by Rita Herron
With the start of the season, eager adventure-seekers had begun their journey on the 2200-mile-long trail. Statistics showed that most would never make it the entire way. The challenging physical conditions made many give up. Worse, the isolation could turn a person’s mind inside out. Getting lost in the endless stretches of untamed vegetation and smothering forests came with the territory. So did the craving for hot meals and warm beds.
At the moment, Ellie relished the solitude, although being alone with her thoughts could be a scary place.
Her mind kept turning to her birth parents. If she decided to search for them, who knew what she might find? Randall and Vera had seemed to love her, yet they’d kept secrets from her that had destroyed so many innocent lives.
How would total strangers feel?
Shivering as raindrops pinged off her waterproof jacket, she darted around a bend, using her knife to cut through the tangled vines that clawed at her feet like sharp tentacles. Stumbling over a rotting tree root, she pitched forward, getting caught in a mass of brambles. Thorns stabbed her palms, puncturing her skin and drawing blood as she righted herself and crossed over a fallen pine.
Dragging a handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed at the beads of blood and plucked several thorns from her aching palms. Thunder boomed and lightning zigzagged across the perpetually gray sky, a deluge of more rain descending. Ignoring her throbbing calf muscles, she ran up the hill. A coyote howled in the distance. The fading sun and trees closing around her resurrected her fear of the dark, a fear that had begun when Hiram imprisoned her in the cave when she was small.
Pushing away the encroaching fear, she hiked on, searching for peace and answers that might not ever come.
Shadows flitted through the forest like black fireflies. She found one shelter, but it was infested with mice and nearby a group of hillbillies were drunk on moonshine, so she trudged on. Locals whispered of plants that strangled folks as they wove through the thick bush and untraveled terrain. Other foliage grew so dense it camouflaged the deep ravines and drop-offs, creating traps to ensnare a body in the dangerous hollows below, where they might disappear forever, never to be found.
Ellie climbed higher and higher, over the hill, and followed the narrow path toward the clearing where the pond lay. There she could pitch a tent for the night.
Suddenly a gust of wind stirred the leaves and brought raindrops from the treetops, something yellow fluttering to the ground at her feet as she made it over the hillcrest. Ellie paused, stooping to see what it was.
A daffodil.
The small yellow flower petal was damp and wilted. Another fluttered to her feet, followed by another. The soft swishing of the creek against the rocks echoed in the silence, and she peered through the fog towards the water. On the bank beneath a live oak, she thought she saw something… or someone.
Curious, she pulled her flashlight and shined it across the foliage and ground as she maneuvered her way toward the sea of yellow ahead.
As she neared, she had the uncanny sense that she wasn’t alone. Pivoting, she scanned the woods. The sound of insects, frogs croaking, and the falling rain filled the muggy air.
Then she realized she was right––she wasn’t alone.
Eight
For a moment, Ellie simply stood, staring at the sight with a sickening, hollow feeling in her gut. She’d set out on the trail for peace, to decide what to do with her life, and to forget the grisly memory of the children’s graves imprinted in her mind.
And now a young woman had been left here. It was no accident either. Judging from the deep slash on her throat, she’d been murdered. Even more disturbing was the way she was posed, laid out on the bed of flowers with a vine full of thorns wrapped around her neck, her hands in prayer.
Rocking back on her heels, Ellie’s instincts kicked in, and she pulled her weapon from her pack and turned in a wide arc, searching the area. Leaves rustled, and tree limbs dipped and swayed from the force of the wind. Creek water gurgled over the rocks, spilling onto the bank, flooding caused by the recent snowstorm.
Slowly inching closer to the scene, she kept her gun at the ready, pivoting and scanning her surroundings and the woods beyond. Even with the sound of a coyote howling and rain drizzling, an eerie quiet enveloped the area, and the wind brought the pungent blend of wildflowers and brutal death.
She had to call this in. Get the Medical Examiner and an Evidence Response Team out here ASAP.
She had to get back to work, even if she wasn’t ready.
Heart hammering, she radioed Cord. As a ranger with Search and Rescue, he worked odd hours and might not be on duty now. Hell, he might not even answer. During the last case, Derrick––FBI Special Agent Fox––had practically accused Cord of being involved in the Ghost’s murders. When Ellie had asked Cord about it, he’d shut down, hurt that she hadn’t trusted him.
But he was damn good at his job, and even if he was pissed at her, if someone needed help, he’d come.
Static crackled and popped, the wind rattling the airwaves. Finally, his voice echoed back.
“Ranger McClain, SAR.”
“Cord, it’s Ellie—”
“I’m working,” he said in a clipped tone.
“Good. I need you to come to the Reflection Pond.”
After an awkward pause, he heaved a breath. “What’s wrong?”
Her chest clenched at the sight of the jagged red slash across the woman’s neck. “I… found a body.”
A hushed silence fell between them, the coyote’s howl growing more eerie in the quiet.
“Did you hear me?” Ellie asked.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “A hiker? Accident?”
“No accident,” Ellie said. “It’s a woman, Cord. She’s been murdered.” Her detective’s brain finally overrode her emotions. “Request an ERT, the ME and a recovery team. We need to process her body and look for evidence before the rain kicks in again.”
“Copy that,” Cord said in a husky voice. “Did you see the killer?”
The concern in his voice gave her hope that he didn’t totally hate her. “I don’t see anyone,” she replied. “Judging from the scene, she’s probably been here a while.”
Already petals had come loose and were floating in the pond, wilted and turning brown.
The radio crackled. “I’ll call it in and be there ASAP.”
Plunged into silence, Ellie pulled her camera from her pack, snapping pictures of the ground near the mound of flowers, the brush, and the trees that stood with their branches pointing toward the heavens, like natural grave markers.
Treading carefully, she aimed her flashlight at the ground in search of footprints or other forensics, but if the killer had left prints, the rain had already washed them away.
With so many hikers en route now, it would be hard to identify a specific print. Still, if forensics found one near the body, they’d certainly try.
Careful not to contaminate the scene, she inched closer to the body. The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties. She had silky blonde hair, and her skin had a faint blue tint although it appeared whoever had killed her had applied makeup: bright-blue eye shadow and reddish-orange blusher.
Then there was the lipstick. Bright red, the color of blood.
Even with the thorny bramble wrapped around her neck, Ellie could see a jagged knife wound had ripped her from ear to ear. She had to have bled a lot, but the killer had clearly cleaned it up, covering the slash mark with the vines.
She was striking, beautiful actually. But the olive dress, her plain clipped nails and simple black shoes made her look drab. It was as if she was dressed for church, yet she had been left exposed in the wilderness where she could be ravaged by animals, her body decomposing with the elements.
The murder scene appeared to be ritualistic. Although violent, it was not a crime of passion. There was only the one knife mark. If it had been personal, there most likely would have been multiple stab wounds. Whoever had murdered her was methodic
al, had meticulously planned out the kill. The back of Ellie’s neck prickled as she snapped another photograph. The ritualistic nature suggested that he might have killed before.
And that he would certainly kill again.
Nine
Ellie was relieved when she finally heard footsteps and voices echoing through the dense mass of red oaks and ash trees, flashlights flickering through the dark.
Cord led the team, his smoky eyes dark with wariness as he broke through the clearing. He was the best tracker in these parts, saving countless lives over the years.
His gaze locked with hers as he took in the scene. The ERT investigators paused, assessing silently, and Dr. Laney Whitefeather, the Medical Examiner, pressed a fist against her mouth as if to stifle a gasp. “Jesus, poor baby.”
The male investigator began roping off the area with crime scene tape while the female, Sydney, pulled a camera from her pack. “I’ll start photographing while you do your thing, Dr. Whitefeather,” she said.
“I didn’t see any ID on her, but like I said, I haven’t touched her,” Ellie said. “Keep an eye out in case the killer dumped her purse or ID here somewhere.”
Sydney surveyed the area. “Do you think she was killed here?”
Ellie pursed her lips in thought, then shined the flashlight across the rocks and weeds. “No. With her throat slashed, there would have been blood spatter. She was killed somewhere else, then the bastard cleaned her up, dressed her, and brought her out here.”
Laney’s face was ashen. “How did you find her?”
“I’ve been hiking since yesterday, planned to pitch a tent by the pond tonight, then noticed the flowers in the wind. When I crossed the creek, there she was.” She gestured toward the ground. “So far, there are no definitive footprints, although the rain could have washed them away.”
Laney donned gloves and boot covers, then picked her way across the damp grass.
“How long do you think she’s been here?” Cord asked.
“Hard to say with the cooler temperatures last night and this morning.”
Laney used a flashlight to examine the woman’s neck. “Initially, it appears she died of exsanguination; blood loss caused from having her throat slit. Although that’s not official. We’ll have to wait until I do the autopsy to determine exact cause of death, time of death, and whether or not she was drugged or sustained other injuries before she died.” She gestured toward the clothing and makeup. “What do you make of this?”
Ellie shrugged. “The garish makeup has to mean something. Maybe he wanted to downplay her beauty because she’d wronged him somehow.”
Laney shivered.
As disturbing as it was to dig into the mind of a killer, knowing what made him tick was essential to uncovering his identity and motive, to predict his next step. “His MO reads like a repeat killer.”
Laney examined the woman’s hands and wrists, and then her eyes, which were still open. “No petechial hemorrhaging.” With gloved fingers she inched the woman’s face left and right, noting slight bruising on her jaws. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and pull a partial print or some DNA on her throat or clothing.” She lifted one pale hand to examine it. “It looks like he cut her fingernails. Probably to eliminate evidence. But I’ll try.”
The sound of the workers combing the area echoed around them while Laney continued her initial exam, careful not to smear the blood-red lipstick as she used her fingers to open the woman’s mouth. A gasp escaped her before she looked up at Ellie.
“What is it?” Ellie asked.
An odd look crossed Laney’s face. “The bastard sewed her lips shut.”
Ten
“He sewed her lips closed?” Ellie asked, swallowing hard. “Like a mortician would?”
“Exactly,” Laney said, nodding.
Ellie glanced at Cord, noticed an odd look on his face. But his radio crackled, and he walked over to a boulder several feet away to answer the call.
“That gives the MO a new meaning.” Ellie’s mind raced. Instead of dressing the women for an outing or church, the killer dressed and posed his victim for burial.
The realization made her skin crawl.
“Then we might be dealing with someone experienced in preparing dead bodies for burial or cremation.” Ellie thought out loud.
“That’s possible.” A frown marred Laney’s face. “Only, he left her eyes untouched, whereas a mortician would have glued her eyelids closed as well.” Laney stood, pushing her glasses up with the back of her hand. “Although with the internet, El, anyone who wanted to know about preparing a body could find that information.”
“True. He could just be some psycho intrigued by the death process. Or necrophilia. Or hell, he might have sewn her mouth closed because he didn’t want her to talk.”
“I’ll definitely look for signs of sexual abuse, both pre- and postmortem.” Laney gestured at the woman’s throat. “There’s a small line of bruising that may indicate he strangled her. Although this doesn’t look like rope burns. Maybe something else.”
Ellie winced at the thick, deep bruising. “Get me her prints right away. I need to notify the family and question them.”
Laney nodded.
“Meanwhile, I’ll search for other crimes bearing a similar MO.”
“You think he’s done this before?” asked Laney.
Ellie shrugged. “I don’t know, but this type of display took planning and a certain kind of pathology. It wasn’t just a crime of opportunity.”
Special Agent Derrick Fox would be the best source for information on other similar cases, she thought, as the breeze swirled dead leaves and daffodil petals around her muddy boots. But Derrick Fox was the last person on earth she wanted anything to do with.
The memory of the last time she’d seen him taunted her. She’d stood on the periphery of a graveyard as he and his mother said their final goodbyes to Derrick’s little sister, Kim, the first girl Hiram had murdered.
Derrick had come to Crooked Creek with the theory of a serial killer, opening her eyes to the truth about her father. He blamed Randall for closing Kim’s case too soon, then later for keeping suspicions about Hiram from the police. She and Derrick had spent a heated night together in the mountains during the investigation—and then he’d accused her of sleeping with him to distract him, so she could protect her dad.
He’d been right about everything except the latter. But it didn’t matter now. He hated her and her family––and she could hardly blame him.
She’d do some research on her own, she told herself. Meanwhile, she watched as the crime team scoured the area and Laney finished her initial exam.
Cord returned, frowning. “I have to go. There’s trouble over at Rattlesnake Ridge.”
“What kind of trouble?” Ellie asked.
“Couple of hikers lost their footing and one broke his ankle.” He took off on the path south, and Ellie followed Laney down the mountain, where Laney drove Ellie to her Jeep.
“I’ll send those prints in ASAP,” Laney said as Ellie got out.
Thanking her, Ellie climbed into her Jeep, and retrieved her phone from the glove compartment. She had to call her captain immediately. He’d ordered her to take some time off but she’d just stumbled on a gruesome murder and she couldn’t ignore it. The poor woman needed justice.
Eleven
Pigeon Lake
Skinny Minnie Whiny Vinny. Skinny Minnie Whiny Vinny. You’re so stupid, you don’t know when to get out of the rain.
The voice chimed in Vinny Holcomb’s ears as he rocked back and forth in the old dilapidated house. He hated the nickname. Hated the house.
The one that held the memories of all the bad things.
Blood dripped through his fingers and dotted his clothes, but he didn’t care. She had deserved to die for what she’d done.
Her ugly laugh echoed in his ears, a sound that gnawed on his nerve endings like a falcon sinking its talons into its prey.
You’re a loser, boy. You
don’t have any friends. You’ll never have any.
But she was wrong. He’d made friends with Hiram. Hiram was like him. He’d suffered and been locked away by the woman who was supposed to love him.
He pulled the article about the Ghost from his wet pocket, unfolded it and smiled at the headline.
“I’ll be your friend if you’ll be mine,” Hiram had said as they’d ditched their pills in the potted plants in the solarium.
Vinny promised he would. He’d do anything for Hiram. Anything.
Twelve
Between Springer Mountain and Crooked Creek
Dammit. Her phone was dead.
Ellie snagged her charger and plugged it in, starting the Jeep and flooring the engine. Nerves on edge, she sped around the twisting mountain road back toward Crooked Creek as night hugged the forest. Wind whipped through the towering trees and howled off the steep mountain ridges, tree limbs rocking back and forth.
Self-doubt warred with Ellie’s stubbornness. She should call Bryce. She would have no choice but to deal with him on the case.
But not tonight.
Tonight she’d call the captain and let him deal with the new sheriff. Deputy Heath Landrum who’d joined Crooked Creek’s police department a few months ago, was young and green, but he was working out as a decent cop. Still, his expertise was in technology, and he hadn’t worked the field on a big case. Not to mention the fact that her gut was telling her this one would be big.
Her tires screeched as she swerved up the drive to her bungalow. Her body ached from hiking, and a hot shower and a strong vodka beckoned.
Grabbing her phone and her backpack from the trunk, she dragged herself up the porch steps and let herself inside.
The sound of the furnace’s rumble was comforting as she entered, and she carried her bag to the laundry room, dumping it there. She’d unpack tomorrow.
