Billy thinks John knew exactly how long it would take for the police to get to the area. Even the pay phones he’d called me from were all remote locations like old campsites and rest areas, which meant no witnesses or cameras. They also think he makes sure there are multiple routes to the location, so he’s never fenced in. The police still seem sure they’ll find him, but I’m having some serious doubts. They don’t think he realizes they can tap my cell, but he said it himself, it doesn’t matter what I told them or if they traced the call, he knows the Interior like the back of his hand. He’s been getting away with this for over thirty years. What’s going to stop him now?
* * *
When I told Evan what happened he freaked out and wanted me to tell the cops I wouldn’t do it. I told him they thought I was their only chance to find him, and if they didn’t he’d keep killing. Finally we agreed I’d take it one day at a time. He came home on Monday—God, I was happy to see him—but I still couldn’t relax. We finally sat down and did the guest list, but then Billy called to see how I was doing. I left the table so I could talk to him out in my shop and when I came back in Evan said, “One of your boyfriends?”
“Ha, ha. It was that cop I met the other day. Sorry for taking so long—we were talking about John.”
“No worries.”
But I was worried. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I should say next time John called. We went for a long walk with Ally and Moose that night and rented a comedy, but I couldn’t tell you one thing that happened in that movie.
Evan said he hates seeing me so scared and upset, but I can’t help it. While I’m making dinner for Ally, while I’m tucking her in at night, while we’re brushing our teeth in the morning, all I’m thinking about is whether the police will catch John before he kills someone.
I’ve read every article on his victims. I know about Samantha, the pretty blond nineteen-year-old who was camping in a provincial park with her boyfriend. He was shot twice in the back as he tried to escape. They found Samantha’s body a couple of miles into the park. Her arm was broken in three places from a fall, and as she fled through the woods something jabbed straight through her cheek. The Campsite Killer covered her face with her Nike T-shirt, then raped and strangled her. I used to have the same shirt.
I know about Erin, the brunette softball player who decided to go camping by herself and was found two weeks later by someone’s dog—he brought her hand back to the campfire where his owners were roasting marshmallows. The police had to use dental records to identify what was left after the animals got to her.
Sleep has become my nighttime nemesis. I wander the house or watch late-night TV while the clock ticks. I have baths, showers, drink warm milk, and lie on Ally’s bed stroking her curls while she sleeps. If Evan’s home I curve my body around his, try to match my breathing with his, and daydream about how beautiful our wedding will be. Nothing helps.
When I’m not reading about John online, I’m researching serial killers: Ed Kemper, Ted Bundy, Albert Fish, the Green River Killer, BTK, the Hillside Stranglers, the Zodiac Killer, Canada’s Robert Pickton and Clifford Olson, and too many more. I study their patterns, their triggers, their victims, every detail of their horrific crimes. That’s in addition to the books by FBI profilers and psychologists.
I compare theories and arguments—psychopath, mental defect, chemical imbalance, dysfunctional childhood? I take pages and pages of notes and when I finally do fall into an exhausted sleep, I have nightmares of women leaping off diving boards onto pavement or running through fields of broken glass. I hear their screams. I hear them beg, but they’re begging me to stop chasing them. In the dreams they’re running away from me.
SESSION SEVEN
It was my birthday on Friday, but I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. Evan tried so hard to cheer me up. He’d obviously taken Ally shopping—she gave me a beautiful green cashmere cardigan—and he spoiled me with a new mountain bike. I made sure to exclaim over their gifts, forced down three pieces of the pizza they made, and laughed in all the right places at the movie we rented. But my head was filled with thoughts of Julia.
Growing up I often wondered on my birthday what my real mother was doing, if she even remembered the date. Now I wondered if all these years I’d been celebrating, Julia had been tortured with memories of me forcing my way out of her body, of John forcing his way in.
When I first held Ally in my arms after she was born, I couldn’t imagine ever letting her go. I’d been scared I wouldn’t be a good mother, would screw it up somehow, but as soon as her little fingers grabbed mine, I fell head over heels. I also became fiercely protective, watching carefully if anyone held her, taking her back if she fussed. It was hard being a single mom—money was tight and I had to carry Ally in a Snuggie on my back when I worked in my shop—but I loved that it was just her and me against the world. Before Ally, I never felt like I had roots, and in my darkest depressions I thought it wouldn’t matter if I died, no one would miss me. But when I had her I finally had someone who loved me unconditionally, who needed me.
She’s growing up so fast—gone are the days when she’d play imaginary fairy games with me like wiz-a-boo and pansy ears. I don’t want to miss one moment of her life. I don’t want to be distracted when she tells me stories about her teacher, Mrs. Holly, whom she idolizes because she has straight long blond hair and can tap-dance, or about a bug Moose just ate, or when she sings all the songs from Hannah Montana. I don’t want to rush her to bed at night or out of the house in the morning. But I’m so afraid John will call and hear her in the background.
We managed to stop the media spread because nothing was confirmed, and was in fact denied, but rumors are still floating around. Hopefully the gossip will fade before it gets to Ally or any of her friends. I’ve started casually asking how things are going at school. Nothing seems to have changed. But what if it comes up later, like when she’s a teen? And if the truth ever does get out, how would people treat Ally once they knew who her grandfather was? Would they be afraid of her?
I watch her play with other kids or roughhouse with Moose, and all the things that just seemed like part of her personality before frighten me now. The way she gets so angry sometimes that her face flushes and her hands ball. The way she kicks or slaps or bites when she’s frustrated or overtired. Is it just part of her spirit, a normal six-year-old learning to cope with her emotions, or something more serious?
I find myself looking in the mirror, studying my features, thinking about the man who shares them. Wondering what else we share. Then this morning I realized why I keep dreaming of women running away from me, why studying those serial killers freaks me out so much. When I read about them, I see my traits. Serial killers have grandiose fantasies—my whole life I’ve daydreamed and fantasized. They’re obsessive-compulsive—when I’m into something, the rest of the world disappears. They have tempers, mood swings, depressions—check, check, check. They also tend to be solitary, and I’ve always been a loner, preferring to focus on Ally and work. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone, and as far as I know murder isn’t hereditary, but sometimes when I get really angry, I’ve broken things, pushed or shoved people, thrown objects, had fantasies about driving my car straight into a wall, of hurting myself. What would it take to turn that rage outward?
Of course, it’s easy for me to zero in on my negatives and heap them all on John’s genetic doorstep. But like you just pointed out, how do I know those traits didn’t come from growing up adopted, or even from Julia? And I probably won’t know because she’ll never let me close enough to find out. Billy said she confirmed the earrings were hers. Knowing how much the sight of them messed me up, I can only imagine how she felt. I wish I could talk to her. I even picked up the phone once, but this time I dropped it.
Evan left Saturday morning. He was excited because he has a big fishing charter coming up from the States, but he was also concerned about leaving me like this. He told me to stop reading books about serial killer
s, but there’s no way I can just stop researching. I have to find something, some insight or clue, that might help stop John.
But lately I just feel tired. Not sleepy tired, wired-up and strung-out tired. Most evenings I just pace from window to window waiting for the phone to ring. That’s where I was when John finally called again on Monday: standing at my bedroom window upstairs, watching Moose and Ally chase each other in the yard below, thinking how happy they looked, remembering how happy I used to be.
* * *
My cell rang in my pocket. I didn’t recognize the number, but I knew it was him.
“Hi, Sara.” His voice was cheerful.
“John.” My mouth went dry and my chest tightened. The police had my cell tapped now, but I didn’t feel any safer.
We were both silent for a moment, then he said, “So…” He cleared his throat. “Your business, do you like making furniture?”
“I refinish furniture, I don’t make it.” Sandy told me to be friendlier next time he called, but I was having a hard time even being polite. My body tensed as I heard Ally down in the kitchen.
Please, please, just stay there.
He said, “I bet you could make stuff if you wanted to.”
Ally was coming up the stairs, jabbering to Moose.
I moved toward my door. “I’m happy doing what I do.”
Ally was at the entrance to my room. “Mommy, Moose wants his dinner and—” I gestured for her to be quiet.
John said, “What’s your favorite part?”
“Can we do crafts now?” I gave Ally a firm look and pointed back down the stairs, mouthing, I’m on the phone.
“But you promised—” I closed the door and locked it. On the other side, she began to slam her hands against the wood while she yelled, “Mommy!”
I covered the phone’s speaker and sprinted to the farthest side of the room.
John said, “What’s that racket?”
Crap, crap, crap.
“I meant to turn the TV off and accidentally turned it up.”
Ally slapped the door again. I held my breath. Now they were both quiet.
Finally he said, “I asked what your favorite part is.”
“I don’t know. I just like working with my hands.” There were lots of things I loved about woodworking, but I wasn’t sharing any of them with him.
“I’m good with my hands too. Did you like building things when you were growing up?” No sounds from the hall. Where was Ally?
“I guess so. I used to steal my dad’s tools.”
Silence from both of them. I held my breath again, strained my ears. Finally a cupboard slammed in the kitchen. She was downstairs. I let out my breath and dropped my forehead onto my knees.
“I would have given you tools,” he said. “It’s not right that I didn’t know I had a kid.”
My anger flared. “I guess the circumstances of how I was conceived sort of took away that option.”
He was silent.
“Why do you do it? Why do you hurt those people?”
No answer.
My blood roared in my ears, warning me I was going too far, but I couldn’t stop.
“Are you angry? Do they remind you of someone, or—”
His voice was tight. “I have to do it.”
“Nobody has to kill—”
“I don’t like this.” He was breathing fast into the phone. Back off, back off NOW.
“Okay, I just—”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” And he was gone.
* * *
I called Billy right away. While we talked, I threw together some dinner for Ally and dumped food in a bowl for Moose. This time John called from north of Williams Lake and it took the police forty minutes to get there. They patrolled the area again: stopping vehicles, talking to locals, showing John’s sketch at gas stations and stores, but so far no one has seen anything. I asked Billy how they were ever going to catch John if he keeps calling from rural locations and he said they have to just keep doing what they’re doing and hope they eventually get a lead. They did find the private investigator, though—on a Caribbean cruise with his wife.
When I finally hung up the phone I went to find my daughter, who was slumped in front of the TV. I felt so bad for ignoring her I told her she could sleep in my bed that night, a treat that usually brings squeals of delight. But she was quiet as I tucked her in and read Charlotte’s Web—Ally’s only interested in a book if it has an animal in it. When she whispered something into Moose’s ear, I stopped reading.
“What’s wrong, Ally Cat?”
She whispered something else to Moose. He flicked his bat ears and looked at me with round, moist eyes.
“Do I have to tickle it out of Moose?” I held my hands out and pretended to go for him.
“Don’t!” Her cat eyes glared.
“Then I guess you’ll have to tell me.”
I smiled and made a silly face, but she wouldn’t look at me.
“You closed the door.”
“You’re right, I did.” How was I going to explain this? “That wasn’t very nice of Mommy. But I have a new client and he’s very important. He’s probably going to be calling a lot and I have to give him all my attention, so you need to be really quiet, okay?”
Her brow furrowed and her cheeks flushed. One of her feet began to kick under the blanket.
“You said we could do crafts.”
“I know, sweetie. I’m sorry.” I sighed, feeling bad for letting her down again and hating that John was the reason. “But it’s like when I’m working in the shop or Evan goes to the lodge. We still love you, more than anything, but we have to take care of grown-up things sometimes.” Now both feet were kicking. Moose stood up and walked to the end of the bed. Ally kicked at him under the blanket. A jolt of anger shot through me.
I held her leg in place with my hand. “Ally, stop it.”
She yelled in my face, “No!”
“That’s enough. You don’t speak to—”
She kicked again. Moose yelped and fell off the side of the bed, landing on the floor with a thump.
“Ally!” I leaped out of bed.
Moose grunted and wriggled over to me when I knelt on the floor. I stroked his ears and turned to Ally.
“That is not okay. We don’t hurt animals in this house.”
Ally glared at me, her mouth mean and small.
I stood up. “Back to your bed—right now.” I pointed to her room. She grabbed her book and held it up as though she were going to throw it at Moose.
“Don’t you dare, Ally!”
A look I’d never seen before crossed her face—hatred.
“Ally, if you throw that book, you’re going to be in big trouble.”
We held gazes. Moose whined. She looked at him, then back at me. Her face was red and her eyes almost slits.
“I’m serious, Ally, if you—”
She threw the book as hard as she could. Moose dodged and the book slammed into the wall.
My blood surged with rage as I grabbed her wrist and hauled her out of bed. My hands gripping her shoulders, I yelled into her face.
“You never, ever, ever hurt an animal! Do you hear me?”
She stared at me, bottom lip out, defiant.
Still gripping her wrist, I dragged her to the door and down the hall to her room. I let go and pointed to her bed.
“I don’t want to hear another thing out of you unless it’s an apology.”
She stomped into her room, slammed the door behind her.
* * *
I wanted to go in, wanted to explain, wanted to make it all better, wanted to give her holy hell and then some, but I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time I’d been afraid of my daughter. It was the first time I’d been afraid of how angry I was at her.
Moose stayed in bed with me. I couldn’t believe Ally had lashed out at him like that. He’d always been able to calm her quicker than I could. When I got him I was living on my own and wanted compan
y while Ally was at preschool. He brought laughter to my day and protection at night, but best of all, the little meatball had a stabilizing effect on Ally. If she was scared to try something new, I’d tell her Moose liked it. When I needed her to focus on something or listen to me, I could use Moose as a threat or a bribe, and when she was really sick or upset, simply for comfort. But that night I was the one who needed comfort. I pulled Moose under the covers and tucked his big head into my neck.
* * *
The next morning Ally was singing into her cereal and blowing bubbles in her juice like nothing had happened. She even drew me a picture of some flowers with her crayons and gave me a hug, saying, “I love you, Mommy.” Usually I go over things with her when we’ve had a conflict. After growing up in a house where one parent yelled while the other stayed in the bedroom, I swore I was going to talk things out with my children. But this time I was just happy the bad night had passed.
After I dropped her off at school, I came home to stain the headboard I was still struggling to finish, but I kept waiting for my cell to go off at any minute. Finally I gave up and took a coffee break. I was just pouring a cup when I heard a knock.
Moose rushed barking and snorting to the front door. My stomach jumped into my throat. I walked down the hallway, my body hugging the wall. I grabbed the baseball bat Evan had left behind the door and peeked through the blinds at the side window, but I couldn’t see a vehicle.
I yelled, “Who is it?”
“Damn, woman, you trying out for the Marines?” Billy.
I opened the door and Moose was out like a rocket, a compact mass of wiggling snorts and snuffles. Billy laughed and picked him up.
“Hey, squirt.”
“What’s going on, Billy? Why are you here? Did he kill someone?”
“Not unless you know something we don’t. I was just coming over to see how you were doing after that last call.”
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