by Gregg Olsen
“I know, Mom. I know.”
Sissy stared into Grace’s eyes. “Will you be able to tell anything else?”
Grace knew that had been coming, but still she clarified. “How she died? Is that what you mean?”
Sissy nodded. “Yes, and who killed her?”
Grace shook her head. “No. No, we won’t. There’s not enough there.”
“That’s all right. I already know. I’ve always known that Ted killed her. Ted killed all the pretty girls that year.”
In the car on the way back home, Shane asked Grace if her mother would be all right.
“Maybe we should stay with her?”
“She’ll be fine,” Grace said. “She’ll probably sleep better tonight now that she knows for sure Tricia is gone forever.”
“Are you doing all right?”
She looked out the window at the Tacoma skyline as they drove toward home.
“I think so. I didn’t know her. I’m just relieved for my mom. I wish my dad had lived long enough to know.”
“Don’t you think they’ve always known?” he asked.
“Probably. You know as well as I do that hope makes a joke out of logic.”
“Do you still think Ted’s the killer?” he asked.
“I’m not so sure.”
And she wasn’t. Not at all.
CHAPTER 43
Emma Rose wasn’t sure exactly how many days she’d been in the so-called apartment. It likely wasn’t more than a few, but with no daytime and nighttime indicators in that windowless, airless room, it was hard to really know. Three? Or ten? Emma plotted and schemed all the scenarios that would free her from her captor, but she didn’t know if she had the strength to carry them out. The fact of the matter—and she knew it deep in her soul—was Emma was running out of time. With each passing hour or day or whatever measure of time there was in the real world, Emma was feeling weaker and weaker. While fear still coursed through her body, it did so at an increasingly sluggish pace. She knew that her captor was going to rape, torture, and kill her, but her body reacted slowly to the urgent messages that her brain was sending. Get out! Kill him first! You only have one chance. What was wrong with her? She’d taken self-defense classes in high school. She knew that every second she was alive there was still the hope that she could survive, no matter what he was planning.
When she thought about her weakening state, her grogginess, she wondered if she’d been drugged by those awful sandwiches. She told herself that she shouldn’t eat any more, but when she left food on the plate, he screamed at her.
“You are no good to anyone dead! Eat!”
“Not hungry,” Emma said.
“Liar! You do what I say. Not what you want to do.”
Still holding on to her resolve never to cry again, Emma protested.
“But I can’t,” she said.
Though it seemed impossible, his tone grew harsher and his voice louder.
“Eat or I’ll force it down your throat!” he railed.
Though she hoped that he couldn’t see her obvious fear in the dim light, her hands were shaking as she picked up the paper plate. Sitting in the dank dungeon, Emma worked with birdlike bites on the sandwich that she was sure was taking away her will to fight.
She vowed to seize the moment, whenever it came.
Emma’s chance came when he left the door open when he thought she was asleep or passed out. Like her body had been wrapped in lead and she couldn’t move. She could barely lift her head toward the brightness. Was she dreaming? Hallucinating? A slice of light pierced the dank apartment and somehow, Emma was able to crawl on her hands and knees to the spot where she could get a better look at the world outside.
Where she could escape to freedom. Go home to her mother. Get out of there and never ever come back.
The teen dragged herself a few feet and looked upward at the dagger of light that came into the room. What was out there? The images blurred like the TV set that her grandmother had in her back bedroom, sparking the only thought of something happy since her abduction.
Her abduction. A flicker of a memory came from soft to sharper focus. She remembered how she and Oliver had closed Starbucks. Then another. A confrontation with Alex’s dad. Palmer Morton promised to fix the contamination of the Sound. And finally, something else . . . a man with a sling on his arm asked for help in putting packages from shopping into his SUV . . . and then nothing.
Someone had hit her from behind. But it wasn’t the creeper. He had been in front of her.
It was so bright outside the hellhole in which he held her captive. She was a grunion following the moonlight. She was a mule deer staring into the headlights of a rapidly approaching car with a driver unable to swerve. Emma could barely move her limbs, but she could see and her mind was processing it like the world’s slowest computer.
An old rolltop desk like the kind she’d seen in a museum had been placed on the other side of the room. It was like Emma was looking through a tunnel and she saw nothing else but the desk and the photographs that hung in a crisp row above it. Black and whites. A series of them that at first all looked the same. Young women. All Caucasian. All with long dark hair, parted in the middle. They were old photographs, like the kind that came out of high school yearbooks before color printing was readily available. The girls were pretty. Who were they? Why displayed in a row like that? As her stomach undulated and her now bloody knees ached, she lowered her head and summoned the strength to try to press onward. She heard the TV going again and the sound of footsteps above.
Where was she?
Who had taken her?
Emma told herself that this moment might be her only chance. She had to get out of there. She inched closer to the door and looked upward. A window. It was one of those basement openings that was narrow and cut into the earth by the foundation. It was the source of the beautiful streaming light. The light that was her pathway to freedom, her way to Elizabeth Smart.
The eyes of the eight photographs appeared to look at her. The young women with the dark hair all seemed to speak to Emma, telling her to run as fast as she could. To get out of that horrible place before it was too late for her . . . as it had been too late for them.
Who are those girls?
A shadow fell and a fast-moving figure eclipsed the light from the window. Emma looked up, groggy and terrified, and she started to lunge toward the brightness.
“You like my collection, do you?” he said, shoving her so hard she fell backward, her head barely missing the bed frame. She looked up at him, trying with all she had to see his face, to see if there was something about him that she could recall. There was something in his voice. Something . . . what it was she wasn’t sure.
He slammed the door shut with such force that the air in the room pummeled her as she tried to stand.
And then the terrible sound of the lock made her prisoner once more.
* * *
Peg Howell opened drawer after drawer. Her eyes popped in anger and her gnarled fingers poked like hooks through the contents of a junk drawer—which was most of the drawers in her decidedly unkempt kitchen. Where are my goddamn cigarettes? She pawed through sewing bobbins, rubber bands, golf balls, and a bunch of other useless stuff. Where are they? For a second she was slightly distracted by a copy of a book on tape that she’d once listened to relentlessly. It was a former FBI behavior psychologist’s take on serial killers. She was fascinated by the book because it could not have been more wrong. The female author’s pseudo analysis traced the origin of Bundy, Gacy, and Ramirez and their ritualized killings to some psychosexual trauma that occurred when they were young.
This is not to say that all serial killers are victims of sexual abuse any more than it would be fair to characterize each major serial killer as a bed wetter. . . .
That line always made Peg laugh out loud when she played the cassette tape in her car on the way to work. Ted was no bed wetter. She’d asked him directly during one of those phone convers
ations when he was in jail in Colorado.
“Baby,” she said, “I’ve been reading a lot lately.”
“Reading is good, Peggy. I’d like to read more, but the crap they have here in jail is an insult to my intelligence. Only a person dumber than a bag of hammers would want to put up with the likes of Reader’s Digest and the same four Louis L’Amour adventure novels.”
“Can I send you something?” she asked, letting go of what she’d wanted to share about her own reading.
“No,” he said. “They’d probably just steal it. Bunch of thieves in here.”
She winced at the irony. “Were you abused? You know sexually?”
“Whoa! Where did that come from?”
“My reading. Just some FBI perv thinks that a lot of people like you, you know, have been abused.”
It was his turn to let it slide. The “people like you” comment was made without judgment.
“Wish I could be with you. I’d like to take you for a drive. Maybe up in the mountains.”
“I’d love that, Ted. More than anything.”
“Guard says that I have to go now. Guy’s an asshole. A couple of the jailers aren’t so bad. Gave me access to a typewriter. I’m thinking of writing to my congressman to see if I could get a little consideration. Maybe even the president. Bet he’d like a letter from Teddy Bundy.
“I’d like a letter, Ted,” she said.
“Okay. Will do.”
And then the call was over. Peg Howell didn’t know it, but it was the last phone call for a very long time that she’d get from the guy she’d fallen in love with.
The first letter came four days later. It was stamped by a jailer that it had been opened and reviewed for content. Peg wondered what it was they were looking for in the letter. Ted was an eloquent, thoughtful writer. He wasn’t going to put anything on paper that wasn’t in keeping with his very important stature. He was also a lover, the gentlest she could imagine.
Dear Peg,
You probably have a little idea about how lonely I am. Because judging by your last letter, you are too. I sit in my cell all day—except for one fifteen-minute stretch where they let me go out into the so-called yard for exercise. It is a total joke. The “yard” is about the size of a Ping-Pong table. I walk around it about a hundred times and then my time is up. I am glad that you are in my life. I think about you all day—and all night. If you were in the yard with me, I’d bet we’d figure out real fast what we could do in fifteen minutes. Are you blushing? I bet you are.
Hey, I’m about out of cigarette money. Can you send me some? Same as last time? The food here is crap too. I wish you could fix me one of those sausage and peppers dinners you were talking about in your last letter. Sounds good.
Tomorrow I have a psych evaluation with the county-appointed shrink. I’ll ask him if I’m supposed to be a bed wetter!
Love, Ted
She answered back right away. In fact, Peg Howell never put off writing back to Ted. A man like him—refined, charming, handsome—was not the kind of man a woman should ever keep waiting. Peg always wrote in longhand and she sprinkled some Jontue on each of her love-laced missives. She was fascinated by him and so very much in love. There was no way that she could explain to anyone that she’d fallen for Ted Bundy, because no one could ever understand. Their love for each other was epic, beyond all reason. She knew it. He knew it. No one else in the world mattered.
Dear Ted,
I was thinking that when you get out we should move far, far away from Tacoma. It holds nothing but bad memories for both of us. Maybe we could go to Idaho or somewhere where no one would know who you are. That sounds dumb now that I’ve committed it to paper. I don’t think there is a person on this planet who hasn’t heard of you. I want them to know the Teddy that I know—the smartest, most handsome man that ever walked the earth. I mailed a check for $100 for your canteen. I wish that you’d quit smoking, babe. It isn’t good for you. You’ll die of cancer or something, and then where will I be? I’m letting my hair grow out like you want me to. It is getting longer and longer by the day. I’ll be ready to send you a photo in a couple of weeks. Well, that’s all for now. Have got a lot of things to do.
Love, Peggy
Peggy Howell hurried inside, the package held tightly in her arms. She spun around the kitchen looking for a knife to unzip the clear plastic tape that sealed the box shut. The outside of the box was emblazoned with the logo WIGS BY GABOR. Her heart pounding with anticipation, she pulled the two facing pieces open. Inside, under a blanket of cellophane, was shiny swirl of hair; a wig with a style name of SUSAN. There was no saying who Susan was, but when Peggy saw the photo in the back of the National Enquirer she was sure it was styled after the actress Susan Dey, who played Laurie, the eldest daughter, in the ABC TV series The Partridge Family.
She lifted it out as if it was a treasure beyond every expectation. Gently. Respectfully. She held it on her balled-up fist and shook it carefully, letting the genuine synthetic locks fall around her upright arm.
Peggy bent forward and placed the wig over her own hair. As she hurried down the hallway to the bathroom, her heart beat faster and faster. She flicked on the light switch and nodded in approval.
“Oh Ted,” she said as her eyes ran over her face in the mirror, “you really like it? I grew it out just for you.” She tilted her head and twirled a long strand. “Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking wearing my hair so short before. This is so, so much more attractive, don’t you think?”
Peggy wasn’t sure who she’d get to take her picture. She didn’t have any real friends. There was always her mother. As much as she hated her, her mother could probably be put to use in some way. She owed her something.
That night in her dreams, Ted came to Peggy. He appeared out of the darkness next to her bed like some unbelievably handsome phantom. His eyes flashed a kind of wild sexiness that made her blush. It was as if he knew that he could do anything he wanted to her and she’d let him. She’d beg him. The window was open and Peggy reasoned that he’d come from somewhere outside. Ted was shirtless, in blue jeans and Nike running shoes. His brow, his tangle of brown hair, his chest were sticky with sweat.
“Ted?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, studying her with a grin stretched across his face.
She sat up in the bed. “Where were you?” she asked.
“I was out running,” he said. She couldn’t quite determine if his tone was dismissive or angry, as if she dared to question him. She hadn’t meant it in an accusatory manner, just a question. And yet he seemed a little on edge, so she pushed harder.
“Where?” she asked, this time with more force. She wanted to know where she stood with Ted. Was she a lover? A confidante? Or just another groupie of a man who other girls swooned over? His dangerousness. His charm. His ability to weaken them at the knees. She was sure she was more than that, but she asked anyway.
Ted stood still by the open window as the air sucked right out of the room. “Nowhere, really,” he said. “Just out. Trying to sort things out.” When he looked away, a shard of light caught his cheek and Peggy noticed three parallel scratches ran from his temple to his jawline. Pinpricks of blood oozed from each scratch.
Panic and concern replaced Peggy’s omnipresent neediness. She wanted to be strong, but she knew that she could barely manage that when it came to Ted Bundy.
“You’re hurt, Ted. What happened?” She slid toward the edge of the bed, and beckoned for him to sit next to her. “Tell me, Ted.” She patted the mattress.
He didn’t even look at her before he started back toward the open window. She wondered a second if that was how he’d made his way into her bedroom.
“Not really hurt, Peg,” Ted said over his naked shoulder. “Just a scratch from running. Hit a damn branch.”
Peggy put her feet on the dust-bunny-littered wood plank floor and started to fumble in the darkness, clawing toward him, her handsome, elusive Ted.
“Let
me help you,” she said, pleading as though her life depended on it.
Silence echoed in the bedroom.
“Let me take care of you,” she said. “Come to me. Don’t make me beg, but if you do, I will. I want you. Whatever it takes.”
Ted Bundy had a cold side. She knew it, though she’d never directly experienced it before. Not even in a dream. That changed when Ted came through her window. He actually glowered at her.
“Don’t need help from some stupid bitch,” he said, his voice a little soft, as if he was trying to mitigate the true meaning of his words. Yet there was no mistaking it. No matter how clever Ted was or wanted to be. It was still loud enough to hear.
Peggy’s chest tightened and tensed. She wasn’t sure of the meaning of Ted’s words, if he was directing them specifically at her or, she hoped, someone else.
“Theodore, what in the world are you saying?”
He turned toward her, his eyes dark and cold. A puff of warm air came from his mouth. “Kidding, Peg. Love you. Love your hair, too.” Then he winked.
She looked downward and touched her hair—the shimmery, silky Gabor wig. The Susan was fashioned of long dark tresses, parted in the center with the precision of a ruler. It was just what he loved.
He loved the way she looked.
When she turned to embrace and kiss him, Ted was gone. A breeze caused the curtain to flutter. Peggy got up and rushed toward the window, holding her wig in place.
“Theodore, come back! Don’t go to her! You only love me!”
“I can’t wait to show you what I bought, Mother,” Peggy said the next morning when she’d summoned the courage to model her latest purchase. Behind her back, she gripped the Gabor wig.
Donna Howell looked excited. “Did you get me my favorite chocolates? Almond Roca, you know. Tacoma’s finest and famous candy.”
Peggy shook her head. “No, Mother, not Almond Roca. Next time, I promise. But this is even better.”