by Leslie Wolfe
Then she finally started the engine and drove off, heading to see her old friend, Judy. Kay had been back for almost two weeks, and each day she’d promised herself she’d find the time to visit with her best friend, but it just hadn’t happened yet.
She found Judy the same place she’d known her to be working, waiting on tables at the Chesterfield, a restaurant that catered mostly to tourists with not-so-exotic foods and spiked-up prices. Taking a seat at a table by the window, she waited, smiling, for Judy to notice her after she finished with the customers she was helping. Her smile was heartfelt yet tense. No matter how she felt about it, she had a duty to those missing kids, to the women who had been buried at Silent Lake. How was she going to ask Judy about her father? How can anyone ask a friend if their loved one was a murderer?
“I don’t believe it!” Judy squealed, then rushed to her. She stood and hugged her old friend tightly, then kissed her on both her cheeks.
“Look at you,” Kay said, taking a step back and admiring Judy’s thin figure and lean legs. “You haven’t aged a bit.”
“Ha!” Judy reacted. “Look who’s talking. You’re like a power-woman supermodel, as if you’ve been posing for some magazine in the big city,” she added, referring to San Francisco by the name all locals used. “I heard you’ve been back, and I was wondering when you’d—”
“So sorry, Jude,” she said, hugging her again. “I got overwhelmed with stuff. With life.”
“I heard about Jacob. I can’t imagine him in jail.”
“I can’t either,” she replied. “I just keep hoping it’s a nightmare and I’ll wake up.”
“Can you do something for him? You’re a fed, right?”
“A fed on leave,” she replied, turning her eyes away from Judy’s scrutiny for a split moment. “I’ll stay here at least until Jacob is out. Take care of the house and everything.”
“We could’ve done that for him,” she said. “It wouldn’t’ve been a problem.”
“I know,” she replied quietly. “We both do.” She paused for a beat, avoiding Judy’s kind eyes. “I still felt I should be here for him, that’s all.”
Judy smiled, and it lit up the room. Kay’s heart tightened in her chest. “So, how’s your dad?” she asked, happy to change the subject. “I miss your parents, almost as much as I missed you. They practically raised me.”
“They’re fine,” Judy replied, taking a seat at Kay’s table but on the edge of the chair, ready to jump to her feet if a customer beckoned her. “They’re divorced now,” she added with a shrug tinged with sadness.
“Really? I can’t believe it. They seemed so perfect together,” Kay replied, remembering the gentle blissfulness of dinners at the Stinson family’s house.
“Until one day they weren’t,” Judy replied. “When Mom retired, they started spending more time together, and it didn’t work that well. They kept bickering, and one day, Mom just told us she was leaving. She lives in town now.”
“Where? I’d love to stop by and say hi. I hope she remembers me.”
“Are you kidding? Every time we meet, we talk about you. You’re my sister,” Judy said, squeezing Kay’s frozen hand over the table. Then she wrote down an address on a piece of paper torn from her order pad.
“How’s your brother?” Kay asked. “Married, kids?”
“Nah,” she laughed, “not Sam. This one doesn’t want a family; I don’t know why. He’s happy on his own, or with the occasional girlfriend.” Her smile waned, replaced by melancholy. “He drives the tow truck these days. He took over from Dad when his back gave.”
Kay’s breath caught. Could the unsub be Sam? The cute, blond kid, two years her junior, who used to chase Judy and her, screaming like a banshee until his mother told him to keep quiet or sleep in the chicken coop? He was twenty-seven years old now, but still. It couldn’t be him… just couldn’t.
Her heart sinking, she pushed herself to ask the questions she needed to. “What happened to Mr. Stinson’s back? Is it serious?”
“We didn’t think so at first, but it became so bad he couldn’t work anymore. He just tinkers with stuff at the garage, but can’t really do much. He’s too proud to admit it though. He could go on disability for a few years, and then retire. No one would judge him. He’s worked hard all his life, and now he can barely lift a bottle of beer.”
“How come?” she asked. The Mr. Stinson of her childhood used to be a bear of a man, tall, strong and proud, seemingly invincible. If he’d become a cripple in his old age, there was no point in questioning Judy about him as she’d planned to do. The thought brought relief to her mind, tinged with disappointment. One less lead she could follow.
She noticed the sadness in her friend’s eyes as she explained.
“Nerve damage from slipped discs,” Judy replied. “He needs surgery, but can’t afford it. And he’s too scared to get it.”
“I can help you,” Kay said, lowering her voice. “Just say the word.”
Judy squeezed her hand again, her eyes filling with tears while she gazed at her friend. “It’s so good to have you back,” she said. “Thank you. I’ll try talking some sense into him.”
“How about Sam?” Kay asked. “Any mountain cabin up there, on those slopes, to take the girlfriends for the weekend?”
“Sam? Nah,” Judy replied. “When he’s not working, driving the tow truck, he’s helping Dad in the garage, changing oil and tires for the locals. The business isn’t what it used to be. Now all these cars run forever; they hardly ever break down, and when they do, the boys can’t fix them anymore. They have computers and stuff. Different times, you know.” She veered her eyes away from Kay’s and stared out the window for a moment. “We’re not doing that great. We’re struggling to make ends meet.”
A few moments later, Kay hugged Judy one more time and promised she’d come over for dinner. Then she walked out of the restaurant, squinting in the bright sunlight and wondering how the family tow truck was connected to the unsub, if at all. Relieved that neither Mr. Stinson nor Sam Stinson met any of the critical components of the killer’s profile, she feared for each passing moment, and what that time meant for the missing children and for the woman the unsub was most likely hunting for already.
All she had was a thin lead, so thin it might’ve not been real after all, like spider silk carried by November winds. But she had to follow it.
Perhaps someone else drove the truck to help with the business or maybe Sam Stinson loaned it out sometimes.
Those were much easier questions to ask.
Forty-Two
Plan
The girl’s body bounced on the four-wheeler’s back seat, and he slowed down somewhat after a series of thumps told him her head was rhythmically hitting the side safety bars. He didn’t want her to be brain-dead by the time they got to the cabin. Bruised and a little dizzy, that was fine, but he wanted her in good shape, strong, fiery, able to keep him company throughout the long months of winter, until the ground thawed, and he could lay her to rest properly at Silent Lake.
He was thrilled, barely able to contain his excitement about her. From up close, she was even more beautiful, and scared out of her mind when he’d appeared out of the thicket and said hello, before she recognized him. He wasn’t wearing his work clothes anymore; he’d changed into camo coveralls and hunting boots, guaranteed to make him invisible against the late-October foliage.
No matter how fast he moved after piercing their radiators, it still took him a lot of time to get ready. Dropping off the Cadillac, getting changed, picking up the ATV, all those things took time, and most girls had already gone back to the coffee shop before he was ready for them.
He’d driven his four-wheeler through the woods and stopped close to the girl’s red Ford, then waited until she returned from Katse, where she’d most likely gone to call for help. The girls usually asked Tommy, the owner, for a tow truck number or called their car rental company, who, in turn, dispatched someone. Then they usually spent
some time drinking coffee, eating or just waiting for the mechanic’s arrival.
Sometimes, the tow truck would offer to meet them at Katse, and that complicated things. He knew when that happened because more than fifteen minutes would pass, and the girls wouldn’t leave the coffee shop. When that happened, he had to call the coffee shop himself posing as the tow truck driver and ask them to meet him at the vehicle instead. He’d say inconspicuous things in a feigned hillbilly accent, like, “Ma’am, my name is Jim, and I’ve been dispatched to take care of your car. I’m ten minutes out. I’ll meet you at the vehicle. Did you leave it with the four-way flashers on?”
That call usually sent them rushing out, not even asking why the call hadn’t arrived on their cell phones. They’d simply assume the service was bad or, in the rare case someone would ask, he’d say, “Sorry, ma’am, your phone goes straight to voicemail. It must be the spotty coverage in that area.”
Kendra had asked. She’d been the only one.
Nevertheless, even Kendra had come out of Katse running, paper cup in hand, in a rush to get to her car before the tow truck’s arrival, while he was trailing her on his four-wheeler, twenty yards into the forest, silent and invisible.
When he was hunting, he didn’t have the luxury of time, and had zero room for errors.
He made all his calls from burner phones, each one from a different device. Then they all found their final resting place at the bottom of the river, thrown while he drove over the bridge in the next county over.
The usual response time for a tow truck in that area was sixty to ninety minutes; that was all the time he had from the moment the girls reached Katse Coffee Shop and called for help. He waited fifteen or twenty minutes to give them time to leave Katse on their own. If not, he made the call, then followed them closely as they rushed back to their car.
Then he appeared out of the brush, smiling, offering help.
She’d recognized him from the restaurant, and that was because she really liked him. He felt that deep inside, and was intrigued by it, fascinated even. She’d be the first one to show real interest in him, beforehand. Before she knew who he was. He wondered how that was going to change things.
She even told him her name, Wendy. How wonderful. He’d enjoy calling her by her name all winter long. It rolled off the tongue in a sensual, promising way.
From there, from that initial smile and handshake, it was easy.
A quick blow to the back of her head rendered her unconscious, her slender body an easy load to carry to his ATV. He grabbed her car keys from her pocket, bound her wrists and ankles with cable ties, then drove the ATV deep enough into the woods to not be seen from the road. He then took a bundle of camo tarp and a half-full, five-gallon can from the four-wheeler and rushed to her car. He popped the hood, poured water into the coolant tank, then started the engine and drove it downhill for about a hundred yards, where the first of many side paths opened. He took it, driving slowly on the rutted path, until he could barely distinguish the asphalt of the highway behind him. He found a place where he could go deeper into the brush, then cut the engine, locked the vehicle, and quickly covered the Ford’s conspicuous red with the large tarp in hunting camouflage colors, securing the fabric in place with a few boulders. Standing only a couple of yards away, he couldn’t see it anymore.
Perfect.
Later, when Wendy would be safely at the cabin and the sun had set, he’d go back to the Ford, fix the hole in the radiator quickly and douse a layer of dust-colored, grainy spray paint to hide the resin patch and the traces of spilled coolant. Then he’d haul the car into the San Francisco airport long-term parking garage; a tremendous risk he was still weighing. Was it worth it? Maybe he’d take the Ford to a different terminal this time. The cops had found three of the girls’ cars already, and they might be watching, waiting for him. Should he go to San Jose instead?
But that was later. For now, he focused on getting Wendy home, on spending his first exhilarating hours with her.
With her Ford secured, he rushed back to the ATV. It was more difficult to run back to the four-wheeler through the woods, but much safer. He didn’t want to chance being seen trotting on the highway on foot, probably the only pedestrian to walk on asphalt in that ZIP Code, and be remembered like a sore thumb sticking out at the precise time and place that Wendy vanished. It was bad enough that the cops still swarmed the area with bloodhounds, looking for evidence. But they weren’t going to find him; not unless he made stupid decisions like walking on the highway or going back to San Francisco airport.
When he reached the ATV, Wendy was still unconscious, but he waited a moment before driving off. The red tow truck was passing by, its driver probably swearing mouthfuls at the no-show call that burned his fuel but made him no money.
Well, it happened. Tough luck.
He drove straight into the woods, and after about twenty minutes, he’d crossed over into the next county, where his cabin was, tucked in a ravine behind the snow-covered peaks of Mount Chester. He still had a ways to go and let his mind wander, driving slowly across the acres of woods carpeted in turning foliage, careful not to hit a tree stump and flip over.
Sweet Wendy was going to make a great companion for the long, dark winter nights to come. She was young and seemed sensitive yet gritty, a fighter, promising night after night of pleasure and deeply satisfying screams.
And still, the stirring, anticipating visions disintegrated under the pressure of more practical matters.
The cops were getting closer, regardless of how cautious he’d been. They’d found a few of his girls and disturbed their final resting places. They’d correlated the murder cases and already knew too much of what they had in common. Three of the girls’ cars were in the sheriff’s impound, right there in Mount Chester, and that meant soon they’d know how he immobilized them. How he hunted. They already knew about Katse, and taking Wendy under those circumstances had been a huge risk, the biggest chance he’d taken since that night on a fog-engulfed alley in the San Francisco Tenderloin. Because he couldn’t bring himself to spend the winter alone.
They were getting dangerously close.
He’d managed to put the Texas detective’s ass in a sling with that DUI charge and everything else that came with it. That was going to keep him busy for a while, and, in itself, had been yet another risky maneuver to pull. Anything involving asking favors of other people was treacherous; no one could count on anyone else but themselves.
But Kay, as she liked to call herself these days, was another matter altogether. He thought he’d taken care of her sleuthing with that knife bearing her father’s fingerprints. He thought the piece of evidence would stop her dead in her tracks, rendering her unwilling to have anything else to do with the investigation.
No; Kay Sharp kept going, undeterred, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He’d never really stopped thinking of her, not since the day he’d first seen her.
A federal agent, albeit former, obsessing over the Silent Lake murders just as much as he was obsessing over her was a powerful, heady mix, a recipe for disaster. And yet, while he drove across the pristine acres of national forest, the intoxicating thought he’d been avoiding for a while wriggled its way into his mind, lighting it on fire.
What would winter be like when Kay would join him and Wendy at the cabin?
Forty-Three
Alone
When Elliot entered Sheriff Logan’s office, he was anticipating the long glare the man greeted him with. He was ashamed and frustrated at the same time, after having spent the night in the Redding police lockup, no professional courtesy shown to him whatsoever. He stunk of stale booze and human excrement, the typical stench of someone who’d spent the night on the floor of an overcrowded holding cell. But he’d wanted to see Logan first of all, even before getting a shower and a meal.
He sustained Logan’s glare without bowing his eyes. When the sheriff pointed quietly at the seat in front of his desk, he sat without saying a
word.
“Well,” the sheriff eventually said, after a long sigh escaped his lungs. “It isn’t every day that my best detective spends the night in jail for drunk driving.” He crinkled his nose with disgust. “And you stink. You could’ve paid me the courtesy of getting yourself cleaned up first.”
“I wasn’t drunk, sir,” Elliot replied calmly. “I insisted they do a blood test last night, as soon as we reached the Redding lockup. They wouldn’t hear of it, but the cops who came on duty after midnight agreed to do it.”
“You’re the joke of the department, Young. Nothing short of an embarrassment. If you need to get soused, do it at home, willya?”
“It was one lousy beer, boss. The blood test cleared me. I don’t know why—”
“How about the bribery charge that I had to pull serious weight to make it go away?”
“What bribery charge?” Elliot sprung to his feet, as if the accuser was about to enter the office and he wanted to be ready for a physical confrontation, fists clenched and guard up.
“The two California Highway Patrol officers who pulled you over said that you offered them money to make the DUI go away. They said they’d testify to that.”
“That’s not true!” he shouted, feeling his blood boil inside his veins. “Let’s have their bodycam recordings. You’ll see I wasn’t drunk, and I never offered them anything. I knew once I had my blood tested, they’d let me go.” Angry beyond words, he ran his hands against the sides of his jeans, then crossed his arms at his chest.
“Those recordings are conveniently unavailable,” Logan replied in a somber tone of voice. “Corrupted, I believe they said. That’s how I got the charges dropped. Something about this entire situation smells bad.”