Allen ‘Big Al’ Davis’s home was a two-story A-frame house with peeled, dirty-white aluminum siding and a front porch covered with a light-colored awning. Large, white, rusted barrels were all over the yard, along with an old bathtub and toilet, torn-apart bicycles, and several car tires. All the bottom-floor windows were covered with dark-colored drapes or blankets, and a cluttered array of junk covered the front porch.
I looked for any cars parked out front, but I didn’t see any. It didn’t look like there were many, if any, lights on inside the house, except for a dim light coming from the second floor side window. I took my video camera and filmed the residence, taking close-ups of the barrels and the windows, using the bright floodlights that were erected outside of the house to my advantage.
I then took still photos with my digital camera and documented the time, date, and location of where I took them. While I was stuffing everything back in my briefcase, and putting the cameras away, Michael started the car.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Leaving. You wanted pictures. You got them. We’re leaving.”
“Wait. I just want to look around. I’ll make it quick. It doesn’t look like anyone’s there,” I said, opening the car door.
“I knew it! Damn it, CeeCee, could you for once be honest with me! You said all you wanted to do was take pictures, which is why I agreed to come up here in the first place, and now you pull this? Not that I’m surprised, but we need to leave,” he said, angrily.
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” I said, getting out of the car with my gun in hand.
I heard Michael mumble something (it’s probably good that I didn’t hear what) before he got out of the car and followed me. I walked to the left of our car into the woods to make a zigzag pattern, as I’d done on Murder Mountain, so I could come out behind the house and find a dark area to cover myself.
As I walked slowly and carefully through the woods towards the house, a feeling overwhelmed me; it was like red flags were flying and bells were ringing. Trust your instincts, my head screamed, but for the first time in my career I ignored them and kept walking, knowing I was making a big mistake.
The back yard was pitch black except for a dim lantern hanging over the back door, so I wasn’t too paranoid about taking cover when I walked into it. I noticed a dirty white trellis, some of its framework broken, against the house and directly below the window with the dim light on. With all the bottom floor windows covered, I wanted to climb the trellis and take a look in the window on the slight chance there was something of importance in that particular room.
I was tiptoeing towards the trellis when I heard a familiar noise to my left that made me stop dead in my tracks. Michael heard it too, and stopped. It dawned on me that I’d forgotten to check off my “normal things to look for at a house in West Virginia” list as I turned and faced the 150-pound, brown-and-white pit bull that was walking towards us, its collar clanking.
When I’d worked uniform, I’d always hated dealing with dogs at calls because you can reason with a man, but you can’t reason with a dog, and some of them scared me to death.
This one in particular didn’t look to be the warm and fuzzy type, and I knew Michael and I were in trouble.
“Stay still,” Michael whispered, as I heard him unsnap his holster.
“That thing is huge!” I whispered back, my heart racing.
At that moment, the dog charged at us, growling and barking. I still heard its collar clinking and hoped any minute it would be jerked backward because it was on a chain, but we weren’t that lucky; the dog kept coming. My gun still in hand, I pointed it at the dog, finger on the trigger, ready to shoot it when it got close to us, knowing the shots would bring the occupants of the house, if there were any, outside in a heartbeat.
When the dog was no more than twenty feet away, it came to a dead stop; turned around, and ran into the woods. Michael and I stood there, confused.
“Why did it do that?” I whispered to Michael. “Do you think it’ll come back?”
“I have no idea; maybe it heard an animal in the woods, but we need to get out of here!” he whispered.
I noticed that with all of the barking and growling no one had come out of the house, confirming that it was empty for the time being. I continued walking towards the trellis, leaving Michael where he stood.
“What are you doing!” he yelled in the loudest whisper he could.
I pointed towards the trellis and the window, holding up two fingers, to signal I would be two minutes, tops. I then pointed at Michael and then to my eyes, gesturing for him to keep watch, and he stood there shaking his head, clearly agitated.
The trellis didn’t look very sturdy, so I shook it first to make sure it was still attached to the house. Satisfied that I wouldn’t break my neck, I slowly started the climb, placing one foot in each of the wooden frames while holding onto the outside frame. Some of the individual frames were broken, so I had to make large stretches from one to the next. As I neared the top, I was able to grab the bottom of the windowsill and pull myself the rest of the way. When I was in a position to get a clear look inside, I made sure that my footing was solid and that I had a strong grip on the sill.
It was a bedroom; nothing exciting about it either, with a twin bed that wasn’t made, a dresser, and a nightstand with someone’s dirty dishes on it. I admonished myself silently for forgetting the camera and started to climb back down the trellis when something caught my eye, movement by the foot of the bed. I leaned closer, my face almost touching the window, and the shock I got felt like a bolt of lightning.
Andrea Dean, who had been lying on the floor by the side of the bed, sat straight up, a look of sheer terror on her face. All I could see was her face, which had been beaten to a pulp; she had a gag in her mouth and was trying to scream, wriggling around in place, apparently tied to something.
I was so surprised when Andrea showed herself that I almost fell off the trellis. I had to grab the windowsill for support. The sill, however, didn’t keep me from falling when someone grabbed my foot and jerked me downward. I landed flat on my back, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, I felt the wind knocked out of me. I was ready for my first words, the minute I was able to speak, to be to call Michael every name in the book for pulling me off the trellis. I knew he wanted to leave, but this had gone a little too far.
Catching my breath and letting my eyes adjust to the dark, I realized Michael hadn’t pulled me off after all. There were three figures standing around me, each one wearing a ski mask over its face, one of them holding a rope. I fumbled with my holster, trying to pull my gun, but one of the men stepped on my arm.
“No ya don’t, girlie,” he snarled.
As I tried to sit up, I looked desperately around for Michael, but one of the men put his foot on my chest and slammed me back to the ground. Where was he? Surely he wasn’t hiding in the woods watching this. I knew better. One of the men stepped to his left and I got a clear view of the yard—and a view of Michael lying face down on it.
Oh my god!, I thought, They killed Michael! and began to scream his name, but it was no use. He didn’t move.
“You bastards! What did you do to him?” I yelled.
“Git her tied up, and let’s git outta here,” one of the men ordered.
They flipped me over onto my stomach, and one man pulled my hands behind me while another tied them together. I was sobbing at this point. Michael was dead and it was all my fault, my precious Michael.
Michael, who I knew a part of me loved. I wished I’d told him; Michael who loved me, and whose love, by trying to protect me, had just cost him his life. I couldn’t bear it. I kept screaming Michael’s name over and over, hoping he would rise up like an angel and save me, but he was dead.
No one could save me now. I was alone in the West Virginia wilderness with three killers, and my time had run out. I was limp and whimpering as they dragged me across the yard to the front where a car was waiting. I
couldn’t fight. I didn’t have the energy, and I knew I couldn’t win.
“Take care of him,” the man apparently in charge said to one of the others, pointing to Michael. “Put him in their car and park it on the side of the interstate.”
“Nooooooo!,” I screamed, overwhelmed with grief. I fell to my knees by the side of the waiting car.
“Do somethin’ with her, would ya!” another man, who sounded nervous, demanded.
“I’ll take care of it. Now, do what I told ya, boy! Get rid of the fed!” the man in charge barked.
The nervous man and the other man who tied my hands up started towards the back yard to get Michael, while I still knelt sobbing against the car door.
“Quit yer cryin,’ missy. The best is yet to come,” the man in charge smirked, grabbing the back of my hair. He pulled a dark-colored bandanna out of his front jeans pocket and put his arms around me. He’s going to gag me, like Andrea Dean, I thought.
But only when I smelled what was on the bandanna did I realize how wrong I was. While the man was covering my face with the chloroform-soaked bandanna, I fought for my life—kicking, scratching, and punching as best I could, but it was no use. I blacked out in less than a minute.
Chapter Fourteen
My head was spinning and my tongue felt like a sponge, and when I tried to open my eyes, the remnants of the chloroform were still stinging my nose and throat. Unlike when I woke up after my fight with Bobby Delphy, I knew I was alive. I could hear men talking and laughing all around me. I could also hear a woman’s muffled cries. The sun was starting to come up, giving me some light so I could observe my surroundings.
The last thing I remembered was having my hands tied behind my back, and Michael—Michael was dead. The thought crashed down on me, bringing a load of grief with it. I tried to move, but I was still tied up, lying on my side in dirt. From what I could see, I was in some type of a clearing in the woods. I could see three men standing by a card table that had food, beer, and a radio on it. The muffled cries were coming from Andrea Dean, who was about ten feet in front of me.
Andrea was tied up, also lying on her side, wearing only her bra and underwear, with the gag still in her mouth. Looking at myself, I could see that I was only in my bra and underwear as well, but I wasn’t gagged.
In front of Andrea, near the edge of the woods, was what looked to me like an old fire pit, with stones piled around in a circle. There was a piece of plywood resting on the stones, and one from the ground to them, which appeared to be some sort of ramp. To the right of the fire pit was a backhoe. Not a good sign, I thought as I tried to wriggle my hands free of the rope, but it was no use; I couldn’t move.
With more daylight coming in, I could see the three men by the table more clearly. They were Big Al Davis, Tim Carr, and another man I recognized immediately, but for the life of me, couldn’t remember from where, or what his name was. Big Al glanced over and saw me squirming around.
“Hey! Look’a there. I think she’s comin’ ’round,” he drawled, pointing at me as the others turned to look.
Tim Carr and the other man started laughing as Big Al walked over to me and sat me upright, which made me immediately dizzy. He had to hold onto me for a few minutes to keep me from falling over again. Once he was convinced that I could hold my own, Tim Carr walked over, stood in front of me, and bent over.
“Well now, ain’t ya a pretty thing. I ain’t never seen a bra and skivvy set like that before. You, Al?” He chuckled. “We don’t have many high-falutin’ gals like y’all down here. I might have to try me some of that,” he leered, then stood up and started to unbuckle his pants.
Of all the worst things that can happen in life, I’d always placed being raped near the top. I’d always sworn that if someone ever tried to rape me, they would be raping my dead body, and this dirty, smelly, hill scum was going to try it. For a brief moment, I prayed for death, knowing it would be much better than what was next.
Then, to my astonishment, Big Al put a stop to it. “No, Timmy,” he warned, “ain’t gonna do none of that. ‘Member what the boss said? He’ll be here any minute, and if he sees ya doin’ ya thing on her, he’ll cut yer pecker off.”
My head was throbbing, my heart felt like it was going to explode, I was shaking like never before, and all I could think of at that moment was how thankful I was to Allen Davis. It was a very brief moment, I might add.
“All right, maybe later girlie,” Tim whispered in my ear, as he stuck his hand in my bra and squeezed my breast.
“Not hardly, you filthy-ass hillbilly!” I snarled, turning my head so I didn’t have to look at him.
Tim gave no response to my comment. He merely laughed as he walked back to the others, kicking dirt at Andrea Dean along the way. I noticed that Andrea had quit crying while she’d watched my incident with Tim Carr.
“Andrea? Are you okay?” I called out to her.
“Hey bitch! No talkin’ till the boss gets here, or I’ll stick my boot up that pretty ass of yers!” Big Al yelled.
The three of them started laughing again, patting each other on the back. Then they each grabbed a beer off the table. I looked at Andrea who was still staring at me, a look of sheer horror in her eyes, and realized she knew more than I did about what they planned to happen in that clearing.
For the first time since I came to West Virginia, I truly believed I would die then and there, never to see my husband, children, or parents again. Looking back, I wished I’d listened to everyone. I wished that I would not have cared. I wished I would’ve turned a blind eye to these people and gone on with my life. Looking at Andrea in that moment, I could’ve cared less if she died or not. I could’ve cared less about Lizzie Johnston, too. Neither one of them was worth my two beautiful children growing up without their mother.
And Eric? I never had a chance to make things right with him, to tell him how much I truly loved him, and sitting there tied up, I realized that I would never get that chance. I was certain that no one knew I was there, that no one even knew I had been captured, and that Michael was dead. I thought about my walk through the woods at Big Al’s house, about ignoring my red flags and strong instincts. That would be the last red flag I would ever have, and I turned away from it; a decision that I was sure would cost me my life.
I felt tears begin to roll down my cheeks as I thought of my carelessness and selfishness. I couldn’t change things then. My fate was sealed and it terrified me. Dying terrified me. Then my defenses began to kick in, to keep me from losing my mind, I’m sure, and thoughts started coming to me that maybe they wouldn’t kill me.
Maybe they’d torture me, rape me, or send me off in the woods to fend for myself; maybe they’d just scare me enough so I’d quit the investigation and not turn them in. This small glimmer of hope kept me strong enough to start planning a way to get myself out of there. Andrea Dean could fend for herself.
“Excuse me, Al? Sir?” I said, calmly.
“I said no talkin’!” he barked.
“I know you did, sir. But I was wondering if I might please have a drink of water. I’m extremely dehydrated, which means any minute I may pass out again, and then I’ll miss all the fun,” I said, doing my best to put on a smile.
I was thirsty and needed my strength. I anticipated that whatever they wanted to do with me, they wanted me awake when they did it, and I thought that if I could keep buying myself time, it might give me enough of it to figure a way out of that nightmare. Big Al grabbed a clear jug of water, and poured it into a plastic cup before walking over to me. He essentially shoved the cup at my lips, allowing me to take a long drink of the lukewarm water; it tasted wonderful.
“Now don’t ya go an’ ask fer anything else till the boss gits here,” he ordered.
“I won’t, except these ropes are so tight, they’re cutting off my circulation and I can’t feel my arms. I don’t know if any of you have any medical training, but once the blood flow is cut off in the limbs, it’ll start in other parts of m
y body, eventually to my brain, causing death.” I was lying, of course, but it sounded as if I actually knew what I was talking about.
“You better loose ’em up, Al,” said the man whose name I couldn’t remember. “If the boss gits here an she’s blue, he’s gonna be pissed. He wants her awake for the party.”
Big Al seemed to think over what the man told him, then eventually walked behind me and loosened the ropes on my wrists and ankles. He didn’t loosen them enough for me to break free, but just enough so that I could work on it. The three of them went back to drinking beer, Tim stopping long enough to walk over to Andrea and urinate on her. I was sickened, but thankful it wasn’t me that was pissed on. Andrea continued to cry and struggle, which did her no good, but I assumed she was already half-crazy, if not full-blown out of her mind, by then, since she had been held captive for so long.
I could only imagine what they’d done to her during her stay in that bedroom, since it was clear that they had nothing but contempt for her. It was different with me, for some reason. I think they had a certain level of respect for me, even though they were planning on taking my life soon.
I was continually hearing the three men talk of, “the party,” and couldn’t begin to imagine what that specifically meant. The table they were getting their beer from looked set up for a cookout or barbeque. In a panic, remembering what Jarrod had told me in the interview room, I started scanning the entire clearing, looking for a wood chipper.
“Bitchburgers” is what Jarrod called the remains of a girl that was eaten after being put through one. Feeling thankful, but not thoroughly convinced, I didn’t see one. Maybe the others were bringing it, but from the looks of things, all was in place.
Murder Mountain Page 22