by Rodd Clark
But he was thinking about Chris, just not about it with any remorse. Gabe was playing out in his head how much sex could be different with a man, since Chris was the only one he’d had any experience with, he had to use his body as an example. He thought about his want of going down on a woman because it had been a while since he’d done that. The last few times he’d simply screwed outright; there wasn’t any emotion or even passion to the act. It was the artless act of getting his rocks off. But this Shea girl had made him want to lap her up like a puppy attracted to a smell. He’d been eager to taste her for his own drive, and he’d liked it. He rarely even sucked Chris off—he was a machine who liked to get greased and move swiftly through the motions.
“WELL, SHEA, we should do that again soon . . . and I still need to pose naked for you,” he said with a rich, honeyed voice, breaking the painful silence between them.
“I wouldn’t mind doing it again, but for your drawing you’ve given me plenty to work with.” Even as she said it, she regretted it. She would surely enjoy fucking him again, and seeing him naked, laid out before her while she sketched him would be as sinfully delicious as the act itself. Shea was unlike many artists she knew. She could arouse herself with her own drawings, which may have been why she started the picture of the man across the way when she did. She had felt the dampness growing in her when she first took her charcoal stick to paper and envisioned that studly man in her mind as she worked feverously.
Then it came, the casual, ineptitude of strangers after sex, where she did the only thing she knew to do that might guarantee her escape from the moment. She made the groping gestures of straightening her clothing and then walked over and bent over the bed; she offered him a rather innocuous kiss on the lips. She noticed he hadn’t opened to her gesture, and she rummaged for excuses of why she needed to leave. He didn’t try to stop her departure, taking it in like a sponge and holding it. He did smile back, he even thanked her again, but he thanked her for her drawing, not what they’d just done.
She knew the man was terribly experienced, as much as she knew herself to be a novice. Why then, didn’t he try to help her? He didn’t rise to walk her to the door; he didn’t offer conciliatory words that might ease the tension she felt. He could have done anything to help her, she thought, but he seemed to enjoy her lack of sophistication and green mishandling of an awkward moment. As she bent down to kiss him, she could sense her own smell, the perfumed mixture of her vagina and her excitement. Her hand fell to his chest to support her, landing on the massive expanse of hair and muscle. She noticed a twitching already starting to stir his manhood, and however brief their exchange had been, she wondered, Is he good to go again?
Outside his door, she made the walk of shame back to her apartment, her stomach twisting into knots. She was amazed at herself by what she’d done, but she was excited that she had done it all. She was evolving into someone who wasn’t as afraid of life; either that or I’m just becoming a whore. But she was happy, more in herself than what she’d done. For Shea this was an accomplishment, a watermark she would not soon forget. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but she was pleased and sexually satisfied despite her reservations.
As she turned the latch in the safety and dark of her apartment, she leaned her back against the door and exhaled deeply. Part of her felt as if she were a giddy schoolgirl, where another part felt the experience had been a necessary function in becoming an adult. Everyone needs to have a few dirty scandals in their lives, and this might be the beginning of hers. Her thoughts became clouded in that second, because as a good girl she had to consider what her mother might’ve said to her in that moment if she’d been alive. Would she scold her for being such a tramp? She didn’t think so. She imagined her mother would hold her daughter in her arms, tell her a few of those intricate secrets of being a woman, and feel the same pride she felt in taking a chance . . . because life was only missed opportunities and gambles for bravery.
She wanted to shower and crawl into bed in the dark. She wanted to languish there in the sated imprint of her satisfaction. She wanted to play out the moments over and over because Shea believed she had met someone special. In her mind she was already preparing a future for her and the man she knew as Chris Rumsfeld—it would be a glorious love affair. But sleep would not come easily because within minutes of closing her door she would see Church one more time that night.
Chapter Twenty-five
AS ANY TOURIST walking through the hiking trails only an hour from downtown Seattle would tell you, the beauty and lush foliage was a sight to behold. The Vashon glacial ice sheet formed the Puget Sound and the lakes of the region some fifty thousand years earlier. The soil there was rich with volcanic ash from the Glacier Peak eruption that occurred 6,700 years before the time where anyone would walk those trails and become awestruck by the sheer magnitude of its glory.
It was on a beautiful crisp afternoon when the Devlin family from Post Falls Idaho found themselves walking those same trails, laughing as they snapped photos to take back as mementos of their vacation in Snohomish County, Washington. The smell of damp pine and lush foliage mixed with the scent of deadfall rotting on the forest floor, and the sun was midpoint in the sky but under the canopy of immense branches it was like walking in the twilight of dusk. The Devlin clan was only visiting Seattle for one week, trying to take in as much of the local sights as possible before attending a family wedding and then returning to Idaho with only their memories of their experiences in the Northwest countryside.
Arthur Devlin, his wife Charlene, and their two daughters had chosen to hike without a guide, since they were on a limited schedule to get back to downtown for a late supper before heading back to their hotel. They only intended on verging into the forest a short ways, and how could you not be drawn in by the grandeur of it all? It would produce some beautiful photographs that would sit on their mantle for years to come, a vestige of their family vacation in simpler times.
Every forest begins with a single tree, just as every painful memory can originate from the tiniest of tragedies. It was in that moment when the youngest of the Devlin daughters took a few steps off the trail, intending on leaning against a colossal cedar for an innocent photograph. She stumbled as she stepped over what she assumed to be a fallen log before looking down to see part of a man’s face staring up from the bed of moss and the mound of dead leaves. Her scream exploded the serenity like a gunshot, and birds took to the skies from every nearby branch.
Within hours the trail became flooded with state police and park rangers. The bustle of bodies in motion was only a prelude to the crime scene technicians to follow, but for Arthur Devlin it shattered his faith and rocked his ideal world. How would his daughters overcome the sight of a dead body? And what did that mean for any conversation shared on their plane ride home? He comforted his girls as best he could. He shielded them with a blanket provided by the rangers and folded them up like dolls in his fatherly embrace. Being a parent was difficult at times. He knew that having girls would present its own challenges, but this was something unexpected . . . and a thing that would have a lasting effect.
The unfortunate Devlin family was escorted to their car after some time. Their statements taken as a point of record. It was doubtful anyone would require their testimony in any future court of law. Sympathetic rangers could understand their pain, but bodies were unearthed more often in those woods than most would imagine. It was the perfect spot for murder or even a simple body dump. Scavenging animals, heavy rains, and dense overgrowth were a petri dish of possibilities that a victim might remain unfound, unnamed, and lost to the forests without a trace.
Their victim was male, mid to late thirties by the look, and would have been lying on that forest floor for at least a couple of weeks. But it would be up to the coroner’s office to give a cause of death, if it could be determined, as well as a victim’s identity so that detectives could begin a fruitless investigation. Their only job was to work with the state police to sec
ure the crime scene, knowing time and predators would have destroyed any evidence. The muffle of voices and the continuous parade of first responders traipsing along the pathway made it seem surreal against the backdrop of such splendor. But there was gravity in the work with everyone understanding this was a beautiful but lonely location to excavate a dead body.
It would be over a week before the man would find a face and an identity. Carl Whiting was thirty-eight when he died. An electrical contractor living on the outskirts of Queen Anne, he was married with his first child only three years old. There was nothing untoward in his lifestyle, and he had a reputation of a man without enemies. His homicide, as it was determined, was due to gunfire at close range. The corpse could not offer much in the way of which type of firearm was used to end his life, and police could find nothing unusual about his murder, which in itself was something worthy of note.
Carl Whiting may have been without enemies, but he had run across a killer named Gabriel Church when, quite by chance, the two had intersected at a local hardware store in west Seattle. Whether it was a simple ironic twist of fate, or some greater providence, that was a question that others were left to ask in the weeks that followed. For Gabe it made perfect sense the two met, even though the term “met” was a misnomer in all respects. Friends did not introduce the men. They did not shake hands in casual greeting, nor was there any solid reason that might influence how the men were thrust together in such a dynamic explosion of purpose.
In all the conversations Christian shared with Church, this was never discussed. The writer never knew about this particular victim, or Church’s involvement. Maybe they would have reached that in time, but their personal discord prevented many detailed discussions regarding individual murders. Had Christian known that Church had killed as recently as a week before they met, things might have ended very differently for both men.
Carl Whiting had stopped in for supplies at his favorite True Value hardware store. He needed additional twist connectors for wires, which were always in short supply, and had recently dropped his crimping wrench behind a second story wall of a new construction in Bellevue and needed a new one. He knew all the counter associates by name; he was a familiar face who always smiled his shit-eating grin whenever he passed the threshold and heard the ding of the bell that announced a new customer entering the store. Carl enjoyed poking fun at the blue-collar freelancers who hung out there between jobs and was known to have an expansive and friendly nature.
Gabe had been in that same hardware store at that precise time. He was buying fifteen feet of coiled rope, laughing with the salesman about tying down a recently planted Judas tree to fight the turbulent Northerly winds that threatened to upend his new shrub. He was good with lies—he could pick them as easily as wild bluebonnets in an open, airy field. Both were simple acts that came too easily to someone like Gabe. Catching sight of Carl coming around the counter instigated the usual explosion of ashen glow that Gabe was all too familiar with. It sparked his focus and forced him to train all his attentions in the direction of the smiling bystander who didn’t seem to have a care in the world. In that moment, the killer knew, without hesitation, he was facing his next victim.
It was a typical afternoon. While most residents were employed at neighboring offices or shops, the store was littered with tradesmen who carried the daily grind of simple labors. Besides random contractors, the store held a sparse clientele of senior citizens and little old ladies buying birdseed and hummingbird feeders. The sounds of talk radio played over the loud speakers, creating a lazy atmosphere of mundane shopping for all those who had little else to occupy their days but shopping for things they didn’t really need.
At the time, Gabe was carrying a Smith and Wesson black Governor .38 caliber revolver. It was effectively concealed inside a tan scabbard holster strapped under his left arm and hidden beneath his jacket. Gabe liked firing guns. He would often take practice shots in the woods just for sport. He liked the kick and the distinctive smell, which seemed to have a lasting impression on his tongue, reminding him of the few good memories he had of Bennett and those rare times when his father tried to teach him how to be proficient with guns.
His dad may have given him only a few impressive memories to pull from, but one seemed to be buried there in those times when Bennett would take Gabe to the woods to shoot out cans or take pot shots at standing trees: “just for shits and giggles” as Bennett was fond of saying. It was a distant vision but turned out being one good thing in his childhood . . . one good memory raised above all the bad. His recollections of the smell of gunpowder after firing the pistol had been particularly strong. He knew it wasn’t the smell of cordite or sulfur, knowing no one had used gunpowder mixed with sulfur since the last Great War. But it had an odor nonetheless, and he couldn’t quite place the origin, or its sweet smelling glycerin and the pungent scent of sawdust and graphite swirling through the air. He learned to love the smell wherever it came from.
There may have been a cutting, sardonic twist hidden in the training Bennett gave his son on gun safety, but the lessons were certainly the strongest bonding experience between father and son. The thread of commonality between them, a would-be serial killer and the man who first placed a weapon in his tiny hands, may have been thin, but it was palpable. Given how Gabe would turn out, the reality seemed a tragedy of immense proportion.
But Gabe preferred to kill by using his bare hands, or with any ready implements lying at his feet. Murder by gunfire seemed a coward’s way, and besides, guns were too easily traced. But something had told Church to carry the Governor that day, and he had. It would prove fortuitous because Carl Whiting was a big man . . . not one who would be so easily taken as the others.
With a blaring tune bouncing in the hollow of his head, he was sure this was just another sacred cow bestowed to him for sacrifice. He smiled as he paid for his coil of rope and left the hardware store, but not the vicinity. He chose to lag behind and wait for the one granted him—his exalted prize and another step closer to learning whatever truths were currently eluding him. He felt the trifling weight of the Smith and Wesson at that crux, just under one arm, and assured himself it was destiny. Whatever almighty deity that controlled him and sat conveniently just beyond any reach had willed him to carry his gun on that particular day, it had pulled him into that hardware store and yanked the chain that brought him another battered soul bathed in light, and it had seemed fated that it should deliver the cow directly at his door.
Carl spent over twenty-five minutes at the True Value. Contract jobs were obtained by word of mouth, and those mouths usually belonged to other skilled tradesmen. Carl could chat up plumbers, sub-contractors, anyone willing to listen as he threw his name out there for the entire world to hear. All the men he encountered would see what a good man Carl Whiting was; he was dependable, trained, trustworthy . . . and a damn fine electrician. Not an unpleasant bud to work around either, one capable of laughing and joking with the best of them. As he left the store, he carried more than his insignificant purchases in his small plastic bag—he carried new contacts. He remembered how his little old mama used to say “If you’re selling it, best put it out on the porch for the neighbors to see!”
The man’s size would be a problem for Church, it was daylight and it was a busy parking lot. The big man weighed in as much as Gabe, and he was going to have to lift his heavy frame up into the cab of his truck, which meant he wasn’t sneaking up behind him or having him slide over into the passenger seat. He would have to approach this from another angle. Seeing the wedding ring on the man’s pudgy fingers, Church decided another tack was necessary.
Before the man could unlock his truck door, Church jammed the gun barrel into his spine. “Don’t move,” he whispered over the man’s ear with all his screwed-together calmness. He was standing close enough that his gun barrel touched the man’s spinal column; the cold contact ensured the man couldn’t turn rapidly around. Both men knew the gun was too close, and nei
ther, especially the man holding it, wanted a random gunfire explosion in the middle of a strip-center parking lot, in front of a hardware store, or during the midday rush.
“We have your wife,” he said coolly. “You and I are going to take a drive . . . but I promise to take you to where we have her stashed. If you try anything, we will kill her.” Then he added, for effect, “And then we will kill you.”
It was a gamble, Gabe knew. The man may have just gotten off the phone with his wife only minutes earlier. He may be a man who was not particularly in love with his missus, or may know his beloved was out of town visiting the folks and couldn’t have been abducted. There were a ton of variables, each one more risky than the last, but Gabe knew he couldn’t take the man by force, not in broad daylight, and he couldn’t maneuver the big fucker into the cab of his Dodge truck without some kind of guile. There were an abundance of mistakes in play, but he couldn’t risk losing the man in traffic and watching another white lighter escape his grasp.
“What the hell . . .?” Carl screamed out as if all that was happening was lunacy. It would be normal for his mind to first race to robbery, but even he could tell the man had nothing of value besides his truck, and who would risk their life tangling with a man of his size.
“What have you done with my wife . . .? If you’ve hurt Carol—”
Gabe cut him off and forced a smile to his face. “Not to worry,” he said quietly and composed. He had to make the encounter look as inconspicuous as possible, hoping his grin was an effective trick to passersby. He couldn’t hazard anyone driving the streets ahead of him and noticing anything strange, just two extremely close friends saying hello. The dodge pickup the big man headed to after exiting the True Value was parked on the side of the lot. Gabe observed that detail . . . as he did most things in his environment. You couldn’t be walking as free as he was without paying close attention to your surroundings. He feared any CTV cameras catching him and his soon-to-be victim. It wouldn’t be much fun seeing oneself on a grainy, black and white VHS stream as you sat in a courtroom all dressed in your finest. Sitting there on a witness stand and watching yourself commit the crimes you were charged with.
