by J K Ellem
It was after 11:00 p.m. by the time Shaw and Emily left Alice Munroe’s house. Alice was still awake with her husband and welcomed Molly with open arms. Shaw told her just scant details of what had happened.
Asked if she had heard from Clare, Alice told her that she hadn’t and maybe they should drop by her house.
On the drive to Clare’s house Shaw had tried raising her on the two-way radio, but still got no response.
The snow came down in a thick curtain that swirled and coated the car as they drove. When they arrived at Clare’s house, Shaw could tell the place was deserted. Her police car wasn’t in the driveway and the place was in darkness. He did a circuit of the house checking all the windows and doors, the house was buttoned-up tight. Houses get a settled feel to them when someone hasn’t been on the property for a while. Snow builds up on the paths, the mailbox gets full with brochures and mail, leaves and debris gather in the yard, and an empty cold settles over the place. The house didn’t have the warm and welcoming feeling Shaw remembered from the previous evening and this troubled him.
Next they swung by her office, it was also closed up tight and in darkness.
Shaw was running out of possibilities where Clare might be. If Micky Dent was telling the truth, then maybe Clare had run into Emily’s stalker. There would be no point in going to the logging camp, he had already dealt with the three men from there who would have a grudge against her.
“So what do we do now?” Emily asked, as they climbed back into the Bronco.
“We follow the plan. We head to the church, then find the old back road.”
“But we’ll never find the hunter’s cabin in the dark and snow. It’s two miles off the road. No trail, no map, nothing to follow.”
Shaw had already thought of that. As Al Beckett had said, the old cabin was deep in the woods and there was no way he was going in there looking for someone who was familiar with the terrain and location.
“A fall-back position,” Shaw said.
Emily frowned.
“An alternative, a back-up location. The tannery, that’s his fall-back position. The cabin is just a staging point for his forays into the town, within easy walking distance. But his real base would be the tannery. It’s what I would do.”
“So we find the back road and that will lead us to the tannery.”
Shaw nodded, “He has transport there, a car, a motorbike, something he has hidden so when he’s finished he can make a quick exit.”
“Why not just hide in the old tannery in the first place?”
“He likes to have a back-up. It’s too risky to place all your resources in one location, so he has a number of spots where he has stashed food, weapons and the like. Plus the tannery is the only real structure for miles and he would know that others would be thinking like that too. Maybe kids use the place at night to hang out and drink, make out, fool around, take drugs, I don’t know. But it would be too risky to set up camp there in the off-chance someone comes by, the police, park ranger, the owner.”
Emily was beginning to understand Shaw’s way of thinking. “So it’s his jump-off point. His transport out of town is hidden there.”
“Correct. Maybe a car. Too big to drive deep into the forest. Plus the tannery gives him a road out of the place fast.”
Shaw started the Bronco and pulled away from the curve. He didn’t tell Emily that the tannery was the perfect place to do what the killer liked to do to his victims. He needed space, privacy, a building or secure structure where he could take his time to torture them, torment them. Shaw also didn’t tell Emily he thought the killer had taken Clare—that somehow she was his back-up substitute instead of her. Shaw was with Emily, so he would be more cautious. Maybe Clare knew who it was.
Either way Shaw felt a cold dread in the pit of his stomach as he drove. The killer had taken Clare and he had her captive right now.
* * *
The hood over her head stunk. It reeked of sweat, blood, nasal fluids and fear. The bindings on her hands and feet were tight, too tight to undo no matter how hard she had tried, and she had tried repeatedly in the last hour since awakening.
She couldn’t tell if it was light or dark in the room, she was blind, so all she could rely on was her other senses. But it felt like it was dark or at least gloomy.
The room was cold, heavy, damp. The chair she sat on felt solid, hard base, and secured to the floor because she had tried to topple it over. The floor felt like stone, not timber, maybe concrete, flat under the soles of her feet.
She felt lighter, less clothing, not naked, but they had removed her heavy jacket, gun and utility belt.
There were no sounds, nothing. No animals, no doors being opened and closed, no distant footsteps, no car sounds or voices, no whispers or hushed discussions. Just screaming silence. A silence that felt empty, deep, a void. She had cried out and her own muffled screams echoed back to her.
Reluctantly she summarised in her head what little she knew.
She was bound to a secured chair with cable ties in a large cold, damp empty room like a prison cell, her mouth was taped shut and she was miles from anywhere with little or no chance of escape.
Then she thought about the other revelation she had deduced.
Other people had worn the same hood she was now wearing, and no doubt they had all died in that same room.
42
Al Beckett was right. The entrance to the back road was almost unrecognisable, hidden amongst the wild and dishevelled undergrowth that had grown sideways, almost choking the opening. If they hadn’t been told what to look for they would have driven right past it.
Shaw had slowed the Bronco to a walking pace and was hugging the shoulder of the road while Emily shone the torch out of the window along the wall of snow-dusted foliage.
“There!” she called. Shaw stopped then backed up. There was a gap in the wall of brush and the start of a narrow road, its edge broken and torn.
Shaw turned in, the Bronco pushing aside the thick undergrowth as it brushed the front and flanks of the car. Twenty yards in they found themselves in a channel of twisted branches and limp-hanging leaves. The back road was narrow, flat and clear of ice and snow. The forest rose on each side, tall and brooding.
Shaw imagined back long ago when large trucks had passed through here on a daily basis, back and forth carrying their loads from the tannery, their size and bulk naturally trimming back the encroaching forest.
As time passed and the rumble of trucks faded, the forest crept forward, reclaiming the road, closing over it like the skin of a healing wound.
Shaw drove slowly, checking the mileage on the speedometer, the old dials gradually turning. It was just under two miles from the start of the back road to the tannery according to Al Beckett’s measurements.
When the dial clicked over one mile, Shaw stopped the car, turned off the lights and killed the engine. He wound down the window an inch and a cold stream of air crept into the cabin. It was better to acclimatize for the walk ahead.
They sat in the darkness, not talking, just listening to the sounds and watching the darkness, the engine clicking and creaking as it cooled. Branches rustled and moaned, bending in the darkness.
“We go the last mile on foot, quietly. No sound, no lights.” Shaw reached behind and grabbed the duffle bag. He opened it and handed Emily spare magazines. He took two for himself after checking all were properly loaded. A poorly seated round in a magazine would cause a jam in the gun. In the dark, blindfolded and under extreme stress, he could clear any weapons malfunction—with one hand if needed, but he doubted Emily could do the same.
“If your weapon jams for whatever reason, strip the magazine and replace it. I don’t care what you have learnt on the range or in gun class. Out here there is only one rule. OK?”
Emily nodded and slid the spare magazines into her pocket.
“I don’t expect you to shoot anything unless you’re in mortal danger, do you understand?”
Emily
nodded again.
“Good, let me do the shooting if needed.”
They checked their gear one more time then eased open the doors, got out and quietly pressed the doors shut.
The air was still and clear. Low cloud dissolved then reformed across a pale moon, the road and landscape a ghostly wash of grays and blacks.
Walking down the back road was an obvious thing to do. Being obvious mattered to the man they were hunting. He shunned being obvious, choosing to hide in the darkness and move in obscure, unpredictable patterns. Shaw had no problem with this, because he had hunted others like him before. He just needed to put himself into the head of the person and follow what he would do.
He wouldn’t be here. He would be at the cabin or in town, or making his way there to spy on Emily. This was his fall-back point. He would come here when he was ready to leave, to gather his equipment, pack-up and slip away. This is where he would be keeping his transport out of town, hidden, covered. Maybe he had a cache of other things stashed here. Weapons, supplies.
They were hunting an animal, but this was not a tag-and-release exercise. They weren’t going to surrender and they weren’t going to give up.
* * *
They moved quickly and soon the asphalt gave way to coarse gravel, the forest parted to reveal open ground. The silhouette of a large structure loomed in the distance.
Shaw motioned to Emily and they came off the road and moved into the forest.
“We’re going to follow the edge of the forest and go around, approach it from the side,” Shaw whispered.
Emily just nodded.
In the gloom Shaw could just make out some of the building features. The old tannery was ringed by a fence. At the front was a large set of gates that were drawn back and the front yard was scattered with machinery, piles of scrap metal, and what looked like the shape of an truck that sagged to one side. The place was dark and desolate.
Shaw hoped that his theory was correct. If he was wrong, then someone with night-vision capabilities was probably watching them right now.
* * *
Clare tried one last time to twist and snap the cable-ties that bound her to the chair, but it was no use. She felt a sharp pain as the plastic dug into her skin. It was useless, they were the kind used by law enforcement, but she didn’t give up. She was determined not to die in this cold, damp place alone in the darkness.
She was sure she was bleeding, she could feel warm trickles of blood running down the back of her hands and onto the floor. Her mouth was dry and the air under the hood was hot and stale. She told herself not to panic when the rough material clung to her face as she inhaled, and tried her best to breathe through her mouth. It left a putrid taste at the back of her throat.
The silence around her fuelled her determination. She had expected someone to have come, but no one had. She took that as a good sign, something positive. They were in no rush to do whatever they were going to do, and while she waited she tried to remain focused and formulated a plan.
For the last hour she had cursed herself for being so stupid. She should have waited until the morning, until the storm had passed and the roads opened again. She should have waited for Dan Reynolds and his team. But impatience and maybe anger had gotten the better of her, and she had rushed in. Now she was alone, no one knew where she was. Even if Ben was out looking for her, he would have no idea where to start.
She was somewhere deep, her instincts told her so, because a certain heaviness weighed down on her, layers of soil, rock and ice.
She had gotten herself into this and only had herself to blame. It was going to be the last mistake she was ever going to make.
43
They skirted around the edge of the forest, keeping a few rows back, hidden within the tree line, watching the dark ominous shape of the building as they circled the perimeter and along the side. Shaw watched for any sign of movement, the flare of a light or the slightest twinkle of metal. The place looked cold and dead, an edifice to industrial decline and abandonment.
The perimeter fence had jagged gaps where thieves had torn out the wire. Over the decades the place would have been ransacked, stripped of anything remotely valuable. Machinery left abandoned, metal wiring, copper pipe, electrical conduit, all pulled, wrenched, stripped and stolen. What was left was the decaying carcass of a business long since closed or shipped offshore. There were thousands of places just like this one, scattered across the country. Usually at the end of some back road, or buried deep in the scrub off the main highway, or on the edge of a once populous and thriving town. Once proud factories, serving the community, providing jobs and sustaining families, now gone with just a desolate, barren wasteland in its place.
They held their position in the tree line. After five motionless minutes Shaw nudged Emily and they moved out of the safety of the forest and across a road that ringed the entire building. The ground was hard and cold, brittle with a layer of frost. The clouds had cleared and the sky above was dark, cold and clear with a smudge of stars. The storm was lifting, moving west, leaving behind a massive void of freezing air over the mountain.
Shaw had never felt so cold before, despite the layers of clothing. His face was numb, the cold seeped into him, chilling deep into his spine.
They reached the fence and quickly scuttled through a large rent in the wire. Shaw pulled Emily up behind a hunk of rusted machinery that was half buried amongst the grass and weeds. It was another hundred yards to the side of the building. There was a raised platform, like a loading dock with a set of stairs that led to a large open door entry.
Shaw waited again, watching smashed windows and vacant openings. They broke cover again, made it up the stairs and entered the building.
They found themselves in a cavernous interior. Puddles of moonlight shone down from gaps high above. Entire sections of the ceiling were gone, revealing a cold muted sky, the tin sheeting worn away from decades of harsh winters and hot summers. The floor was a confused mass of twisted and scattered debris, piles of ice and snow, dead animals and rubbish. Some walls were scorched by fire, others were covered in graffiti. The interior was skinned in layers of grime, filth and years of abuse.
For Shaw, it was a perfect fall-back point. There were stairs leading up to a framework of overhead gantries and offices, and down to subfloors and drainage tunnels. Any mode of transport would be stored on the ground floor and that is where Shaw, together with Emily, started their search.
They kept their flashlights off and relied purely on the muted light that seeped down from the gaps in the ceiling. Ten minutes later Shaw found what he was looking for.
It was an off-road motocross bike, aggressive dirt tires, full tank, primed ready to go. It was hidden behind a pile of broken timber pallets, covered with a canvas tarp.
The engine was stone-cold.
Shaw pulled out a knife, crouched down and cut the ignition cables. The bike wasn’t going anywhere.
They moved on and soon Shaw found a backpack hidden inside a commercial bin. They found it in an alcove recessed behind a set of stairs. Shaw crouched down with Emily, switched on his flashlight and rifled through the contents. Inside he found a Beretta 92FS handgun, one of the best military tactical handguns available. There were three spare magazines, fully loaded, another hundred rounds for the gun, a first aid trauma pack, a spare cell phone and charger, food ration bars, and a lightweight snow jacket.
It was a go-bag, another failsafe left by someone who had meticulously planned everything they did and who had thought of all contingencies except the one where someone like Shaw would find their cache of supplies and their only mode of transport—and would take or sabotage them.
Shaw gave Emily the flashlight while he stripped the Beretta. It had been expertly cleaned and lubricated. He assembled it again, checked the action and stuffed it into his belt and pocketed the spare magazines. It was a lot better weapon than the Glock 17 he had borrowed from Emily, but he kept the Glock as a spare.
Nex
t he opened the trauma pack. It wasn’t some “off the shelf” medical kit. It was configured and stocked to treat serious injuries, from a chest gunshot wound to broken bones and knife lacerations.
Shaw clipped the trauma pouch onto his belt under his jacket, then packed the spare jacket back into the backpack. Emily flipped off the flashlight and they emerged from the alcove. Shaw returned the backpack to the steel bin.
“Where to now?” Emily whispered.
They hung back in the shadows and Shaw didn’t answer. He had an uncomfortable feeling in his gut. He had underestimated their foe. He was resourceful, careful and had military training. Everything he had seen, the motocross bike rigged ready to go, the stashed backpack, the trauma pack, the choice of handgun—it all indicated the person they were looking for was very prepared and very dangerous. Nothing was left to chance. They had mitigated the risk of failure by careful planning. Serial killers were known to be meticulous to the point of being overly obsessive. They carefully stalked their prey, were patient and took their time. But there was something else here Shaw had seen but couldn’t quite understand.
It would have to wait. He needed to find Clare.
“Come on,” Shaw motioned to Emily. They made their way to a set of stairs that led to the level below. The stairwell of steps and rusted tubing yawed black and ominous. He had no choice, the darkness was total at the bottom and he had to turn on his flashlight. Shaw pulled out the Beretta, switched on the light and nodded at Emily.
They descended into the darkness.
* * *
It was a faint sound, the soft clang of metal echoing through the distance, off walls, along corridors, until it reached Clare’s ears. She looked up forgetting the hood was covering her head, her mind trying to visualise where the sound emanated from.