Twisting it, I slowly push open the door. The interior is dark, but I hear the scratching of feet and metal against wood.
I flip on the light switch, and the single bulb in the center of the room dangles from a wire and spits out enough light to illuminate the woman. I have stashed her in this small shed in the country because I have not found the courage to kill her yet. This is my second murder, after all. The first time happened in the heat of anger. No planning, no thinking. Now I am going to kill with intention, and it’s daunting.
This place is not more than a hunting shack, and the structure is not sound. Still, there is a heavy wood-burning stove fixed to the floor that gives me an anchor for the rope securing her.
I hold up the grocery bag. “I brought you ginger ale like I promised.”
She looks at me wild eyed. Her long hair is all tangled around her dirt-smudged face. She has cried a lot these last few days, but now is ominously silent.
I twist off the top and approach her. She flinches and does not reach for the soda.
“Go on and take it,” I say. “It’s real soda, not that diet stuff that tastes like chemicals.”
Dark eyes cut to the bottle and then back to my face. The prey is summing up the predator, wondering whether fear is more powerful than thirst. Finally, grimy fingers wrap around the bottle, and she raises it with trembling hands to her mouth.
I am glad to see her enjoy the cool drink. As I have said before, my intent is never to hurt anyone. Causing pain is a needless cruelty, and seeing her like this reminds me I have to get on with it.
She gulps the last of the drink, swiping her moist lips with the back of her hand. “What are you going to do now?”
“Let you go. I told you I needed time to think.”
“I want to go home.”
“You will. Today.”
“Why did you do this?”
“It doesn’t matter.” As I approach, she looks up at me with eyes filled with a blend of fear and hope.
I remove a knife from my pocket and open it. The blade glints in the moonlight seeping in through the cracked chinking sandwiched between the logs. She tenses and scurries back as far as her rope tether allows. “Are you really going to let me go?”
“I said I would.”
“I know that look on your face.”
Though curious about my telling expression, I ignore the comment. “You swore you wouldn’t say anything, right?”
Her bobblehead nod is comical.
“See?” I say. “You and I have nothing to worry about.”
Her lips falter into a smile. “Yes. Yes.”
I reach for the rope. The soda will have given her some energy, and she is scared. Never underestimate scared.
She gazes up at my steady hands sawing the blade back and forth over the hemp. She nibbles her bottom lip and tries to remain still. As the rope frays, the stress in her body eases a little.
The soda and this new hope are my last gifts. No sense being mean.
Without hesitation I jab the blade into the side of her neck. The spray of blood tells me immediately that I have hit a big vessel. I dig the sharp edge deeper, and her body arches as pain and shock rocket through sinew and bone. I step back and take a seat in an old rusted lawn chair in the corner, knowing Mother Nature will take her course.
“No sense in fighting, Sarah,” I say. “Lean into it. It’ll be over before you know it.”
Blood gurgles from her mouth, streams down her neck, and soaks her shirt. Her eyes transmit shock and then finally a resigned acceptance. When her eyes close, I sit for a moment, listening until her breathing slows to a stop.
Finally, I rise and press my fingertips to her neck. When I am certain she is dead, I cut the rope loose.
I watch the recorded image of my hands clumsily working around the contours of the woman’s face. I botched that job, and by the time I was finished, there was nothing worth saving.
I made a lot of blunders that day, which I suppose is why I watch the video over and over. I am never going to make those mistakes again.
CHAPTER SIX
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, August 18
10:15 p.m.
Ann had been staring at the gruesome images of the bodies found near Helena and now Anaconda for close to two hours. Classical violin played softly from her phone as she jotted more thoughts on a yellow legal pad already half-full.
According to Bryce’s notes, there were no missing-person reports filed in any of the jurisdictions around the time of the murders or in the months since. However, the hypothesis that someone might have reported these people missing assumed the victims lived locally, which at this point she believed was not likely. They either were tourists or seasonal workers who were here today and gone tomorrow.
On a map she traced her finger along the interstate from Helena to Anaconda. “Are you headed south or southwest? Is this some kind of journey?”
Assuming the westward progression was correct, she theorized that this killer could be accustomed to working across county and possibly state lines. Many prolific serial killers had jobs that required travel. Truckers, salespeople, road crews. All were gone for extended periods of time, which gave the cover they required to hunt and kill. She pulled up Bryce’s name on her phone and texted:
Ann: Have you fed these cases into ViCAP?
Bryce: Yes.
ViCAP was an FBI database of violent offenders, but the repository depended on local law enforcement submitting detailed questionnaires on the crimes they saw. Given that most officers were overworked and underpaid, this extra layer of paperwork often led to offenses not being tracked.
Ann: Killers evolve. What about bodies that were burned but not mutilated? Or mutilated but not burned.
Bryce: Thirteen fit that criteria. Six have been solved. Seven pending.
Ann: Where?
Bryce: East Coast.
Ann: Dates? Locations? Is there a directional pattern in any of the cases?
Bryce: Stand by.
A rustling sound had her looking over her shoulder. She expected to see Nate, but when she did not see the boy, she rose, phone in hand, and stepped into the hallway, glancing toward his room and the bathroom. She peeked in his room and saw him lying curled on his side fast asleep. Quietly, she noted the gentle rise and fall of his chest and relaxed.
She moved to the front door and confirmed the dead bolt was locked. As she stood in the darkness, her heart foolishly pounded as she pushed back the curtains covering the front window.
Moonlight slashed across the yard and her car where she had left it hours ago. The trees swayed in a breeze. A cat howled and a dog barked. No signs of a reporter or that blogger Paul Thompson looking for an exclusive interview. Just the night, doing its thing.
“Nothing,” she breathed.
Her phone chimed with a text, startling her. She let the curtain fabric slide from her fingertips.
Bryce: Two cases include stabbing and mutilation. One in Kansas and another in Knoxville, TN. Both victims were female. Both stabbed. Neither victim was burned but the Tennessee victim suffered significant postmortem facial mutilation indicated by marks on the skull. She vanished in May but her body wasn’t found until early June.
Ann: Can you access the case files?
Bryce: Consider it done.
Floorboards creaked and she whirled around to see Nate. He stood in the middle of the hallway, dressed in blue pajamas that hit well above his ankles. His hair was sticking up as he knuckled his right eye.