Savage Lake

by Dan Ames

  With Lewis gone, I returned to my searching. This time I entered Terrace’s name in the state police’s database. Then watched as the little circle of waiting spun. The thing was slow. Stupid slow which is one reason I’d wanted to check a picture of Terrace before I bothered. It was also maybe why I hadn’t checked it before I’d had the guy to my house. Or at least that’s what I was telling myself for now.

  Living in Good Isle was making me lax.

  The circle stopped spinning and a page with Terrace’s name on it popped up. No arrests came up.

  No arrests, but there were two reports, both by women and both of assault. Not claiming rape, but some other things that made my heart beat a little faster.

  Like the blogger, these women said they were dating Terrace at the time. The first claimed that she’d agreed to being tied up by Terrace during sex, but things got weird and she got uncomfortable. He made her beg to the point of tears before he finally let her loose and even then, she thought it was only because her neighbor had knocked on the front door. The second report was basically the same, except this woman claimed that she hadn’t agreed to any of it at any time. That after a night of drinking, she’d awakened to find herself tied to a radiator. Terrace was gone, and she was able to get herself free, but she’d been shaken by the experience.

  Both the police cases and the blogger’s account were over ten years previous. And it appeared all of them had been dismissed as either partially the girl’s fault or, if not good-natured fun, misguided did-no-real-harm escapades of the boys will be boys variety.

  I flipped off my computer and assessed what I’d learned.

  Raping a passed-out girl? Check.

  A thing for tying up women? Check.

  Looked like our sketch? Check.

  It still didn’t mean he was our guy, but it sure as hell felt like he was.

  I wondered what he’d thought as he walked through my house, as he realized who I was. Did it give him some charge that he’d been right under my nose?

  If Dawkins hadn’t been there, would he have tried something with me? I didn’t match his type, but still…

  People like Terrace thought they could get away with anything. They thought they were so charming, and so good at manipulating others, that consequences just didn’t apply to them and that they would never be found out.

  Well, if Jake Terrace was our killer, he was about to learn differently.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Once I’d gotten over the shock of realizing Terrace was our first and only suspect, I had to also settle into the fact that at this moment, we had no real evidence against him.

  Lewis was checking in with the blogger. I assigned two officers to the other two women, warning them that the women might not be all that friendly, seeing as how their complaints at the time had gone nowhere.

  They were also instructed not to mention our current case, instead to say something about cleaning out old cases or some such bull. No need to dispense information that could attract the press.

  With the old cases covered, I turned my focus to Terrace himself. Nothing in the past ten years could mean he was a changed man. Although my experience and natural tendency toward cynicism doubted that. Innocent until proven guilty and all of that sounded good, but I didn’t always buy it.

  But the guy did have a wife and three kids, for Christ’s sake. They certainly deserved the courtesy of us handling the possibility of the husband and father being a rapist and murderer with some degree of finesse.

  There had to be something in Terrace’s file that would give me what I needed.

  I decided to start with the basics. How difficult would it have been for Terrace to have committed these murders?

  He needed charm to get the girls to go with him. I couldn’t say whether he had that or not. I’d thought he’d been a nice enough guy, but honestly, I’d been too preoccupied with my own issues when he came to my house to pay him all that much attention and even if he’d been inclined to work his charm on me, Dawkins’ presence probably put a damper on that idea.

  Besides, being charming was not a criminal offense and wasn’t even going to be grounds for getting me a warrant.

  So… physical evidence.

  He needed rope. Easy to come by and probably not all that traceable.

  He needed cinder blocks. Ditto on the easy to come by and lack of traceability.

  He needed…

  He needed a boat.

  Boats were traceable. At least if you owned one of your own. And my gut and the quality of the knots said our killer likely did.

  A few clicks later and I had my answer: Jake Terrace was the owner of a boat, The Polly, and it was docked just a short ways north of Good Isle. The same side of the lake where our killer had had his first victim meet him.

  My heart was beating quickly again. But in a good way.

  Terrace might be our guy.

  I needed to get on that boat. If he was the killer, the girls had been on that boat. There would be evidence that they had been there. There had to be.

  That boat was the key.

  I had to go and check it out, but first I needed a warrant.

  Which meant I needed enough evidence on Terrace to convince a judge that we deserved to get on that boat.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  My first step in getting evidence to tie Terrace to the murders was to see if any of Charlotte Richards’ friends could ID him.

  While I was at it, I would also see if anyone at the bar that night remembered him.

  The prom picture that the blogger had posted wasn’t going to cut it for our purposes, so I sent an officer out to follow him around, giving him the assignment of snapping some decent pictures as quickly as possible.

  It took half the day, but I got my photo. It was okay, but it was also obvious Terrace hadn’t posed for it. Which meant I couldn’t just drop it into a normal photo array for the girls to make an ID from… standing out like that would be a clue that he was our suspect and that wouldn’t make the judge happy when he found out. It also might be fodder for a defense attorney to cry foul, causing our case all kinds of future potential problems.

  Once again, reminding me that the right side of the law is not the easy side.

  So another day of messing with that and finally we had a nice selection of photos of guys who kind of looked like Terrace and our sketch, all taken in a casual kind of way.

  Then we had to find the girls who it turned out had gone back home. We contacted their local P.D., got their help and eventually, the girls saw the picture and each of them independently picked Terrace out as the guy.

  God was truly good.

  But not that good.

  No one at the bar remembered Terrace being there, and the judge wasn’t convinced.

  After getting the word, I slammed my office door and paced back and forth, my feet landing with enough intensity that every officer who walked by glanced my direction and just as quickly glanced away.

  Okay, we didn’t have a ton of evidence. It was mostly circumstantial right now. I got that.

  But if we could get a warrant for the boat, we’d find the evidence that we needed.

  I needed evidence to get the evidence.

  The phone rang. Hoping it was someone saying the judge had come to his senses, I picked it up. It was Dawkins.

  “I’ve been meaning—” he began.

  I let out a sigh.

  He stopped. “Uh, is it me?”

  I shook my head to clear my mind enough to hopefully at least appear to be a somewhat normally operating version of myself. “No, sorry. A problem with the case. I can’t talk.”

  “Oh, sure. I just wanted to let you know that I got the quote from the drywall guy. It looks reasonable. If you still—”

  “What?”

  “The drywall guy—”

  Oh my God. That was it. I muttered something that I hoped was vaguely coherent and hung up.

  I didn’t need a big elaborate plan. I could
just go see the guy. I had a legitimate in. Drywall.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I drove to the address on Terrace’s website. It was a one-story building in a low rent part of Good Isle. The kind filled with warehouses and deserted parking lots.

  Terrace’s office was unsigned, but the numbers on the door matched the website, so I guessed I’d found the right place. The door though was locked and the space beyond it dark. I cupped my hands around my face and peered in.

  I couldn’t make out much, just a desk, a ladder and some plastic buckets that I guessed held drywall compound or something else Terrace used in his work.

  There were two other offices in the building, but both looked vacant. And there was no sign of any other form of life around either.

  My mind went to the detective who was supposed to be keeping an eye on Terrace. I pulled out my phone and gave him a call.

  “Yeah, I’ve been watching him. He went to a house on the south side an hour ago. Took a bunch of equipment in too. Then a couple who looked like the homeowners left. So, I’m guessing he’s inside alone working.”

  The detective sounded bored. My heart bled for him. I told him to give me a call if Terrace left, then shoved my phone back in my pocket and turned to go back to my car. I was pulling out my keys to unlock it when I heard the crunch of a footstep on gravel behind me.

  I started to turn, and something—someone—struck me square in the temple. Lights flashed in front of my eyes like sparks for a second and I felt a flare of pain.

  Then nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I woke up to the sensation of rocking gently back and forth.

  My first thought was that I was in a hammock, next to the lake. But then everything came flooding back—the case, calling the detective, Jake Terrace, leaving his office to get into my car.

  My temple throbbed. I started to reach up to touch the spot, but some instinct told me not to. I stayed still, only my mind moving, working through what had happened.

  I’d been hit and was obviously unconscious for some amount of time.

  Now I could smell lake water and feel a gentle rocking.

  This wasn’t good. The girls were killed on a boat.

  On the plus side, I wasn’t going to need that search warrant and I was pretty sure I knew where Terrace was.

  I kept my eyes closed and my breathing deep and even, faking continued unconsciousness.

  Terrace had drugged Charlotte and Emily, making them unable to fight back. I had to keep pretending to be unconscious or he’d do the same to me.

  I could hear someone moving around the boat, crossing back and forth around me. My best guess was it was Terrace. With my eyes closed, I couldn’t tell completely what he was doing, but it seemed more like he was prepping the boat or putting stuff away and not really focusing on me for now.

  I surreptitiously wiggled my fingers and toes. They moved with their usual strength and dexterity. So, I hadn’t been drugged, or if I had, it was wearing off. How much time had passed? I couldn’t feel light behind my eyelids. I listened to make sure the sounds of movement weren’t right next to me and cracked one eyelid open.

  Not dark. Not yet. Just getting there.

  It was summer. The days were long, and it was after lunch when I visited his office. He’d had me somewhere, what? Five hours? Six?

  The detective who was supposed to be watching Terrace, must have realized he had slipped away in that time… unless Terrace had drugged and stored me and then slipped back.

  The thought made my stomach clench. But my car. Someone would see it.

  Except Terrace would have had my keys too. He could have moved it, moved me, and gone back to where the detective was watching without anyone being aware.

  And now, he was going to dump me in the lake where I’d be found in a few days, just like his other victims.

  Or so he thought.

  I took a breath, keeping it as shallow as I could even though my lungs screamed out for more. With adrenaline surging through my body screaming at me to do something, it was harder to fake unconsciousness than I’d thought it would be.

  If I waited too long to make a move, I would blow my cover. I had to get the jump on Terrace, and I had to do it quickly.

  I felt the boat shift and the sound of Terrace crossing from my feet up past my head. The boat’s motor shut off and we settled into one place with a slight back-and-forth motion that slowed to stillness.

  We’d reached our destination wherever that was.

  Soon he’d tie me up and dump me the same as the other two victims. Maybe try to rape me too.

  Fat chance of that.

  I felt him pass again, heading past my head towards my feet, maybe on his way to the rope.

  I opened my eyes. It was Terrace and his back was to me.

  It was now or never.

  I lunged forward.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  My hands landed on Terrace’s back. I shoved, hard, hoping to send him off balance.

  He stumbled and cursed, but he didn’t go down.

  He reached around and grabbed at me, then bent forward and used my weight against me to throw me forward, over his shoulder and onto the boat’s deck. I slid into the side and hunkered down to keep from flipping over.

  I got back to my feet and faced him.

  He glared back at me.

  His formerly placid face was twisted up in hatred, red and ugly, almost cartoonish.

  “You bitch,” he snarled. “You sent that detective after me, didn’t you? Like I wouldn’t see him stalking me.”

  I scanned the boat, looking for a weapon. The deck was frustratingly clean. Rope and a bag sat in one corner. Behind it was a cinder block.

  Just for me, I guessed.

  Unaware or not caring about my perusal of his boat, Terrace continued to rant. “You ruined everything. You can’t even die properly.”

  I highly doubted that talking him down was going to work, but I had to try. Maybe it would buy me time to come up with a plan that would get me out of this alive. “Jake, listen to me. You don’t have to do this. You’ve got a wife and kids. A dog.”

  He shook his head. “You think I want them to see me go to jail? No. You’ve got nothing on me. You can’t. If you did that guy wouldn’t be following. You’d have already brought me in. And once you’re gone? Everything will go back to the way it was.”

  He was delusional, but then that was no shock.

  I shook my head too. “No. It won’t. It will be worse for you. The officer watching your place called me, and the whole department knows where I am. You kill me and I’ll be dead, but you’ll be deeper in the shit than ever.”

  He laughed. “That’s why I snuck out the back. Your officer is my alibi. I was at work the whole time and he knows it or thinks he does. I didn’t plan this. I mean not you. I had actually already picked out someone else. Another girl. I knew if someone disappeared while I was under police watch, I’d be in the clear.

  “Then I go to my office and there you are. Maybe I should have let you leave.” He shrugged. “But we’re here now. So let’s just make the best of it.” He took a step forward.

  I tried to step backwards, but there was no room. I stepped to the side instead. Closer to the bag that I was sure held his death kit and the cinder block that sat behind it.

  He stopped and laughed again. “You did this, you know. You just had to keep pushing. Sending your officers to talk to people constantly. Having me followed. Putting up those billboards. Billboards, for Christ’s sake. What kind of person are you?”

  “A determined one,” I replied.

  He muttered something.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I gauged the distance to my goal.

  Still too far.

  I inched to my left. “Jake, we got you with just a small sample of your handwriting and a basic description. If we can do that, then I promise you whatever plan you’ve got going on right now to kill me is not going to work. You’r
e stuck. Don’t make this harder for yourself than it has to be.”

  Terrace was moving too, inching to his left so that we were sort of, almost, circling each other. Then I saw that he was reaching up towards the upper deck. A small, dark green box sat there, too small for me to have noticed before.

  What could be in it? Something that belonged in that bag, I guessed. Part of his death kit.

  I kept talking, pretending I hadn’t noticed the box or his movement toward it. “You’re going to lose this no matter what, Jake. So please, think of your kids. Think of your wife. Do what’s best for them. You love them, don’t you? That’s why you took a break from those first few girls and the killing. Why it took so long for you to give in. You didn’t love the other girls, but you loved your wife. You didn’t want to hurt her. And you definitely didn’t want to hurt your kids. But the itch just didn’t go away. Eventually you’ve got to scratch.”

  He paused. “What girls?”

  I listed their names. “We’ve talked to them. We know what you did.”

  He snorted. “I didn’t do anything to any of them. I should have, but I didn’t.”

  “So you were innocent?” I asked, trying to sound sincere.

  He didn’t respond.

  “They set you up? Maybe they read the first girl’s blog and that gave them the idea? The counselor didn’t believe her because she was lying? Was she jealous? Did she think you were cheating on her or something?”

  I could see he was weighing this. Liking it.

  “And you probably even loved her, didn’t you?” I shook my head.

  Finally, he nodded. “I did.”

  “Did you love all of them?” I asked.

  The cinder block was so close. I could almost reach it.

  “Of course,” he responded. “In the beginning I loved all of them. Then I saw through their acts of innocence. It’s disgusting how they lie. How they suck you in—”

  My foot slid over the bag and my ankle bumped into the cinder block.