice, ensuring Alice would remain employed while Claire considered her future.
Listening to the birdsong, she thought of the business card in her purse from Mark Harding, a reporter with the AllNews Press Agency. He had come to her door several times.
He’d been respectful in his persistence that she break her silence and give him an exclusive interview. Tanner had vouched for him, indicating that Harding’s cooperation early in the investigation was critical. “But you don’t owe him anything. It’s entirely up to you if you want to talk to him,” Tanner had written in an email.
Yesterday, over the phone, Harding told Claire that he wanted to write “A dignified tribute to you, Julie Glidden and Amber. I’d like to tell the human story of what you did to stop this monster. You’re the heroes. You can set the record straight on any aspects.”
There were many. Word had emerged that Ruben Montero’s group, the Great Light and Hope Association, revoked its honor for Robert Bowen. Shaken by what some called, “shock, disbelief and betrayal,” the board also ordered that Bowen’s framed photo be removed from the community hall and destroyed.
As expected, there’d been a lot of online chatter accusing Claire of being “too stupid to live,” for being married to the devil and not knowing it. “Was she blind to his tail and cloven hooves?”
While Claire’s anonymous defenders said, “Ask the woman he saved in the freeway miracle if she knew a monster was rescuing her baby. This guy outsmarted everyone.”
Claire considered agreeing to an interview with Harding, but not today.
She stood and touched Julie’s headstone, then left.
As she neared her car, she saw another one parked next to it. Tanner was leaning against his front fender, arms folded, watching her.
“Martha Berman said you might be here.”
“Hi, Joe.”
“I don’t mean to intrude.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ve been getting calls from the L.A. County Coroner. They said they’ve been calling you. His ashes have not yet been claimed.”
“I don’t want them. I don’t care what they do with them.”
“Leave the matter with me. I’ll see what I can do to make it official.” Tanner took stock of her, her bruises had nearly faded. “How are you doing, really?”
Her chin crumpled but she maintained her composure.
Her voice was strong.
“I’m hanging on. Some days I need to be alone, some days I need to be with people, you know?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I realize that I’ve been very selfish in many ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was a child, I lost my family, and ever since, I wanted to replace that ideal, to have my own family, something to hold on to. I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense.”
“I understand about losing something and what it does to you.”
“I guess for me, I’ve been searching in all the wrong places for what I wanted. I guess that’s evident.”
Tanner thought for a long moment.
“Well, Claire, sometimes it doesn’t matter what you want. Sometimes it’s a matter of what you need.”
“Excuse me?”
“And right now, we need ice cream. There’s a place a couple of blocks from here. We’d love it if you would join us.”
“Us?”
Tanner nodded to his car where Samantha was waiting inside.
“My daughter, Sam.”
“Hello. You’re pretty,” Sam said, smiling.
Claire blushed.
“Hello there, sweetheart.”
“So,” Tanner said, “want to ride with us?”
“Yes.” She smiled back. “I think I need ice cream, too.”
* * * * *
Acknowledgments amp; Note
The inspiration for Into the Dark was loosely drawn from several real cases. While some readers might venture to guess which ones, I ask that you forgive any inaccuracies in the story. In crafting Into the Dark, I employed creative license, taking liberties with the geography of greater Los Angeles, police jurisdiction, investigative procedure and the field of psychology.
The completion of any book is never ever a solitary effort.
My thanks to Amy Moore-Benson, to Miranda Indrigo, and to the incredible editorial, marketing, sales and PR teams at Harlequin and MIRA Books in Toronto, New York and around the world.
Thanks to Wendy Dudley, who made this story better.
To Teresa Mofina for her ed
itorial help at the eleventh hour.
Very special thanks to Barbara, Laura and Michael.
It’s important you know that in getting this book to you, I benefited from the hard work and generosity of many people, too many to thank individually.
This brings me to what I hold to be the most critical part of the enterprise: you, the reader. This aspect has become something of a creed for me, one that bears repeating with each book.
Thank you very much for your time, for without you, a book remains an untold tale. Thank you for setting your life on pause and taking the journey. I deeply appreciate my growing audience around the world and those who’ve been with me since the beginning and who keep in touch. Thank you all for your very kind words. I hope you enjoyed the ride and will check out my earlier books while watching for my next one. I welcome your feedback. Drop by www.rickmofina.com to subscribe to my newsletter and send me a note.
Rick Mofina
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