by Alex MacLean
“Pull over,” he said.
Lisa guided the car to the curb. Her arms shook so badly, it took an effort just to turn the steering wheel.
The man grabbed the gearshift and rammed it into park.
“We’re switching places,” he said.
From the corner of her eye, Lisa saw him tuck the revolver into his waistband.
“Look at me,” he said.
Swallowing, she turned to him.
“You try anything, and…” He put an index finger to his temple and curled it back toward his palm. “Understand?”
She gave him a small nod.
He turned the car off and removed the key from the ignition. Then he got out, depressing the lock before closing the door. He went around to the driver’s side. Lisa scooched over the console to the passenger seat, staring at the door handle. A voice in her head told her to go for it. Open the door and run. Run like you have never run in your life. She just couldn’t summon her body to make that initial move.
As the man got in, Lisa noticed the revolver in his hand again. He pointed it at her, the dark eye of the muzzle an inch from her face.
“Put on your seat belt,” he said.
Lisa struggled to get the buckle to snap but finally got it after several tries.
The man started the car and drove off. Lisa sat there, rigid. Her heart pounded in her ears.
She watched as he cut across the George Street Bridge to Westville Road. She realized he was heading for the highway. He could be taking her anywhere, kill her at his own convenience.
Their destination became a remote wooded lot twenty miles outside New Glasgow. Lisa saw nothing but trees and the unused back road. Terror swam inside her brain, making her light-headed.
The man shut off the car and switched on the dome light. Then he reached under his seat and retrieved a black toiletry bag with a single zipper over the top.
Lisa didn’t want to think about what he had inside it.
With an unsettling calm, the man said, “Get out. You try to run, and I’ll shoot you right in the back.”
Lisa unbuckled the seat belt, opened the door. Her knees felt ready to collapse under he weight of her body as she stepped out.
The night was clear, crisp, and windless under a crescent moon.
The man climbed out of the other side and circled to the trunk, where he set the bag on the lid. Unzipping it, he dipped a hand inside.
Lisa’s heart lurched as she watched him.
The man revealed a camera.
“Say cheese,” he said.
The sudden flash blinded Lisa, and she fell against the car, blinking her eyes. She could hear the man laughing at her. A kind of maniacal chuckle only a psychopath could make.
When her vision came back after a good minute or more, she saw him standing in the same spot by the trunk, the camera still in his hands. A sinister smile was stretched across his face.
He pressed the camera to his face again. Lisa imagined him staring at her miniaturized image through the viewfinder as he framed his next shot. She shut her eyes against two more flashes.
The man put the camera away. Lisa tensed as he approached her with the bag and revolver in one hand. He motioned for her to turn around.
“Please,” Lisa said. “Why are you doing this?” She looked at his fingers. No ring. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”
He stopped, his lips curling.
“Fuck you,” he said. “Trying to control things here? Is that what you’re up to?”
“No, no. Not at all.”
“Bullshit.”
He grabbed hold of her arm with steely fingers and spun her around. Then he punched the muzzle of the revolver between her shoulder blades, pushing her forward.
He marched her into a thick stand of trees. Lisa kept her hands out in front of her to move away the branches in the dark. Her chest began to ache from her heart beating so fast.
The woods were chilly. They smelled of dampness and spring growth coming to life. The recent thaw had made the ground feel like a sponge under her feet. Here and there, patches of snow remained in spots where the sun’s rays couldn’t reach.
Eventually, they came to a clearing. It was about the size of a football field, covered in a sea of flattened yellow grass.
Lisa regarded the trees on the other side. They were maybe one hundred fifty feet away. Too far. She’d be shot in the back long before she made it to them.
“End of the road,” the man said and smacked her across the face.
Lisa pitched back to the ground. The blow left her stunned, and she lay there, trying to recover her bearings. The left side of her face felt numb. Sensation came back gradually in painful throbs. In her mouth, she tasted blood.
She gazed up at the man. His face floated above her, his eyes narrowed to slits, his mouth contorted into a grim rictus. The moon behind him silvered the fringes of his hair.
He raised his fist; Lisa cringed.
“Bitch,” he said and swung.
Lisa folded her arms around her head. One of them took the blow, and she cried out in pain.
When another strike didn’t follow, she looked up. The man stood over her, looking down, his head eclipsing the moon.
“Take your clothes off,” he said.
Lisa’s mind went into a whirlwind.
Oh my God, she thought. He’s going to rape me.
Deep down, she knew the whole time it was leading to this. She just never wanted to admit it to herself.
“Do it,” the man said.
“No.” Lisa skidded away from him on the seat of her jeans. “I won’t.”
The man thrust his jaw forward. “You stubborn bitch. I said take your clothes off.”
“Please,” Lisa said. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone about this. I mean it.”
The man shook his head, muttering something under his breath.
Lisa watched him set the black bag on the ground. Then he took a step forward with his right leg, leveling the revolver at her, his free hand anchoring in a pants pocket.
Paralyzed, Lisa watched him thumb back the hammer. Her mouth fell open. Her hands rose.
“Please…”
All at once, the revolver jumped in his hand. There was a loud pop and a bright muzzle flash. Every muscle in her body tensed as she braced herself for the impact of the bullet.
Nothing seemed to have hit her. She felt no pain anywhere. Had he missed? How could he at such a close range?
Tears sprang to her eyes. She noticed with humiliation that she had wet herself.
“Fired over your head,” the man said. “To show you this gun is loaded.”
He squatted, patting the ground around him. Seconds later, he found the black bag.
Lisa’s eyes widened as she watched him take out a piece of rope.
Then, without warning, he pounced on her.
The weight of him crushed Lisa. Unable to breathe, she struggled to push him off. She writhed, clawing at his eyes.
Averting his head, he caught one of her wrists, twisted it, and pinned it to the damp grass.
“So you wanna play rough, huh? I’d like nothing more.”
His hand lifted into the air and shot down. The butt of the revolver struck the corner of Lisa’s eye, sending a spatter of dots across her field of vision.
Dazed, her mind didn’t register the rope being looped around her neck until her air supply was suddenly choked off.
She tried to pry the rope from her neck. Couldn’t. She beat on his forearms, scratched the back of his wrists until she swore they bled. But the more she fought, the more he pulled on the rope.
She could feel the hard barrel of the revolver against her jaw. If only she could get it away from him. Turn the tables.
Through her blur of tears, she could see his face bent to hers. The feral look had returned to his eyes. His nostrils flared with each breath.
“Bitch,” he hissed. “I’m gonna make you feel some real pain.”
He tightened
the rope more.
Lisa felt helpless. Her carotids throbbed against the rope. Pressure was building up in her head, swelling her face and bulging her eyes. Her vision was dimming. She could feel herself spiraling into darkness at a million miles an hour.
No, she thought. It can’t end like this.
But it was. She knew it.
Her arms flailed, weaker now. A roaring sound filled her ears, drowning out the hammering of her pulse.
Then, suddenly, the man released the rope, and Lisa brought her head off the ground, coughing and gasping. Precious air poured into her lungs.
“Gonna do what I say?” the man said.
“Yes,” Lisa croaked. “An-Anything.”
“I knew it. Just took a little persuading is all.”
Fuck you, Lisa wanted to say.
She touched sticky blood on the side of her face. She swallowed several times, trying to wash the hoarseness from her throat.
“Take your clothes off,” the man said. “Do it now.”
Slowly, Lisa sat up. She couldn’t die like this. She had to do something.
She looked at the revolver aimed at her face. If she grabbed for it, she’d die. One pull of the trigger, and it would be all over.
“Could you point the gun away?” she asked. “It makes me nervous.”
An odd calm crossed the man’s eyes. He lowered the revolver, pointing it off toward the side.
“Happy now?”
Stiffly, Lisa got to her knees. She played with the hem of her sweater, acting as if she were going to take it off. She moved a little closer to the man until she could touch him. With all the strength she had left, she cut loose, upper-cutting him in the balls. Knees buckling, he let out a yelp.
As he doubled over, Lisa scrambled to her feet. She ran across the clearing as fast as she could, heading for the trees.
Shouts rang out behind her. “Get back here!”
Neck straining, Lisa glanced back to see the man chasing her. She could hear his heavy respiration, the hustle of his footsteps closing in. For such a chubby man, he was surprisingly fast.
“Stop! Right now.”
Reaching out for her, the man overbalanced and went tumbling forward. As he fell, Lisa felt his fingers brush down her sweater.
The man hit the ground with a grunt.
Lisa kicked it into another gear, aware that she was running for her life.
The trees were becoming clearer.
Fifty yards.
Forty.
“You’re dead, bitch.”
Thirty yards.
Twenty.
A stitch was forming in Lisa’s side.
Ten yards. Five. Almost there.
Then came the gunshots. Two of them.
The first bullet caught a tree in front of her, throwing wood chips across her face. The second whipped past her head with a whizzing sound, ending God knows where.
Lisa never broke stride. She made it into the trees. Branches slapped her face, caught on her sweater.
When she had covered what she believed was a safe distance, she forced herself to fast-walk, ever mindful of burrows and fallen branches. The last thing she needed was to twist an ankle.
She had no sense of place or direction. The woods in these parts could stretch for miles. You could easily get lost and never find your way out.
Time. She touched her wrist and realized she’d forgotten her watch on the dresser. It had to be well after ten, maybe closer to eleven.
The ground took a dip, and Lisa worked her way down an uneven slope. At the bottom, she stopped. Heart smashing against her ribs, she tried to slow her breathing enough to hear her pursuer. There came no panting, no twigs crackling, no rustling through the brush.
She glanced in one direction then another. Gloomy and silent, the woodland was like a sprawling morass. The night sky was barely visible through the latticework of branches, only a glimmer of the moon and a few stars.
Lisa waded through the dark for maybe thirty minutes, maybe longer. She came upon the wide trunk of a tree, and she leaned against it, propping a foot up on an exposed root to rest.
Suddenly, she began to feel woozy. Clasping her arms, she crouched beside the tree. Her body shook all over, as though an electrical charge surged through it. Then she burst into sobs. Uncontrollable sobs that came out of nowhere. They only lasted a minute and were gone.
Lisa tipped her head back against the rough bark of the tree. So many emotions flooded her mind—hurt, fear, anger.
She curled forward, resting her chin on her knees and peering out at the murk and mystery of the woods. The dark shapes of the trees and bushes seemed to shift and fade. Vague sounds touched her ears now: squeaks, grunts, and barks.
She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, and it sent a cold sensation up the back of her neck.
Don’t panic, she told herself. Panic was the enemy. A clear head would find itself.
Logic told her to stay put until morning. If she tried to make it out of the woods in the dark, she could get more lost—even wander around in circles, wasting valuable energy she’d need to keep warm. At daybreak, she might be able to figure out where she was. Go from there.
But that was several hours away. Several nerve-racking hours of sitting in the creepy dark, not knowing what nighttime creatures were lurking out there.
She felt around the ground until she found a hefty stick. Clutching it tight to her chest, she sat against the tree again. She listened into the gloom.
That was when it came. A new sound this time.
Lisa cocked her head. It sounded like the rumble of an engine, followed by the unmistakable jackhammer noise of a tractor-trailer Jake-braking downhill.
Lisa sprang to her feet. The highway had to be nearby.
She turned in a full circle, trying to pinpoint the spot. The sound grew louder, and then it began fading.
Fading.
Gone.
No, wait. Come back.
Lisa scrambled forward, tearing through tangles of branches, hoping she was heading in the right direction.
Eventually, she saw something ahead. Shimmers of light flashed through gaps in the trees. They had to be headlights. Just had to be.
Lisa pressed a palm to her heart. Freedom. Tauntingly close.
She came to the last fringe of trees and found herself standing on the edge of an embankment. Directly below her stretched the 104 Trans Canada Highway.
Headlights bobbed far down the road. Behind them, Lisa could make out the shape of another tractor-trailer.
Overwhelmed with emotion, she began to weep. She went down the side of the embankment, sliding, grabbing at clumps of grass, nearly tumbling to the bottom.
She clambered up the ditch to the shoulder of the road, waving her arms. The tractor-trailer lumbered past without slowing, and the wind gust from it blew Lisa’s hair across her face.
She let out a theatrical groan.
“Thank you, asshole,” she yelled. “Thank you very much.”
As she curled her arms over her head, she noticed headlights on the other side of the highway. A car this time. Quickly, she ran across the median strip, waving frantically.
The car flicked on its brights and began slowing down. Lisa ran to the driver’s door. The middle-aged woman behind the wheel was already lowering her window with cell phone in hand when Lisa started blubbering on about her terrifying ordeal, not even knowing if her words were making any sense.
11
Halifax, October 18
8:17 P.M.
“Whoa,” Audra said. “Lucky girl.”
She gave Allan back the file, and he placed it on the pile.
“How long before they tracked down Strickland?” she asked.
“Days,” Allan said. “Ms. Peyton had managed to remember the make of the car and four digits of the license plate. When officers showed her his picture, she positively identified him.”
“That would’ve given him a lot of time to form an alibi, get ri
d of evidence.”
“He tried. He’d ditched the black bag that everyone suspected was his prepared rape kit. He got rid of the revolver. Even wiped his car clean of Ms. Peyton. But he forgot one thing...”
“What?”
“His computer. Forensics located pictures of Ashley Decker on it. Uploaded from Strickland’s camera the day after he’d murdered her.”
“Mementos to use later,” Audra said. “Like he’d tried to do with Lisa Peyton.”
Allan nodded. “Part of his signature. Some of the pictures were taken while Ms. Decker knelt in the grass, still alive. Others were taken of her body after Strickland had strangled her.”
Audra asked, “Any of Mary Driscow?”
Allan broke eye contact with her for a second. “None of her, no.”
“Was the revolver registered?”
“Not in his name, if it was.”
“What’d he say about it?”
“Denied even having it.”
“They ever find this camera?”
“They figured he ditched it with the bag. He never revealed where anything was. Clammed up when asked about the pictures on his computer. Didn’t matter; the evidence was enough to charge him with first-degree murder.”
“Deny the crime,” Audra said. “Some of these guys think it’ll prevent them from being arrested.”
Allan said, “When I dug a little deeper into Strickland’s past, I found out he’d lived in Clayton Park for seven months before moving to New Glasgow. Glenforest Drive. Mary Driscow had lived on Hillwood Crescent. A street over from him.”
Audra raised her eyebrows. “Whoa. That’s quite the coincidence.”
Allan pressed his lips into a tight line. “So I thought.”
“I take it he lived there while Mary Driscow did?”
“Yes.”
“He knew that neighborhood. Maybe knew her or saw her around. I can see why you took such an interest in him.”
Allan let out a heavy sigh. “I was excited. I got a warrant for his DNA. You know the rest.” His voice dropped. “Seems like I was always a day late and a dollar short.”
Audra watched him.
He said, “New Glasgow told me they interviewed neighbors of Strickland over there. Turned out that in the weeks leading up to Ms. Decker’s murder, he and his girlfriend had fought often.”
