by Lukens, Mark
Hope’s End wasn’t the only thing he’d been dreaming about tonight, and the memories of Hope’s End weren’t what had scared him awake. There was another dream about a shadowy man, a killer who prowled the darkness like a jaguar.
But the killer wasn’t here, David knew that. The killer was in Colorado, far away, but still close enough, stalking his victims at this very moment. The killer’s mind was twisted, but he was smart and cunning, strong and merciless; he had begun killing not too long ago, and he wasn’t going to stop now.
Not until he finds me, David thought.
CHAPTER 4
The Killer
Colorado
The killer waited in the darkness. He stood by a thick stand of trees near the edge of the woods. He watched the house that was built up on a slight hill a hundred yards away. The windows of the home were little squares of cozy yellowish light shining in the night. The couple who lived there looked so safe and snug in their home, but they weren’t safe at all. Not at all.
The killer had been in this area twenty miles south of Denver for a week now. He had killed his earlier four victims north of Denver, smaller towns where the murder of two older couples had shocked the residents there. The mutilated bodies, and what he had done to them, had made news all over Colorado, and then the country, and then the world. Because of the placement of the pieces of the bodies, the way the bones and organs had been arranged, the press wondered if the Dig Site Killer was back after all of these years.
He wasn’t the Dig Site Killer, but he wanted to pay homage to the person (for some reason he was certain it was only one person) who had done those things in that cave in New Mexico, and to what the killer had done to the bodies in and near Cody’s Pass, Colorado. The police and the FBI had never admitted that the killings in those two places were connected, but the killer knew they were—everyone knew they were. He wanted to re-create those mutilations. Of course he might never reach that level of skill, an almost supernatural skill, but he wanted to catch the attention of that killer; he wanted him to see him as a student of his work at first, and then maybe even an equal someday.
The killer had watched this house for the last three nights, waiting in the woods and watching each night, studying and deciding on the perfect time to strike. He knew the names of the couple inside the house—Harold and Marcie—but he didn’t know much else about the older couple. He knew they lived alone and that they didn’t have a dog or an alarm system. And he knew that they were going to help him make history tonight.
*
Harold watched TV in the living room as Marcie cleaned up the dinner dishes. Harold had told her to leave the dishes until the morning, but he knew damn well after twenty-six years of marriage that she wasn’t going to leave the dishes in the sink until the morning; she just couldn’t do it. Unlike Harold, who could easily relax even though the kitchen was a wreck, she couldn’t rest until the kitchen was clean.
Harold had the TV turned up so loud. His hearing was getting worse and worse. She begged him to go see a doctor, but he wouldn’t.
She finished up the last of the dishes, setting them in a strainer beside the sink. They had a dishwasher but she hardly ever used it because it was just so much easier to wash up the dinner dishes right afterwards.
She thought she might call Brian tonight, their son. He’d just gotten married and he had even less time for her and Harold now. Sometimes months would go by before he called or came by to visit. He only lived thirty minutes away. She tried to go see him, but every time she wanted to visit he told her that it wasn’t a good time. His excuse was always that his wife Amanda wasn’t feeling well or that the house was a mess. Or he would come up with some other excuse. Eventually she just gave up inviting herself over. She could tell when she wasn’t wanted. She could tell that Amanda disliked her and Harold for some reason. She had even asked Brian why Amanda seemed to hate them so much, but of course Brian said that Amanda adored them.
Yeah, right. Marcie could tell when someone hated her. And she was sure Brian had run right back to Amanda and told her everything she had shared with Brian in confidence. She had told Brian that if she and Harold had done something to make Amanda mad, then she should just tell them, just spit it out and get it out in the open. They had been nothing but polite to Amanda, overly-polite, bending over backwards and walking on eggshells around her.
Marcie thought that a person accused of hatred might run to the phone and try to straighten everything out, insisting that any suspicions weren’t true and apologizing for any misunderstandings. But there was no phone call from Amanda, and no phone call from Brian.
Marcie had already left three voicemails on Brian’s phone this week. Maybe she shouldn’t even call him tonight. Maybe she should just wait until he called her. That’s what Harold always said: Wait him out, don’t give in to him.
Brian was probably mad at her anyway. The last time she’d talked to him she had laid on the guilt trip pretty thick. “We’re not going to be around forever, you know. Once we’re gone, you’re going to be sorry you didn’t spend more time with us.”
She’d gotten a loud sigh from Brian on the phone, and then: “I gotta go, Mom. Love you.” And then a click as he hung up.
Yes, maybe she wouldn’t call him tonight. She would wait for him to call her, see how long that took.
*
It was time.
The killer smiled. The air was still fresh and cool at night even though it was almost summer. The moon was full and bright, hardly a cloud in the sky. The wind was almost non-existent, but a gust of strong wind had just blown through the trees, rattling the branches, leaves and twigs falling to the ground around him like snow. That wind felt ominous, it felt alive, washing over him and fueling him with a dark energy.
He had his tool bag beside him in the grass; it was really a black canvas duffel bag, but he called it his tool bag. He had hammers, saws, pliers, knives, various nails, battery-operated power tools, tarps, rope, tape, and other tools of his trade. The bag was heavy, but he needed it with him.
He wore black clothes: a thick black hoodie sweatshirt, black jeans, black hiking boots, thin black leather gloves. He had worn rubber gloves when he had killed the older couples, but the gloves had gotten too slick with the blood and they made his hands sweat too much. It was those little things he learned along the way that made him better. He tried to think ahead and he tried to be prepared as much as he could. He’d bought the hiking boots and the clothes he wore at a garage sale a few weeks ago—untraceable. The clothes would go into a cloth sack after tonight and he would toss them into a dumpster behind a store. The gloves would make sure no fingerprints were left behind tonight. And he would leave no stray hairs because he had shaved every hair on his head and body—even his eyebrows. He would leave no trace of himself behind.
He also wore a generic black ski mask that could be purchased just about anywhere in Colorado. He was now a black shadow in the darkness, a dark shape moving in the night.
The killer inhaled a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment, and then he exhaled slowly. He picked up his tool bag. He had a gun shoved down in a shoulder holster inside his hoodie, and he had a Taser in his front pants pocket.
He was ready now.
CHAPTER 5
Marcie
Colorado
“What are you doing?” Marcie asked Harold as she came out of the kitchen with a dishtowel in her hands. She’d heard the doorbell ring while wiping down the counters, and now Harold was out of his chair and about to answer the door. Somehow, even with his bad hearing and the baseball game blaring from the TV, Harold had heard the doorbell. She wondered if Harold’s deafness was selective, his excuse to tune her out.
Harold was already at the door, unlocking it. She’d told him a million times not to answer the door without looking out through the living room windows first to see who was there, but Harold was set in his ways, still living in a world where you kept your doors unlocked at night and you trus
ted your fellow humans.
But Marcie felt like something was wrong. For a split second she thought Brian might be at the door, probably because she had just been thinking about him. But then she knew it wasn’t Brian. No, it was someone bad on the other side of that door. Someone real bad.
The recent murder of the older couples north of Denver came to her mind right away. They had been slaughtered like animals, their bodies mutilated and pieced back together in some kind of morbid artwork. And for some reason she felt that the killer was right on the other side of their door. Harold was always telling her that she was so negative, that she should try to look on the bright side of things. But tonight, right at this moment, she knew she was right to be afraid.
“Harold, no!” She ran into the living room to stop him from opening the front door.
Harold hadn’t heard her, or at least he had pretended not to hear her. He opened the door and then he was rocked back, a loud grunt escaping his lungs like he’d just been squeezed by a giant hand. He dropped to the floor, his arms and legs flailing in spasms.
A man dressed from head-to-toe in black stood in the doorway. He had something in his hand, some kind of Taser that he had just jolted Harold with. And in his other hand he held a gun. It was aimed right at her.
“Don’t move,” the man said. His eyes were wide and nervous behind the ski mask, his body tense. “Don’t scream. Don’t do anything. I don’t want to shoot you.”
Marcie didn’t have heart problems, but she felt like she was on the verge of having a heart attack right now.
The man slipped inside their home and closed the door behind him, locking it.
Harold tried to roll over onto his side, apparently able to control his arms and legs a little better now. He moaned, trying to get up.
The man was between Marcie and Harold in a flash, his movements quick and twitchy. He was trembling. “Turn that TV off,” he said over the baseball game blaring from it.
Marcie stumbled over to Harold’s chair on weak legs and picked up the remote control from the little table next to it. She pressed the power button and the TV turned off, the house silent now except for Harold’s moaning.
The masked man sighed, relaxing just a little. “Look, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to take a few things and then I’ll go.”
Marcie didn’t answer the man. She found that she was nodding her head without even meaning to, agreeing with what he was saying.
“What’s your name, lady?”
“Marcie,” she answered. Her name came out as a breathless whisper. She was having so much trouble catching her breath.
“Marcie. I’m sorry I tazed your husband. I . . . I just need some money. And any jewelry you have.”
For drugs, Marcie thought.
“Do you have any guns in the house?” the man asked.
Marcie wasn’t sure if the man in the ski mask was asking about guns because he was afraid they would use them on him or because he wanted to sell them, but she shook her head no—they didn’t have any guns. Harold had wanted a gun for years, but she had never allowed it; she’d always been too afraid of them.
Harold was up on all fours now, his head hanging low.
“Okay,” the masked man said to himself, glancing around their living room and then into the dining room like an idea had just occurred to him.
At least there was only one man, Marcie thought. He wasn’t the killer who had slaughtered two old couples up north, she told herself. He was just some junkie who needed money for his next fix.
The masked man darted into the dining room and shoved his pistol inside his hoodie jacket. He shoved his Taser down into his pants pocket as he grabbed two dining room chairs and brought them back into the living room. He set them right in the middle of the floor, side by side. “Sit here,” he told Marcie, but he made it sound more like an offer rather than a command.
Marcie knew that when the masked man had grabbed the dining room chairs it had been her chance to run, to bolt outside or to their bedroom for the phone. She could have gotten out a window. But she had been too frightened to move, her legs and arms felt impossibly heavy, even her mind was sluggish.
But the man would have easily caught her. He looked young and fit. And if she had run, then what about Harold? She was just going to leave him behind? No. Running was out of the question. Maybe she could just do what this man wanted, give him the money and the jewelry he wanted, and then he would go and leave them alone.
“Please,” Marcie managed to say. She could feel the stinging of tears in her eyes.
“I won’t hurt you,” the man said. “I promise. You let me tie your hands behind your back and sit in the chair. I’ll be gone in ten minutes. I swear.”
Marcie shook her head no, unable to utter an answer for a moment. She felt the helpless tears coming now. She looked at Harold—he was still trying to get up to his feet, still moaning in pain and shock. She looked back at the man. “You’ve already hurt us.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know if he had a gun. Now that I know you two won’t shoot me, then I won’t hurt you. You let me tie you to the chairs, you tell me where your money and jewelry are, then I won’t hurt you. I swear.”
And if we don’t? But she didn’t ask that. “You won’t do anything else to us? You won’t blindfold us or gag us?”
“No. I won’t gag you, Marcie. I need you to tell me where your stuff is.” He even smiled a little behind the mouth hole of his mask, showing her how silly her fears were.
“I can’t have something over my mouth,” she told him. “I’ll panic. It will feel like I can’t breathe.”
“I told you I wouldn’t,” the man said. It was the first tinge of anger in the man’s voice, the first sign of his impatience with this negotiation. He breathed out a heavy sigh like he was weighing his options.
He could taze both of us, Marcie thought. He could taze us and tie us to the chairs if he wanted to. I can’t fight him off, and neither can Harold. We’re only going to make him more and more angry.
“Look,” the man said. “I’m wearing a mask. You haven’t seen my face. I’m wearing gloves. There won’t be a trace of me left here. No witnesses. I don’t need to kill you. I don’t want to kill you. I just want your stuff so I can go.”
Marcie didn’t say anything. Her mind was stuck on the word kill.
“Help your husband into the chair,” the man said, his voice a little harder now—he was done playing games. He still seemed twitchy, ready to grab one of the weapons he had on him.
To her amazement, Marcie found herself following the man’s orders. Harold was almost up on his feet now, on one knee, his body trembling with the effort. She took his hand and helped him all the way up, guiding him to one of the dining room chairs the man had set up for them. Harold sat down heavily in the chair. He seemed like he was half-asleep, still dazed, not thinking clearly yet.
“Now you,” the man told Marcie.
Marcie sat down in the chair next to her husband.
“Hands behind you,” the man said. He was right behind both of them now. She couldn’t see him anymore.
Again, Marcie followed orders without thinking about it. Just do what he wants and he’ll go away, she thought. It was a mantra she repeated in her mind. And what other choice did she have? She put her hands behind her, around the back of the armless chair. She felt a piece of rope winding around her wrists, binding them together. She winced; he had tied her wrists together a little too tightly. Was the rope going to cut off her circulation?
Then a terrible realization entered her mind: Where had he gotten the rope? He must have had it on him already—it hadn’t come from her house. Had he been expecting to tie them up? Had that been his plan all along? She feared this man wasn’t some junkie looking to score a few hundred dollars—this was something much more sinister than that.
Harold grunted as the man bound his hands behind his back and the chair, pulling the ropes tight. Then the masked man w
alked away from them, walking to the front door. He unlocked the door and opened it, ducking outside for just a moment. He came back in with a large black duffel bag.
The tightening in Marcie’s chest was back again, that pressure, the panicky sensation of not being able to inhale a complete breath.
Burglary tools, she told herself. That’s just a bag of burglary tools he brings with him. Or maybe that’s the stuff he’s already collected from other homes he has burglarized. He would have to have something to carry his stuff in, wouldn’t he?
The man locked the front door and walked towards them. It was a slow walk and he had a smile on his face underneath the mouth hole of his mask, like he was savoring the moment.
“What the hell do you want?” Harold growled, finally coming fully awake. But it was too late now. “Just take our stuff and get the hell out!”
The man didn’t respond. He set his duffel bag down on the floor in front of them. He unzipped it, revealing all the tools inside. He pulled off his ski mask. His head was completely bald, his skin pasty white, his somewhat handsome face screwed up by a cruel smile.
We’ve seen his face now. He’s not going to let us go. He was never going to let us go.
The man pulled out more lengths of rope from his duffel bag and walked behind their chairs to tie them up more securely.
CHAPTER 6
The Killer
Colorado
Hours later the killer sat on Harold and Marcie’s couch, relaxing. He had blood smeared all over him and now he was getting it all over their couch and the pillows. He looked down at the blood smeared all over his leather gloves and the chunk of flesh in one hand. There was blood on the front of his black hoodie and down the front of his pants, big spots of it on his hiking boots. His boots left bloody footprints all over the carpet and wood flooring in the dining room and kitchen.