Her Last Breath: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 1)

by Dan Padavona

  Lambert arrived and helped Thomas hold Ray flat. Thomas watched from the corner of his eye as Chelsey brushed off her dress. Raven appeared. She consoled Chelsey and stared at Thomas as though he’d caused the fracas. Lambert removed his cuffs.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to cause a scene?” Lambert said, smiling at Thomas as he clipped the cuffs over Ray’s wrists.

  The tall deputy yanked Ray into a standing position and shoved him toward the waiting cruiser.

  “You better go after your woman,” Aguilar said, lifting her chin at Chelsey.

  “That wouldn’t be wise.”

  “Don’t argue with me, Shepherd. Help your girl.”

  Chelsey swiped a tear from her eye and stomped out of the tent. Hearing her choked sob, Thomas rose to run after Chelsey. Raven set her hands on her hips and blocked him.

  “What the hell was that? I thought you were supposed to uphold the law, not start fights.”

  “I did everything to mitigate a fight. Let me pass.”

  “Oh, no. You’ve done enough damage for tonight. Stay the hell away from Chelsey.” Before strutting away, Raven whirled back on Thomas. “And leave my brother alone. You don’t know what we’ve been through. He’s not a killer.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Chelsey leaned against her Civic and threw her hand against the door. Tears blurred the parking lot. Around her, couples strolled hand-in-hand and cast troubled glances as she sobbed. A week ago, she’d felt like she had her life under control. Then she turned a corner and found him standing there. It was as if she walked into a time warp. The old feelings rushed back at her.

  Thomas was the only boyfriend who treated her right and cared. And she’d loved him. My God, she’d loved him. There was no good reason for tossing Thomas out of her life. But she’d been young, confused, and terrified. When depression struck Chelsey, she blamed herself, as if she could have foreseen her mental breakdown and staved it off. Hundreds of therapy sessions and countless failed relationships later, she just wanted to forget who she’d been before her life spun out of control.

  She plunged inside her purse and ripped a tissue out. Dotting her eyes, knowing her makeup was ruined, she stared at the stars and searched the heavens for answers. Why now? Why throw this man into her life when everything seemed perfect?

  Heels clicked across the blacktop. Chelsey followed the sounds to Raven. Her partner cupped her elbows with her hands and shivered. Setting her eyes on Chelsey, Raven hurried to her friend.

  “What happened in there?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Raven set a hand on Chelsey’s arm. Chelsey fell forward and accepted her partner’s embrace. She cried into her friend’s shoulder, unaware of the whispers directed their way from people who witnessed the altercation. Beneath the tent, the band played on. Villagers laughed and danced, and the world spun, indifferent to Chelsey’s frustration.

  “Ray Welch is a horse’s ass. I never understood what you saw in him.”

  Chelsey shrugged.

  “He’s the only guy in town who paid attention to me.”

  Raven held Chelsey at arm’s length and met her eyes.

  “Are you serious? There are hundreds of men in Wolf Lake who’d kill to be with you.” She tilted her head at the tent. “Starting with that fine looking hunk of deputy.”

  Chelsey squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

  “That’s not a road I’m willing to go down again.”

  “Hold on. You know Deputy Shepherd? I thought he was new in town.”

  “No, he’s from the village. He moved out to Los Angeles and made detective with the LAPD.”

  “You sure know a lot about Deputy Shepherd. What are you waiting for, Chelsey? He stood up for you, and he’s ten times the man Ray is.”

  “Thomas and I were together a long time ago. Sometimes, you need to let go.”

  “From where I stand, you don’t appear ready to let go.”

  “I don’t believe in fairytale endings or second chances. What’s done is done.”

  Raven dropped her arms to her sides and appraised Chelsey as she would a shattered mirror not worth repairing.

  “All right, I won’t debate you on the issue. Let’s get you home and cleaned up.”

  Chelsey pulled the keys from her purse.

  “I can drive. I only had one drink, and that was an hour ago.”

  “This isn’t about how many drinks you had. There’s no reason for you to be alone tonight. I worry about you.”

  “Well, don’t. I’ve taken care of myself since I was a teenager. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to put on a pair of sweats and watch Netflix with Tigger.”

  With a sigh, Raven glanced toward the tent. Deputy Lambert led Ray to the cruiser in handcuffs, while Chelsey pretended not to notice. But the hurt crawled into her throat and coiled there. How had tonight spun out of control?

  “Will you at least call me when you get home? I need to hear you’re okay, or I won’t sleep tonight.”

  Chelsey nodded once. Raven pulled her into another hug and patted her on the back.

  “Don’t fight your demons alone, Chelsey. People care about you. Let us in.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Distant lights sparkled inside the village as Scout watched from her bedroom window. If she used her imagination, she could hear the music and smell the sweet flower scents mingling with the smoky, greasy foods. She struggled across her bedroom floor, pulling the chair over a dirty shirt she forgot to toss in the hamper. The Virtual Searchers website filled her browser, and a document containing everything she’d discovered about the killer—his username, the times and locations he recorded the videos, and links to the websites that hosted the files, sat in the bottom right corner of her screen.

  The killer used a sock puppet account, a deceptive online name. Some people used generic names like John Doe. Others hid behind celebrity names. This madman used Max Cady from the Cape Fear movie. A Google search for Max Cady yielded notes about the story. Typing at her terminal, she narrowed the search to forums and found reviews and opinions. Nothing about the man hiding behind the fictional name.

  An idea occurred to Scout.

  Using an internet tool, she could drag images into a search box and compare results across the web. Excitement chipping away at her exhaustion, Scout copied an image from the guinea pig video and watched the results scroll across her screen. Her eyes scanned the images and stopped. While the killer uploaded the Erika Windrow murder videos under Max Cady, she discovered two sock puppet accounts linked to the animal torture videos—Max Cady and ScorchedEarth666. Anticipation tingled her skin. Criminals always made mistakes and left a trail of breadcrumbs. She’d found one.

  Scout opened a second window and searched images uploaded by ScorchedEarth666. He’d uploaded pictures under this name for over a year. She clicked a photograph that appeared taken from an apartment overlooking a city. The disturbing image featured a skull on the edge of a desk with a cityscape at night in the background. For a moment, she wondered if the skull was real. But the skull appeared too perfect. It glimmered in the light, fake and plastic. A Halloween prop.

  Why upload this picture? The image received no likes, zero comments. Was this a twisted warning, a preview of the forthcoming murders?

  Perhaps she was wrong and this wasn’t the same man. Then her eyes locked on a candle behind the skull. She recognized it. Squinting, she was certain this was the same candle he placed beside Erika Windrow’s severed head.

  Scout pulled the image into her editor and zoomed in on the cityscape. He’d photographed the image with a small aperture, throwing the background out of focus. A red sign stood amid the lights, nothing she recognized. This might be any city. Tapping a frustrated hand against the desk, she examined the EXIF data. Harmon, last December. Right before the animal videos surfaced. That confirmed ScorchedEarth666 and Max Cady were identical.

  “Scout, are you still awake?”

 
; Mom’s voice. Scout shut the monitor down and wheeled back to the window. She snatched her social studies textbook off the nightstand and opened it to the middle.

  “I’m awake.”

  A hesitant twist of the knob, then the door swung open. Mom glanced at the clock—it was after ten.

  “I thought you intended to wake up early tomorrow and go to the farmer’s market with me.”

  Scout snapped the book shut and set it on her lap.

  “I’ll be fine. I just want to finish this chapter before bed.”

  “No problem. It’s not a school night, and you’re welcome to sleep in tomorrow if you’d prefer to stay home.”

  The hopeful glimmer in Mom’s eyes made Scout bristle with guilt. These days, they rarely spent time together.

  “I want to go with you. It will be fun.”

  “All right, but don’t stay up late.” Mom wrung her hands in the doorway. She studied the computer monitor and desk, as if she sensed the heat pouring off the screen and knew Scout had been on the internet moments before she opened the door. “I spoke with your father tonight.”

  An electrical shock moved through Scout. She set the book on the nightstand and turned the chair to face her mother.

  “Did he ask about me? Is he coming to visit soon?”

  Mom glared at the floor.

  “Dad got a new job in Ithaca. The electric company promoted him to supervisor, and he’s working long hours.”

  “So he’s too busy to see us.”

  “Scout, your father is dealing with the accident on his own terms. He still blames himself for what happened. Your father will come around.”

  Tears pressed against the backs of her eyes. She sniffled and turned back to the window.

  “I don’t care anymore.”

  “Don’t say that, honey.”

  “Why not? It’s true. He’d rather apply for promotions than be with his family. I’m not waiting for him any longer.”

  “Listen, let’s call him together—”

  “No!”

  Mom bit her lip. Scout saw the injury on her face, watched her mother’s back slump in defeat. Mom drew a composing breath and straightened her blouse.

  “I promise everything will get better. Don’t hate your father. Please be patient.”

  “Can you close the door?”

  Mom opened her mouth and swallowed her reply.

  “I love you, Scout. I’ll be in my room if you want to talk.”

  The door closed. Quiet suffocated the room, forcing Scout to tug the window open and invite the chilly night inside. Now the music played from afar. She closed her eyes and breathed, a technique her therapist taught her during the months following the accident. Outside, a branch snapped, popping her eyes open.

  She waited for the sound to come again. It didn’t.

  Scout shut the window and pulled the shade down. She sensed eyes on her, though nobody could see past the shade.

  Calm down, she thought. This is just your imagination.

  She turned the computer on and glared at the image. The skull, the cityscape, the night. What was she missing?

  As she turned away, her eyes locked on an imperfection. Something on the tabletop. Scout refocused the picture and narrowed her eyes. The table reflected the man’s hands as he held the camera. She swallowed. The sheriff had it wrong. The killer was white.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Darren Holt handed a trail map, a restaurant guide, and the keys to cabin three to the bald man at the welcome desk. The man wore thick glasses and a winter coat that wouldn’t serve him well when the temperature hit sixty-five this weekend. A pigtailed girl with a thumb buried in her mouth rested in the crook of his arm. The mother, a blonde woman in dress slacks and flats, clutched the handle of her suitcase. The state park attracted all types. Darren hoped the family packed outdoor clothes, or they were in for a long weekend.

  After the door shut, Darren ran a tired hand down his face and grabbed his keys. He switched the lights off on his way out. Sharp starlight threw long shadows across the gravel parking lot as he trudged to the ranger’s cabin. He fit the key into the lock and flipped the lights on. His eyes stopped on the sink. The faucet dripped with hollow plunks. Confused, he wrenched the handle until the drip stopped. He swore he’d shut the faucet down before he left.

  Studying the room for anything out of place or missing, he shrugged off his paranoia. Why would anyone break inside his cabin? He kept his wallet and weapon on him. There was nothing worth taking, unless someone wanted the area rug.

  Darren snatched a beer from the refrigerator and popped the top, squinting at the first bitter sip. He set the beer beside the window, settled into a chair, and propped his feet on the wood stove. Coal and ash scents tickled his nose. After opening a hunting magazine, he found himself staring at pictures and words without comprehension. Why couldn’t he relax?

  Screw this. He set aside the beer and magazine, donned his jacket, and stepped outside. Lights shone inside cabin three. The woman’s shadow passed over the shade. It was good to have company for a change, though he doubted he’d encounter the family on the hiking trails. With a grumpy, tired four-year-old, the couple would stick to the cabin grounds and use the grill.

  Cold sliced through Darren’s skin. He tucked his hands inside his pockets and moved down the trail, overcome by the sky. Stars stretched from one horizon to the next, unimpeded by the village lights. The trail glowed in silvers and blues, interrupted by the shadows of overhanging branches as he pushed through underbrush and stepped over a muddy trench. Below the park, Wolf Lake shimmered. His gaze automatically searched for a boat, someone on the water after dark. But it was deathly quiet. Not a soul in sight.

  He descended the ridge and considered stopping by Deputy Shepherd’s house. Then he remembered the village dance. Thomas wouldn’t be home until late.

  An unearthly howl rose off the faraway hills. He froze and listened. He might be crazy, but that sounded like a wolf. There hadn’t been a wolf sighting in New York State in two decades, and the last known wolf had been shot two hours east of here. Had to be a coyote or a dog. He waited for the howl to come again, listened for a return call. Nothing.

  At the ridge base, he spied the shoreline where the killer had dragged the skiff into the water. Brazen. It was as if he wanted the deputy to catch him.

  The A-frame house peeked over the tree line, the downstairs lit like a runway. Water kissed the land in gentle hushes. As Darren turned away, he saw the shadowed figure behind the deputy’s house. The man faced away from Darren and stared at the Mourning’s house, silent as a statue.

  Pins-and-needles swept through Darren’s limbs. He reached for his phone and realized he’d left it on the kitchen counter.

  Darren took a hesitant step forward. The gun rested on his hip. But he had no authority on private land, and he was steps away from leaving the park. The marshy ground squished beneath his boots. He stopped and held his breath, worried he’d given himself away. The silhouetted figure didn’t move.

  Closer now.

  Darren crossed the shoreline and entered Deputy Shepherd’s backyard. A hemlock tree leaned between Darren and the stranger. His heart hammered with the possibility this might be the killer, the maniac who tossed Erika Windrow’s remains into Wolf Lake. Whoever it was, he was trespassing on the deputy’s property and stalking the neighbor. Darren remembered the woman—a single mother with a young teenager in a wheelchair. And he had no way to contact the sheriff’s office or call for help. His shoulders tensed.

  Another step forward. He pressed against the hemlock and peered around the trunk. The stranger hadn’t moved, didn’t realize Darren had closed in on him. The ranger removed the gun. Stepped out of the shadows and onto the starlit lawn.

  A twig cracked beneath his boot. Dammit.

  The man darted between the houses and vanished as Darren sprinted after him.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Regret gathered in a ball beneath his breastbone.r />
  Thomas stared straight ahead with his hands curled around the steering wheel, the black night flying at the windshield. He avoided discussion of what happened tonight, though he felt the interrogation in Aguilar’s stare. He’d wanted the deputy to enjoy herself at the dance. They’d met less than a week ago, but already he liked Aguilar. She’d never admit tonight was important to her, but the supple dress told the story. The deputy wanted a fun night out on the town, and Thomas’s drama ruined her plans.

  When Thomas ducked the punch and took Ray Welch to the ground, he was an angry teenager again, sick of the bullying. It took all his reserve not to twist Ray’s wrist up his back and snap the drunk’s arm. He saw red when Chelsey landed hard.

  “You should call her, Shepherd.”

  His attention drifted across the car. Aguilar leaned in the corner between the seat and door, one leg crossed over the other, deep understanding sharpening her eyes.

  “Who, Chelsey?”

  “Who else would I mean?”

  Thomas gripped the wheel a little harder, then eased off. Aguilar judged every move he made.

  “I doubt she wishes to hear from me.”

  “If not now, when?”

  He didn’t have an answer. Besides, Chelsey had no interest in discussing their past. She’d made that clear inside the warehouse. His phone hummed in the cup holder. He’d forgotten to take the phone out of silent mode. Transferring the call to the speakers, he was surprised to see Darren Holt’s name on the screen.

  “Ranger Holt. What may I do for you?”

  “Thomas.” Darren sounded out of breath. “I’m at your neighbor’s house.”

  Thomas straightened in his seat. Aguilar leaned forward.

  “The Mourning’s house. Are Naomi and Scout okay?”

  “I caught some guy watching their house from your backyard. He heard me coming and took off running. I lost him in the thicket across the road.”

  “Did you get a look at him?”