Never Knowing

by Chevy Stevens

  “Have you been honest with me, Sara?”

  My stomach dropped. “Of course.”

  “Have. You. Been. Honest?”

  I sat down in my chair. Did he know I’ve been talking to the police? Oh, God, did he find out about Ally?

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I saw the Web site.”

  My mind raced. Had there been another article?

  “I’m not sure what—”

  “It’s all there.” What was he talking about? I decided to wait him out.

  After a few beats he said, “You have a wedding date—you’re trying to trick me.”

  “I don’t know what…” Then I remembered Evan had made a wedding Web site a couple of weeks ago. How was I going to get out of this?

  “We had a date set. But lately we’ve been talking about changing it. That’s why I said we weren’t sure. I wasn’t lying to you. I wouldn’t do that.” I held my breath.

  He hung up.

  I was still sitting there a couple of minutes later when Evan came in and sat behind me at his desk.

  “Was it him?” he said.

  I nodded.

  Evan spun me around in my chair to face him. “You okay?”

  “He found our wedding Web site. I’d told him I didn’t know the date. He sounded really mad.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “No, it was just … his voice.”

  “I’ll put a password on the site right away. You should call Bill.”

  “This is bad, Evan.”

  “It’ll be okay. He’s not going to kill anyone over a Web site.” He was already signing on to his computer.

  * * *

  That night I tossed and turned while Evan slumbered beside me—or tried to. When I rolled into him for the hundredth time he murmured, “Go to sleep, Sara.” I forced my body to be still, but my mind spun in dizzying circles, sending horrific snapshots of John ripping a woman’s clothes off, his hands tight around her throat, her scream rending through the air as he forced himself into her.

  As soon as Evan left in the morning, I met Billy and Sandy at the station. Hungover from lack of sleep, I clutched a coffee in my hand while talking a mile a minute. I finally started to calm down when Billy said I’d handled the call with John perfectly, that you have to “know when to fight and when not to fight.” Sandy smiled and nodded, but I got the distinct feeling she was pissed off. I wasn’t feeling too happy myself. I’d been hoping John’s using the same phone might help us somehow, but they told me he was using a prepaid cell, which he’d bought for cash. No one at the store remembered what he looked like. All he had to do from now on was buy a SIM card to top up his minutes.

  The call came from near Vanderhoof, so he was heading east again, which meant he might be making his way back to the junction at Prince George. My first thought was that he could be coming to the island—if he drove all night he could be in Vancouver already. I asked them if I was in danger and Billy said they didn’t think so, but to be on the safe side they’d have an officer patrol by our house several times a day.

  Even with those reassurances and Billy texting later to say, Hang in there, you’re doing great, it took hours before I stopped jumping at every sound. When John still hadn’t called by Tuesday night, I started hoping he was gone for good. But I couldn’t shake the feeling he was just warming up.

  * * *

  After I dropped Ally off at school yesterday, I came home and let Moose into the backyard. Feeling more settled than I had in a while, I decided to burn off some steam in my shop before our session that afternoon. I got totally caught up in refinishing a cherry table and before I knew it a couple of hours had flown by. Then I remembered Moose was still out in the backyard. I expected him to be waiting at the sliding glass door, wet nose marks smeared all across the glass, but he wasn’t there. I opened the door and whistled. Nothing.

  “Moose?” When he still didn’t come running, I walked out to the backyard. Was the little bugger stuck in the woodpile again? But when I checked he wasn’t there.

  Maybe he was messing around in the compost. I followed the stepping-stones around the side of the house. He wasn’t there either. I walked closer to the gate and checked it out. It wasn’t latched.

  I ran into the driveway yelling, “Moose!” at the top of my lungs. A dog barked, and I held my breath. It barked again—too deep to be Moose. I ran all the way to the end of the driveway where our mailbox is. Please, oh, please, be here. But he wasn’t.

  * * *

  He wasn’t at any of my neighbors’ houses either. That’s why I had to cancel our session. After I phoned you I spent the afternoon calling the pound, the SPCA, the vet’s—everyone. No one has seen him. I called Evan in near-hysteria—totally flipping out and accusing him of leaving the gate unlatched when he’d cleaned up the backyard. He just kept raising his voice and repeating, “Sara, calm down for a minute. Sara, stop!” until I shut up long enough for him to tell me he was positive he’d closed it.

  After we got off the phone I called Billy, sure John had taken Moose in retaliation. Right away Billy checked with the patrol car that was keeping an eye on my place. The officer said he didn’t see anything suspicious when he drove by that morning, but Billy still came over and checked around the house. Not that there was much to see. The gate would be hard to open from the outside, but if you were tall enough you could reach over and do it.

  When Billy finished looking around, he made me sit and write out a list of who to call next, where to put up signs, what Web sites to post on. At first I balked, wanting to just get out and start searching, but Billy said it would save time and that “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” wasn’t doing Moose any favors. Finally I just grabbed a pad of paper and started the list. My heart rate slowed with each new item I added.

  Billy suggested I try to call John to see if he was on the island. We didn’t know if he was using the same phone anymore, but I gave it a shot. I just got a “this customer is out of range” recording. Billy said if John had taken Moose, he’d probably call soon. The police were going to park a car on the road until we found out if John was on the island. After Billy went back to the station I called Lauren. She rushed over and we made signs, then posted them everywhere. But no one’s called.

  When it was time to pick up Ally from school, I didn’t know what to say. I try not to lie to her, but the one other time we lost Moose, at a park, she freaked out and bit Evan when he tried to stop her from running across the road after him. I was hoping against hope I’d find Moose this time before I had to tell her the truth. If he doesn’t come home … I can’t allow myself to even go down that path. I don’t know if I did the right thing—I never know if I’ve done the right thing—but I told Ally that Moose had to get a checkup and was staying over at the vet’s. She wanted to visit him, but I talked her out of it and distracted her with movies and games all evening.

  Ally fell right to sleep, but I stayed awake for hours worrying about where Moose could be, terrified of who might have him. And why.

  SESSION NINE

  I’m so depressed today, but I’m hoping talking to you will help. Other than Evan or Billy, you’re the only person I can talk to these days, at least about anything that’s really going on. I’ve been sitting around my house all morning waiting for our appointment. Time on my hands is not a good thing.

  I can’t stop going to that Web site about John and looking at all the pictures of his victims and their families. Afterward I think about them, wondering what their lives were like, what they could’ve been. I fixate on little details, like the shell necklace one girl wore that was never recovered. I wonder if John has it. Her boyfriend, whom John shot in the back of the head, had just gotten a new dirt bike for graduation. The kid could fix anything, loved restoring old cars. His dad still has the one he’d been working on when he was murdered. The dad refuses to finish it and it sits in the garage, all the tools still around it where he left them. I cried and
cried at that image, of a car up on blocks and a family that will never be put back together.

  I think about the moment their families were told the news. Then I torture myself with thoughts of something horrible happening to Evan or Ally. I’m sure the pain would kill me. How do the parents of these victims get out of bed every morning? How do they keep on living?

  Everywhere I go I see death—a side effect of reading nonstop about serial killers. But the thing that haunts me the most is how quickly it happened to these people. I don’t mean just John’s victims. I mean all the murdered people I’ve been reading about. They were just going about their lives, sleeping, driving, jogging, or maybe just stopping to help a stranger, then just like that their life was over. But sometimes it wasn’t, sometimes they lived for days. Some of the things these killers did … I can’t stop thinking about their victims’ last moments. How terrified they must have been, how much pain they endured.

  I used to enjoy true crime shows. “It was a hot summer day in the Rockies when the young blond reporter decided to go for a jog.…” I liked the tingle of fear I’d get down my back and the way I’d sit on the edge of my seat during dramatic reenactments, clutching the pillow, my body tense. It was fascinating, this look into the dark side of human nature.

  Evan’s always trying to get me to think more positively, or at least more rationally, which requires calming down first—always a challenge, and I’ve been working really hard on it. But when the car makes a weird noise I automatically think the brakes are going, when Ally gets a cold I think it’s pneumonia, and when Moose disappeared …

  * * *

  As soon as I got home from our last session I made the rounds of calls again—the pound, SPCA, all the vets in town—but still no sign of Moose. Billy came over to help, carrying a greasy bag of burgers and fries I practically inhaled. He said he had a feeling I hadn’t eaten all day and he was right. We drove around and put posters up at all the gas stations and stores in my area. My house is close to the base of Mount Benson, so we even drove up that way, stopping a few times to get out and call Moose.

  It was nice to have company, especially when I started spiraling into fear-based rants about who might have Moose. Billy would just ask a question or give me a task that forced me to concentrate. At one point I started talking so fast I was almost hyperventilating and he said, “Whenever you feel yourself panicking, just breathe, regroup, and focus on your strategy. Trust me, it works.” Then he made me look at my list of places where I wanted to hang posters and tell him what I’d crossed off, interrupting if I rushed through any. It was frustrating as hell, but the tight band around my chest gradually began to loosen.

  When Billy had to go back to the station, I kept driving around by myself for another hour. I was almost back at our house when I rounded a sharp bend and nearly ran into some ravens in the middle of the road, fighting over what looked like entrails. Then I spotted the trail of rust-colored blood leading to the ditch, where a raven stabbed at a small dark mound. After I pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, I walked toward the ravens. My eyes pricked with tears.

  Please, God. Don’t let it be Moose.

  The ravens flew up when I got closer and cawed as they perched on the power line. With my eyes riveted on the trail of blood, I took the last few steps on shaky legs and looked down into the ditch at the mangled corpse.

  It was a raccoon.

  When I got back in the Cherokee and started down the road, the ravens swooped back to their treasure. I shuddered as they stabbed at it again and again, sorry for the raccoon, relieved it wasn’t Moose.

  * * *

  I was almost home when my phone chirped with a text message from Billy to give him a call. My DNA results were back.

  It wasn’t until after I’d walked in my house—it felt so empty without Moose’s snorts and grunts—poured myself a cup of coffee, and called Evan, that I had enough courage to phone Billy. I sat in my favorite chair in the living room, wrapped Ally’s Barbie quilt around me, and dialed Billy’s cell. Just my luck, Sandy answered.

  “Thanks for calling back, Sara. Billy’s on the other line right now, but I can fill you in.”

  “You have the results?”

  “They came in an hour ago.” She was trying to keep her tone neutral, but it vibrated with excitement. “You’re definitely a match to the DNA we have on file.”

  The Campsite Killer is my father. This is real. I waited for the emotion to hit, for the tears to come. But they didn’t. It felt like Sandy had simply told me my own phone number. I stared out the window at my cherry tree. It was all in bloom.

  Sandy was still talking. “We weren’t able to collect biological samples from every scene, but when DNA testing came into effect we conclusively linked him to many of the victims.”

  “How do you know he’s responsible for the other murders?”

  “The MO is consistent.”

  “What about women who are still missing?”

  Her voice was forced patience. “The Campsite Killer is only triggered in the summer and he doesn’t try to hide the bodies, so he’s not considered a suspect in any other disappearances.”

  “But isn’t it unusual that he only attacks in the summers? I know about cooling-off periods between kills, but his are—”

  “It’s not unheard-of for a serial killer to have a long cooling-off period. Once their needs are met, they can often hold off for a while, reliving the crime over and over.”

  “And that’s why they take souvenirs.”

  “For some of them, yes. John probably uses the jewelry to keep himself connected to the victim. But we still don’t know what triggers him in the first place, or why his kills are so ritualized—which is why your conversations with him are that much more important.”

  “I’m trying my best, Sandy. I didn’t know he’d see the Web site.”

  “Of course, a perfectly understandable mistake.”

  I gritted my teeth. “It wasn’t a mistake. I don’t want him knowing details of my family, of my life.”

  “We don’t ever want you to do something you feel puts you at risk.” But I knew it wasn’t true. She wanted to catch John—more than anything. And she hated that she needed me to do it.

  “He has to trust you, Sara.”

  “So you’ve mentioned. A couple of times now. I should get going—I still have a missing dog to find.” I hung up before she could say anything else.

  * * *

  But I didn’t find Moose. And when Ally came home from school I finally broke the news that he was missing.

  “You lied! You said he was at the vet’s!” Then she started hitting my legs and screaming “Why, why, why!” until she was hoarse. All I could do was hold her furious, trembling body away from mine until she’d worn herself out. Finally she just dropped to the floor and wept. It broke my heart when she wailed, “What if he doesn’t come home, Mommy?” I promised I was doing everything I could to find him, but she was inconsolable and sobbed in my arms while I fought to hold back my own tears. That night she crawled into my bed and we held each other close. I stayed awake for hours, staring at the clock.

  * * *

  The next morning Ally and I shared a solemn breakfast. When she said, for what felt like the hundredth time, “You have to find Moose, Mommy,” I told her I would. But as every day passed I was losing hope. I even tried to call John again, rehearsing ways to ask if he’d taken my dog, some threatening, some pleading, but still no answer.

  After I took Ally to school, I did load after load of laundry and vacuumed the house top to bottom. The sight of Moose’s stuffie—its tail stiff with dry drool—just about broke my heart. Usually I wash it every week, but I couldn’t bring myself to erase any sign of him and instead simply set it in his dog basket.

  I was just about to take a shower when the cordless rang in the kitchen. Hoping it was someone calling about Moose, I raced downstairs, but when I checked the call display it was just Billy.

  “Got some good ne
ws for you, Sara.”

  “You found Moose!” My heart was in my throat as I waited for his answer.

  “I asked all the guys to keep a lookout for the little guy when they were on patrol. One of the officers pulled over some teens at the skate park and he was getting their vehicle information when he saw a French bulldog in the backseat. He checked his tag, and sure enough it was your dog.”

  “Oh, thank God! How did they get him?”

  “They said they found him running down the road and were going to return him soon, but the officer said the kid’s girlfriend was crying when she handed him over, so you might not have gotten him back.”

  “Ally’s going to be so happy.”

  “He’s at the station with me. I’ll bring him over ASAP.”

  “That would be great. Thank you so much, Billy.”

  “Hey, we always get our man—or dog.” We laughed.

  I called Ally’s school and they said they’d let her know. Evan got the call next and he was thrilled. It took some serious self-control on my part not to make a snarky comment about the gate, but as usual he read my mind.

  “I still think I shut the gate, but maybe I’m wrong.” I was just happy we had Moose, so I dropped it. When I told him Billy was bringing Moose over right away he said, “That’s nice of him.”

  “Yeah, he’s been a huge help,” I said. “And not just with finding Moose. He’s also teaching me how to calm down and focus when I’m upset.”

  Silence from the other end of the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “How exactly is he teaching you?”

  “I don’t know, lots of ways. Like he gives me tasks so I have something to channel my energy into.”

  “I tell you to do the same thing.”

  Evan’s tone was starting to piss me off. “It’s different when he does it. He’s a cop, not my fiancé. You get annoyed.”

  “I don’t get annoyed. I just think you get yourself freaked out over nothing sometimes.”