by Rick Mofina
It was Cliff’s ring, not Lepp’s.
Molly tightened her fingers around it, stood there helplessly, and wept. Tom and Sydowski consoled her, their faces painted by the glow of the flames.
“It’s over, Molly. It’s finished,” Tom said.
She sobbed into his chest as they watched columns of black smoke ascend to the darkening sky.
SEVENTY-NINE
The doctors at Dominican Hospital in Santa Cruz kept Molly overnight for observation. The sisters fussed while a female deputy watched over her.
Ted Hall and Sal Vermosa, Santa Cruz County detectives, soon arrived to take her statement to share with San Francisco. Vermosa punctuated his requests with “Now, ma’am, can you recall if ...” while Hall, a kind whitehaired man with a big stomach, reminded Molly of the type of guy who was Santa at children’s Christmas parties.
Molly refused all press requests for interviews, never switched on her TV set. She called her father in Texas, assured him she was okay.
“No, Dad. I don’t want you to come to see me in California.”
“But why, Molly? I think I ought to be there.”
“Because I need to come home.”
At dawn, Molly rose from her hospital bed and sat near the window where she reflected on her life and the tragedy until Tom came to see her. They spent much of the morning trying to come to terms with what Simon Lepp did.
“I’ll never understand what happened,” she said.
“Don’t even try.”
“But was it me? Did I trigger something in him?”
“Don’t think like that. He was sick.”
“But he sat beside us. He worked with us. I dated him. How come we didn’t see it? He might have been shy, but he seemed normal.”
“No one saw it. Sydowski tracked down Simon’s aunt last night. Seems he withdrew from everything after his parents died some years ago. She said he’d had a history of psychological trouble since he was a boy but his mother kept it secret. No one picked up on how serious his problems were.”
“He told me he’d killed a girl, or a woman and her boyfriend.”
Tom nodded.
“They’re reopening the case of Amy Tucker and Kyle Chambers. Simon had dated her in high school and she jilted him.”
“Oh no.”
Molly thought of them, then the others Lepp had murdered. And how close he’d come to killing her. She cupped her hands to her face. Tom rubbed her shoulders and stayed with her a long time.
Sydowski and Turgeon picked her up the following morning. They respected her request not to take the same route that had brought her to Santa Cruz. Still, the faces of Cliff Hooper, Ray Beamon, and Frank Yarrow haunted her.
She closed her eyes.
In the days that followed, Molly still refused all requests for interviews. With Irene Pepper gone, the Star no longer pressured her to write about her ordeal. But Molly wanted to talk to Tom. It led to a dramatic four-part series he produced on the murders, THE KILLER AMONG US. All four editions sold out. The Star syndicated it and four hundred dailies across the U.S. reprinted it. The stories were among the most powerful features Tom had ever written and there was talk that it would be a contender for a Pulitzer. After it ran, Molly told Tom and Ann over dinner at their house that she was considering writing a book about her ordeal.
“I think it could be a good thing for you,” he said. “It might be an exercise in self-healing. Help you sort out everything so you can move on.”
A few days later, Molly packed her little Ford Focus. She was headed for Texas to visit her father and start her book.
Sydowski and Turgeon took a few days off after closing the case. Turgeon visited her sister in New York, where she grappled with self-doubts about continuing to be a cop. Sydowski spent time with his old man, his birds, and at cemeteries in Colma and Lodi where he’d stand alone over the graves of his friends, asking why they had to die this way.
He’d search the horizon for an answer.
It was a mystery he would never solve.
If you enjoyed BE MINE, be sure to look for Rick Mofina’s next thriller, introducing rookie crime reporter Jason Wade of the Seattle Mirror, who hits the ground running with a missing persons story that quickly becomes an all-out hunt for a serial killer who holds the entire Pacific Northwest in the grip of fear ...
Keep reading for a preview of
THE DYING HOUR by Rick Mofina
Karen Harding had to get away.
She was alone, driving from Seattle north on Interstate 5, wipers slapping at the rain as she tried to understand why her fiancé was suddenly forcing her to make a life-changing decision.
Karen brushed her tears away.
Why was he doing this? Luke’s change of heart had staggered her. She needed to leave for a few days. To think. After they spoke she threw some things into a bag, tossed it into her Toyota, and set off to see her big sister, Marlene, who lived with her husband and their two kids in Vancouver. Karen didn’t bother calling ahead. This was an emergency. Besides, Marlene would be home. She and her husband rarely left town because of the kids and their jobs.
The air horn of a Freightliner yanked Karen’s attention back to the highway. The storm had intensified. Her windshield was a watery curtain. Lights from oncoming traffic stabbed at her from the darkness. Big rigs trailed blinding spray as they passed, their wakes nearly swamping her.
Time for a break.
She exited at a truck stop outside of Bellingham. A massive map of Washington and British Columbia covered the lobby wall. Below it, a corkboard papered with ads for trucks, bonding agents, and driving jobs. Faces of missing children, women, and fugitive men stared at her from fading posters. Video games beeped and ponged next to the soda and snack machines.
She was hungry.
In the restaurant, country music mingled with the aromas of deep-fried food and coffee and the clink of cutlery. Amid the murmur of weary men in ball caps, plaid shirts, and jeans, Karen searched for a seat.
She walked by a woman and a young girl laughing over sundaes, a white-haired couple sharing soft conversation over soup, then a man who wore the collar of a reverend, sitting alone reading a book and sipping coffee. She found a booth by the window and ate a chicken sandwich.
Wind-driven rain bled against the glass. The truck stop’s electrical power surged and the lights flickered. Karen glanced around the diner. The reverend was watching her. He offered a warm smile. Karen tried smiling but looked away.
She ached to talk to her sister, to someone who might offer guidance, when she was struck by an idea. Maybe the fact a reverend was nearby was a sign. Perhaps she could talk to him. He had a kind face. Could she confide her dilemma to a stranger? she wondered. She looked to his booth but he was gone.
She noticed the tip left by his coffee cup as the truckers’ conversations grew louder. Those who were talking on cell phones began alerting the others to trouble arising from the storm, a wreck at the border crossing near Blaine.
“A reefer and a loaded tanker,” one of them said. “Going to push your wait time way, way back. A couple of hours.”
Not good.
Karen needed to reach her sister tonight. She looked at her folded map for an alternative entry into Canada. She’d always crossed at Blaine. She examined the web of roads in Washington’s Northwest corner. Lynden looked easy enough. Exit northbound on Route 539 at the north end of Bellingham, straight shot to the border. If Lynden was choked, she’d try Sumas.
The storm was unrelenting.
Karen couldn’t see much. Gusts rattled her Toyota. She tightened her grip, questioned her sanity, and considered returning to Seattle. Or at least finding a motel for the night.
No.
She estimated that she could be at Marlene’s home in less than two hours if she was cautious.
But this route made her uneasy. She saw fewer towns, houses, lights. She pressed on, unable to see the streams, the forested foothills, or the slopes of the Cascade Mounta
ins. But they were out there. Veiled by darkness. As she drove deeper into it, Karen felt alone. Vulnerable. As if she were being swallowed. She switched on her radio to find a jazz station to help her relax.
A warning light began blinking. The low-fuel indicator. How could that be? It made no sense. She had filled up at the truck stop. Maybe it was faulty? All right. She’d stop at the next gas station. Just to be safe. But there was nothing out there except the wind, the rain, and the night. She kept driving. After a few more miles, more warning lights began flashing. Engine. Oil. Her car began vibrating. The motor sputtered, then began bucking. Karen was jolted.
“Dear Lord.”
She pulled over, switched off the ignition, and took a deep breath. Be calm. Wait ten minutes, start the car, and drive slowly to the nearest gas station. Ten minutes passed. Karen turned the key. Nothing.
She tried again.
Nothing. Take it easy. She fished through her bag for her cell phone and address book. She’d call the auto club.
But the familiar silver shape of her phone failed to emerge. It had to be there. Karen dumped the contents of her bag on the passenger seat feeling her stomach tighten. In her hurry to leave Seattle she had forgotten her phone. It was in her apartment. Charging on her kitchen counter.
She closed her eyes. Inhaled, then exhaled slowly. Rain hammered on her car as the wind rocked it. She tried starting it again. Nothing. She reached for the manual and flipped through it, knowing it was futile. She knew nothing about cars.
Karen had no choice, she had to try something. She pulled the hood release. She found her penlight and umbrella. Maybe the trouble was obvious. She got out and a violent gust snapped her umbrella, tearing the cloth, exposing the frame’s prongs, like the ribs of an eviscerated animal.
Karen managed to raise the hood. Her tiny light came to life and she probed an alien world of wires, metal, rubber, hoses, and plastic reservoirs with colored fluids. Maybe something had come loose? Right. How would she know? As she reached to the engine to test a cable the world began glowing in intense white light. The hissing rain yielded to a growing roar as a line of several big trucks thundered past throwing waves of spray that drenched her.
Defeated, Karen retreated into her car.
She tossed her twisted umbrella into the backseat, then grabbed the wheel to steady herself. Soaked to her bones, she began shivering. Don’t panic. Think of a plan. Stay in the car. Change into dry clothes. Maybe a patrol car or Samaritan would stop and call a tow truck or something. If not, she could spend the night in her Toyota. It wasn’t too cold. She had a blanket. In the morning, she’d start walking. The next town couldn’t be far.
She reached for her clothes bag and froze. Two white circles blossomed in her rearview mirror. A vehicle had pulled onto the shoulder and was approaching. The lights grew brighter as it crept closer, coming to a stop a few yards behind her. It looked like an RV.
Someone was going to help her.
A door opened on the RV’s passenger side and a figure stepped out. A man. Wearing a long, dark overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. He stood at the rear bumper of Karen’s car, silhouetted in the glare of his high beams and the curtain rain. Hope fluttered in her stomach. She wiped her hands across her face and smoothed her wet hair as his shadow crossed the light.
Karen gave thanks.
The first thing she noticed at her door was a white collar, then she recognized the face of the reverend from the truck stop. Relieved, she lowered her window about ten inches.
“Your car giving you trouble, miss?”
“Yes, it quit and won’t start.”
“Is anyone coming to help you?”
“No one.”
“Let me take a look.”
The reverend switched on a flashlight and walked to the front. The hood was still raised. Karen felt him pulling and tapping as he inspected the motor.
“Try starting it now!”
She turned the key. Nothing happened. The front end dipped as he pressed hard on something.
“Again.”
Nothing. He closed the hood, returned to the window. “Smells like something’s burned out on you. Could be anything. I’ve got a phone in my motor home. I can call a service truck for you, if you like.”
“Yes, please. Oh, wait.” She turned to the passenger seat, sifted through the contents emptied from her bag. “I’m a member of the auto club. Here’s their card with the toll-free line.”
“Goodness.” He swept his flashlight from the card to Karen. “You’re sopping wet.”
“I tried fixing it myself.”
“Well, you shouldn’t sit here and risk catching cold. You’re welcome to wait with me in my RV until they come.” Karen weighed his offer. His voice was warm. His face was kind. He was a clergyman. She had considered approaching him at the truck stop to talk. Rain poured from his hat as he waited.
“You’re a Christian, aren’t you, Karen?” She caught her breath.
“How did you know that, and my name?” The hat tipped to her club card.
“Your name’s right here and I noticed you have an ICHTHUS bumper sticker, the fish symbol for Jesus.”
“Oh, right,” she nodded. “Of course.”
“I saw you in the restaurant near Bellingham. You looked troubled.”
Karen was half smiling in amazement as she reflected on everything that had happened to her today. She had prayed for help.
“Karen? Would you like to wait with me, or do you prefer some solitude?”
Was this a sign? A reverend finding her adrift in her personal storm? Was it all part of a master plan?
“I think I’d like to wait with you.” The reverend nodded.
She collected her things, then followed the stranger to his vehicle. He opened the door. A few small papers swirled from the RV and fluttered into the night before Karen stepped inside.
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Audrey LaFehr, who guided this book through punishing seas to a safe port. I have also benefited by the help of many other people. Among them: Wendy Dudley, Mildred Marmur, Jeff Aghassi, Laurie Parkin, Steve Zacharius, Doug Mendini, Michaela Hamilton, Joan Schulhafer, and everyone on Kensington’s hardworking sales team. Thanks to Barbara, Laura, and Michael. And to Ann LaFarge. I especially appreciate the kind support of John and Jeannine Rosenberg, Donna Riddell, Mary Jane Maffini, Linda Wiken, Sleuth of Baker Street, Beth Tindall, the Florida gang, and booksellers everywhere.
Above all, I thank you, the reader. Hope we meet again soon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rick Mofina is a former crime reporter and the award-winning author of several acclaimed thrillers. He's interviewed murderers face-to-face on death row; patrolled with the LAPD and the RCMP. His true crime articles have appeared in The New York Times, Marie Claire, Reader’s Digest and Penthouse. He's reported from the U.S., Canada, the Caribbean, Africa, Qatar and Kuwait's border with Iraq.
New York Times Bestselling author, Tess Gerritsen, says: "Rick Mofina's tense taut writing makes every thriller he writes an adrenaline-packed ride." His short stories have been selected for anthologies by Michael Connelly, Peter Robinson, Ed Gorman, the Mystery Writers of America and the United Kingdom's, Crime Writers Association.
The International Thriller Writers, The Private Eye Writers of America and The Crime Writers of Canada have listed Rick Mofina's titles as being among the best in the world.
His books have been published in 21 countries and have been praised by James Patterson, Dean Koontz, Michael Connelly, Lee Child, Tess Gerritsen, Jeffery Deaver, Sandra Brown, James Rollins, Brad Thor, Nick Stone, David Morrell, Allison Brennan, Heather Graham, Linwood Barclay, Peter Robinson, Håkan Nesser and Kay Hooper.
Rick Mofina
Rmofina @ gmail.com
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Rick Mofina, Be Mine
