by Blake Pierce
The shack consisted of three rooms: a small living area, his bedroom (which was kept meticulously cleaned) and the room he referred to as his study. The study was the largest of the three rooms but did not have wooden floors like the others. This floor was made of dirt. He stepped onto the hard-packed earth floor as the screams and moans of the girl with the telescope started to become raspy mewling sounds.
She had started kicking at the plywood sheets now. This would be just as effective as her screams. The plywood was tied to sturdy wooden poles that stood to each side of his study. Even if the girl could slam her full weight into the sheets, they’d not move an inch. One end of each rope was tied to the wooden poles and the other end was threaded through two holes, one in the top and one at the bottom of the plywood sheets.
He stood in the doorway of the room, closed his eyes, and listened to her. She was getting close to giving up now. Still, he thought she was special. He thought he might keep her for a while. Maybe for a very long time. He’d done it before and it had turned out to be a truly rewarding experience.
As he peered into his study, he heard something behind him. It had come from the living area, a noise he was used to and constantly irritated him.
“What is it now?” he asked.
He listened closely, shaking his head and biting back the venom and anger that tried to come to the surface.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked, almost shouting. He still held his jar of moonshine and nearly threw it into the living room. “No. It’s not even something to think about!”
He listened again, the reply making him even angrier.
“After everything you’ve seen? Are you serious? Have you lost your fucking mind?” He then let the venom out in a roar of rage. It hurt his throat and negated the good feelings that the moonshine had started to create. Rather than throw the jar across the cabin, he took a large mouthful of it, nearly gagging on it as he swallowed it.
In the midst of coughing, he yelled into the living area. “Get out! Get out of my sight before I kill you!”
He was breathing hard, getting a stabbing pain in his stomach. He carefully set the jar of moonshine down, knowing that his supply was running low.
With his screaming conversation over and the living area in silence again, he turned back to his study. The woman under the plywood had gone quiet. She’d heard the whole thing, no doubt. She’d heard the argument and had heard him lose his temper. If he planned on keeping her around for a while, he probably needed to explain himself.
With a sigh, he entered the study. He walked to the plywood sheets on the dirt floor, appreciating the rest of the room. There was a small bench that contained a pair of pliers, a hammer, two large butcher knives, a paring knife, and several empty jars. Several hooks hung from the walls. One of them held the hide of a doe. Two others held handsaws, one very large and one quite small. A sledgehammer was propped in the far corner, the mallet end stained with blood from some dark time in the past that he could barely remember.
He knelt by the plywood, doing everything he could to push the rage he’d just felt aside. Nothing good came from it. He knew this, but sometimes it was so hard to understand this. He placed his hand on the top sheet of plywood and cleared his throat, wanting to sound as friendly as he could.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he said.
The woman made a soft choking noise in response.
“Look. I’m going to let you out. I think you and I need to talk. I know you’re scared. But I’m done hurting you. I want to take care of you. So…I’m going to let you out. If you try to run, I’ll have to hurt you and I really don’t want to. Okay?”
The woman said nothing. He could picture her trembling down in that little hole. Maybe she was paralyzed with the hope that she was going to be freed. He would give her that. He would give her a new life. He could redeem her, could make her something new.
Anxious now, he untied the ropes from the wooden posts. When both ropes were curled on the floor, he grabbed the plywood sheets by the edges. The two sheets were bolted together and quite heavy but he was able to slide them away without much trouble.
He looked into the hole and regarded the girl. Her hands were tied with rope at her wrists. Another strand of rope was tied just above her knees. The hole was only three feet deep but he always thought it looked so much deeper when there was someone in it. Her eyes were wide with fear and she was shaking from head to toe. In that moment, he felt like God. Her fate was in his hands. He knew it, she knew it, and it bonded them.
He got down onto his knees, reached in, and grabbed the strand of rope that bound her wrists. He hauled her to her knees and then did his best to help her to her feet. She was weeping and cringing at his touch as he guided her to the lip of the dirt hole.
“Now don’t be like that,” he said as he helped her get her weight positioned properly to pull herself from the hole.
She gasped, letting out a huge sob. She was absolutely terrified.
“It’s okay,” he said as she got her first knee out onto the dirt floor of the study. “Really, I only want to—”
In a sudden movement that confused him more than alarmed him, the girl came rocketing off of the ground. She propelled herself upward, kicking out of the hole with her left foot and pushing off of the ground with her right knee. She rocketed into the air and although she did not go very high at all, it did the job.
The top of her head connected solidly with the underside of his jaw. There was a musical click in the study as her skull met his chin and his teeth clinked together. He cried out in surprise and fell backward. He fell into the small bench, sending its contents to the ground. By the time he hit the ground and realized just what had happened, the woman was making her way out of the study in an odd sort of hopping motion—all she was able to do with the way her legs were tied together above the knee.
She nearly fell down but slammed into the doorframe. She hit it with such force that the entire cabin shook.
And just like that, all of his rage returned. It came spiraling up in him like a nest of angry bees, demanding someone be stung. He let out a bellow of absolute hatred as he scrambled back to his feet. As he did so, he reached out and grabbed the old stained sledgehammer. As he hefted it up and started forward, he could hear the woman crashing through the living area, headed for the porch.
Anger flashed through him and seemed to propel him forward. He was barely aware that he was even moving. Everything was a blur of red, edged by a razor-sharp definition that he had long ago learned came with the most acute sort of rage.
He saw her as she dashed onto the porch, still in that peculiar hopping stride. He was drawing closer—five steps away, then four. At three, he was nearly at the door, nearly blinded by the sunlight that now seemed to have set the forest on fire.
In front of him, the woman hopped off of the porch. Her feet landed awkwardly and she went down, sprawling forward.
A grin came to his face, like a deep cut across his head. He stepped out onto the porch and tossed the sledgehammer over his shoulder.
He stepped onto the ground just as she tried scrambling to her feet. She looked like a wounded fawn, too dumb to realize it was already dead.
She opened her mouth to scream just as he brought the sledgehammer down.
Her scream never found the air but the sound of the blow, although rather wet and muted, sent a bevy of nearby birds into the air.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When Mackenzie and Bryers reached the parking lot and headed for their car, she saw that Smith was on his cell phone. He leaning against his car and speaking in hushed, apologetic tones. Without even hearing a word, Mackenzie was fairly certain that he was speaking with the parents of Miranda Peters.
When he ended the call, he hurried over to Mackenzie. He looked profoundly sad, like delivering the news had broken his heart a bit.
“Thanks for handling that,” Mackenzie said.
“Sure,” he said. “I thin
k it might help if someone heads over there and speaks with them.”
“Where do they live?”
“Moorefield, West Virginia. About an hour and fifteen minutes from here.”
Mackenzie and Bryers shared a look over the hood of the car. Bryers gave a nod and a shrug and then stepped into the car.
“We’ll do it. I just need you to please help Clements any way you can. I’ve already asked him to work with you on doing some fly-overs with your drone. He’ll fill you in.”
“Sounds good. And look…thanks for pulling this all together. I thought we were going to come to blows out there.”
“It sometimes pays to be the only girl in a bar fight,” she said with a smile. He returned it in a way that made her think he might like to take her out to a bar—sans the fight.
“You kicked everyone’s ass into gear. The park rangers are blocking off all of the maintenance and secondary roads into the park as we speak. Cho Liu has been informed of Miranda’s death, and, of course, I just got off the phone with her folks.”
She got into the car and Bryers pulled out of the parking lot. As they took a left and headed for Highway 259 toward West Virginia, Bryers gave her a look she could not figure out. It was almost an amused sort of smirk.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re a natural at this, you know?”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You had those men calm within thirty seconds. And you’re able to dole out instructions without being condescending. They listened to you—and not just because you’re pretty. What I just watched you do in the wake of that mess was nothing short of amazing. I have faith in you,” he said.
It was a nice thing to say and Mackenzie appreciated the sentiment. But as images of Miranda Peters’s head flashed through her mind, Mackenzie was not able to find that same sort of faith.
***
It was 3:17 when they arrived at the Peters residence. It was a simple little two-story house tucked away in a middle-class subdivision on the outskirts of Moorefield. When they stepped out of the car and started for the house, Mackenzie could already hear the wails of the grief-stricken mother before they even reached the front door. She and Bryers exchanged an uneasy look as Mackenzie raised her hand and knocked on the door.
The door was opened and a short overweight man greeted them. Behind a pair of thick glasses, his eyes were red and filled with a pain that seemed to leap out at Mackenzie.
“You’re the agents?” he asked. His voice was hoarse and thick. It was very clear that he had been crying profusely.
“We are,” Mackenzie said. “If you think you can manage, we need to ask some questions.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said, extending his hand. “James Peters. And I have to apologize, but I don’t think my wife will be participating. She’s locked herself in Miranda’s bedroom and I don’t—”
James Peters let out a huge sob and nearly fell into the floor. Bryers stepped in to support him and when he did, the small man leaned into Bryers and wept openly. Bryers did his best to comfort him as he led him back into his house. Mackenzie stepped inside and closed the door behind her. From elsewhere within the house, she still heard Mrs. Peters wailing.
“Mr. Peters,” Mackenzie said as the three of them stood in the small foyer. “We can come back later if you need us to.”
“No, it’s fine,” James Peters said through tears. He choked back a sob and finally removed himself from Bryers. “Come on in. Officer Smith said it was a time-sensitive matter.”
“Well, yes,” Mackenzie said. “If you can provide any details at all that could help us, it would be appreciated. We believe that all of this happened within the last twelve hours or so. Being so recent, the more information we have, the less time the man that did this has to get away.”
“So what do you need to know?” James asked. There was still extreme sorrow in his face but there was also determination. Anger lurked behind it all as well.
“Do you know if Miranda ever visited Little Hill State Park before last night?” Mackenzie asked.
“I have no idea. After she started college, she did the usual college thing. She kept to herself. She’d call us every now and then just to say hi. But as far as what she did with her spare time, I’m not sure.”
“Had you ever met this girl she was supposed to be meeting with? Cho Liu?”
“No, but we had heard Miranda talk about her. They seemed to be developing a nice friendship.”
A loud wail came from upstairs. A word was layered in this one, a word that sounded like a guttural cry of “Miranda!”
James looked upstairs, his heart breaking. He then looked to Mackenzie and Bryers. The torment in his face made Mackenzie feel almost physically sick. She felt beyond sorry for this man but was grateful that he had not seen the state his daughter had been in.
“I know…this is terrible,” Mackenzie said. “We’ll leave you to your grieving as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, please…I—”
And then he started crying again. He couldn’t look at them but gave them a go-ahead gesture as he wept.
“Can you think of anyone that might have had something against Miranda? Is there anyone that she had trouble with in the past?”
James’s head suddenly shot up and looked directly at them. An estranged sort of realization floated in his eyes for a moment, snapping the flood of sobbing shut for a moment.
“Rick Dentry,” he said.
“Who is that?” Bryers asked.
“An older guy that Miranda saw behind our backs when she started high school. He had just moved into town and had this weird obsession with her. He had already graduated from some other high school when they started seeing each other.”
“So they dated?” Mackenzie asked.
“For a while, I guess.” He spoke clearly now, the anger and possible connection dawning on him more and more. “But when we found out, Miranda called it off. Only Rick kept coming around. One night while Tabby—my wife—and I were out on a dinner date, he came to the house. Miranda went outside to speak with him because she knew she’d get in trouble if she let him in the house. He…tried to rape her.”
Tears came out of his eyes, fresh and free flowing. These, Mackenzie thought, were the direct result of furious anger.
“Were the police involved?” Mackenzie asked.
“Yes. We filed a restraining order against him. It got pretty ugly because he’d ride by here and sort of scope the house out.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Bryers asked.
“Miranda’s junior year of high school.”
“You said he moved here from somewhere else,” Mackenzie said. “Do you know where?”
“I’m not positive,” he said. “Not too far away. Miranda never really talked about him in depth.”
Mackenzie shot Bryers a glance and he nodded. He grabbed his cell phone and stepped out of the room, back into the foyer. As he left, she heard him coughing again. She’d caught him doing it several times today, but not nearly as bad as it had been yesterday.
“Agent White,” James said. “Can…can we see her? It doesn’t seem real.”
“Not just yet,” Mackenzie said, cringing at the thought of someone having to explain to the Peterses just how badly their daughter had been hurt. “The scene is still being combed. But someone will be in touch with you shortly.”
Again, James lost himself to his sorrow. He collapsed onto the couch and bawled into a cushion. He was easily fifty-five years old but he looked like a little boy in that moment. Mackenzie could do nothing more than sit there awkwardly and wait for it to pass.
After a few moments, Bryers stepped quickly back into the room. “A quick background check on Rick Dentry, formerly of Moorefield, West Virginia, reveals a very interesting list of residences before and after moving to Moorefield.”
“Like what?” Mackenzie asked.
“Like a brief stint in Strasburg, Virginia, while in grade
school. He then moved with his family to Moorefield. He stayed here until three years ago when he worked in Roanoke as a furniture delivery guy. But then he moved back to Strasburg, where he currently lives.”
“Holy shit,” Mackenzie said.
“Oh, it gets better. He’s currently working as a saw operator with a logging company in Strasburg. He’s been doing that for eight months now. But would you like to know what he was doing before that?”
“What?”
“He was training as a river tour guide for Little Hill State Park.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Apparently, Rick Dentry had just gotten off of work. He was standing by his pickup truck, taking a chainsaw and a can of gasoline out of the back, when Mackenzie and Bryers pulled into his dusty driveway. Rick Dentry eyed them suspiciously and stood at the back of the truck as they got out. He had long hair that touched his shoulder and a beard that was in need of a trim. Behind him, Dentry’s single-wide trailer looked like a strong wind might blow it over without much trouble.
“Can I help you?” Dentry asked as Mackenzie and Bryers stepped out of the car. He had a thick country accent that made the four words sound like two, spoken in some bizarre foreign language.
Mackenzie flashed her badge and took a few steps toward the truck. “I’m Agent White and this is Agent Bryers,” she said. “We’re working on a case where your name came up and we were hoping you’d cooperate by answering some questions.”
“A case where my name came up?” he asked.
“Yes,” Mackenzie said. “About five years ago, you were involved with Miranda Peters, correct?”
He looked a little shocked. She watched as he processed the question and waited for him to trip himself up. On the way to Dentry’s house, Clements had called with a few facts about Dentry’s past. There was the restraining order placed by the Peters as well as two speeding tickets. There had also been a domestic abuse complaint filed by an ex-girlfriend that had later been waived when it turned out that the ex-girlfriend had ended up in jail for petty theft and aggravated assault—not exactly the best of sources.
