The Crippling Terrors (Tracking Ever Nearer Book 1)

by Jeff Vrolyks

  “Not really. We can stay in the same hotel as—oh, I know where we can stay. My aunt Liz in Fairfield. She converted her pool house into a guest room. She wouldn’t mind if we stayed there for a while.”

  “All right, that will work. Great.”

  Nawien went to the front door and depressed the latch, releasing the internal mechanism holding it closed. She pulled it open enough so she could stick her head out and have a gander. She ran down the stairs and I went to the porch to see what she was doing. She trotted to a patch of nearby grass and urinated, and then ran back upstairs and inside the apartment. “Weirdo,” I said as I closed my door. “I thought you guys used toilets?”

  “Your bathroom door is closed,” Mike said. “And it’s a knob, unlike the front door.”

  “Whoops. I’m sorry, Nawien.” She snorted. “You have to see how it’s kind of your fault, though. You’re the one without opposable thumbs, not me.” Nawien’s eyes widened.

  “That ain’t nice. She’s a sweet dog, man.”

  “Wolf. And I know she’s sweet. I was kidding, pulling her tail.”

  “You think she knows if that cop was real?”

  “Nawie, was that a real cop?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “Really? I’ll be damned. So much for my instinct. Well, shit, if that’s the case, maybe I jumped to conclusions about staying elsewhere.”

  Nawie shook her head.

  “No? I didn’t jump to conclusions? So I should stay elsewhere?”

  Nawie nodded.

  “Why? If that was a real police officer, what’s the harm in staying?” Nawie bared her imposing teeth. Mike and I looked at each other.

  “That cop wants to hurt Holly?” Mike asked her.

  Nawien whined.

  * * *

  Later that evening I dropped Nawien off at Holly’s motel room and reluctantly parted ways. We agreed not to contact each other unless it was an emergency. After my final service day, Friday, we would reunite and take it from there, move away from Vacaville if necessary.

  My last week in the Air Force felt like an eternity. I obsessively looked over my shoulder at work. When driving I monitored my rear view mirror more than the road ahead. When I wasn’t busy working on an ulcer, I was dealing with swarms of gossip-hungry co-workers. I told them nothing, brushed them off. They weren’t easy to dissuade. Friday couldn’t come fast enough.

  Aunt Liz’s pool house was not furnished with a television, but Mike borrowed one from the guest room in the house and we hooked up rabbit ears to it. We only received three stations, but the news was all I cared about and there was plenty of it on all three channels. The Kloss situation evolved daily and was international news. Wednesday evening an NBC reporter interviewed a second cousin of Kloss in Rotterdam, Holland. The non English-speaking Bas VonFuren admitted to not having made contact with Kloss in fifteen years, but that didn’t stop them from hooking, “Interview with Bas VonFuren, Kloss’s cousin, tonight at eight!” during every commercial break for the three hours leading up to the broadcast.

  I sympathized with Kloss. It isn’t often when I pity someone as successful as him, but he was going through hell and didn’t deserve one damn bit of it. Monopolizing water-cooler talk around the country, his name would cross the lips of far more people than would ever hear his music. Undoubtedly behind closed doors in federal offices, his name was being scrawled on many whiteboards, with diagrams resembling a family tree, only his tree branches consisted of the names of murder victims and their relationship to him. By Thursday evening I honestly thought he wouldn’t get through this ordeal without seeing the inside of a prison cell. I took the news reports with a grain of salt, but knew there was some truth to them, and that was disheartening.

  The news story of the Davis car accident, in which a thief stole a van and crashed into Kloss’s truck, killing himself, hadn’t been much of a story until Tuesday. What a difference a day makes. By Wednesday every person with a television or radio in the country was knowledgeable of the idyllic town twenty miles outside of Sacramento. The dead thief, identified as Louis Rendell, had a criminal record but no history of violence. The van he stole belonged to a woman living in Sacramento, whom the Sacramento Police Department were unable to reach until two days ago. The lady returned from a Las Vegas vacation only to learn that she lost more than her savings account over the last week. Her van was stolen from her sister and totaled. She explained that she had lent the van to her sister and sister’s husband (Alice and Ted) almost a year ago, until the couple could afford a new engine for their stabled Taurus. Alice and Ted were currently renting a house in Davis (a house located on the same street as Louis Rendell’s fatal accident). The S.P.D. went to visit the couple but they didn’t answer the door, and didn’t answer their phone. Their neighbors—Tim and Meg Rodgers, recipients of a recently autographed VonFurenz CD—admitted to not seeing them since the day of the accident. The Department reached out to the landlord and he let them inside. The unfortunate officers entering the bungalow were traumatized by what they found. A putrid odor intensified as they went upstairs. A closed bedroom door had a blood-written message on it. The reporters regretted that the message wouldn’t be disclosed due to the ongoing investigation. Even if the message was desensitized, it would still need to be translated into English—a task that Albie and Sue Ellen unsuccessfully attempted many years ago.

  Inside the room was far more than a simple double homicide. It was the vengeful and torturous act of ‘slow slicing’ followed by dismemberment. It was proclaimed to be the most violent crime perpetrated in Sacramento’s history. Although the identification of the bodies were assumed, DNA testing would be required before they could positively ID them (the condition of the bodies precluded dental records being used for positive identification).

  The neighbors of the deceased, Tim and Meg Rodgers, informed police that their other neighbors, Herb and Dolly, hadn’t been home in a week, which was highly unusual. When Tim mentioned that Kloss came from Herb and Dolly’s house to use their phone (Meg showed the officers her signed CD), the Boys in Blues’ eyebrows hiked north. The police dutifully checked it out. It was only a sixty-second walk from one crime scene of the century to the next. Inside the house they found nothing, but there was blood and an axe near the backyard shed. Inside the shed, another double homicide.

  The scene was equally gruesome, but the murders were committed in another fashion. The perpetrator hung them from the shed’s cross-beam by nooses made of power-tool cords. The cross-beam wasn’t high enough for the man to hang without his feet touching the floor, so his legs were ‘modified’ so they couldn’t save him. Both hanged victims were disemboweled, though it was reported to have been performed postmortem. That was before the Coroner’s analysis. The eviscerations occurred after they hanged but before they died. It seemed unlikely they would survive long enough in a noose to endure what they did, but their necks never broke. The nooses were positioned thoughtfully to asphyxiate the victims for added terror while the murderer played a real life game of Milton Bradley’s Operation on them. A symbol on the floor of the shed was created from the connecting entrails of the man; its description was not disclosed, though one reporter claimed it to be the number 7—he retracted the statement that same hour.

  The news spewing out of Davis quickly surpassed the story of the snipers at the VonFuren’ residence (of course it helped that Kloss was connected to this story as well). Before the relocation of news vans from Kloss’s estate to the neighborhood in Davis, more breaking news came from the orgasming local reporters. With the right set of ears you could hear the sound of Davis’ real estate plummeting and the phone lines of Hollywood Producers blowing up.

  A fifth body was found beyond the backyard of the hanged couple. Her name was Heather Delilastyzen. Unlike the others, she wasn’t dissected like some fifth-grade science project. Nor was her death particularly gruesome. But did that disappoint the news media? Hell no. Orgasms were indeed reached (multiple orgasm
s for the physically blessed) when they learned and consequently broadcasted that Heather perished from throat lacerations, precisely how the jogger at Brenner’s Pass had died behind Kloss’s estate. It was astonishing how frequently one man’s name was spoken regarding nearly every headline story spanning two weeks. If a non English-speaking foreigner listened to a broadcast of our news, he would think Kloss was a common pronoun (possibly even the word ‘the’).

  More theorizing came when a blood-stained chef’s knife was found by Heather’s body. Forensic analysis would indicate that the only fingerprints on the knife were from Heather and the woman of the first slaughtered couple, Alice. Seeing how the couple owned the exact same knife set (nearly complete, but not quite complete enough), it didn’t take much deducing to establish that Heather had entered the house, snatched the chef’s knife, and went to work on the home owners, and presumably the second couple, Herb and Dolly. If it ended there, it would be an open and closed case, minus the missing motive. But the big fat question mark (the lubrication for the news-frenzied orgy) was who killed Heather? Did that pesky mountain lion from Sacramento grow a taste for homicidal maniacs and travel twenty miles to change up his menu?

  Harvey Fitzer, Sacramento Police Department’s Chief of Police, gave a press conference Thursday evening, the day before I received my walking papers from the military. He recapped the biggest news week in Sacramento history and dropped a bombshell of more horrible news. I assumed Holly was watching in her motel room, it was on every channel (if I had more than three channels, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find it on ESPN and The Weather Channel).

  “I regret to inform that Sacramento’s very own Kloss VonFuren is currently being taken into custody for questioning”—which I interpreted as: you murdering asshole, we got you now!—“regarding the deaths of Heather Delilastyzen, Noah Blackwell, and a third victim whom I will soon name.

  “Noah Blackwell was thought to have been attacked by a mountain lion or a large dog at Brenner’s Pass last Saturday. Heather Delilastyzen succumbed to a nearly identical attack in Davis, sometime between Sunday night and Monday morning, of the week prior.

  “Four days ago, the day of the sniper shootings, we received an anonymous tip that led to yet another tragedy. Because of the high-profile nature of the case, we kept this information sensitive until the Sacramento Homicide Department and the Coroner’s Office concluded their preliminary investigations.

  “A former NHL player, Chris Calloway, was found dead at Liberty Pass, a Sacramento River Delta slough. His throat was bitten, fatally, after enduring several lacerations to his arms and legs. His death occurred the evening before the sniper incident.

  “We have reason to believe that the circumstances regarding the three aforementioned deaths implicate Kloss VonFuren to an unknown degree. I want to make this absolutely clear: we are only bringing in Mr. VonFuren for questioning at this time; there are currently no charges against him. We have no reason to believe that Kloss provoked these deaths or was even aware of them, for that matter. The extent of his involvement is likely to fall under the category of negligence. So please, reserve judgment until the D.A. has completed its investigation.

  “I will not be answering any questions. I know what’s on your minds and I am not at liberty to discuss the precise nature of the attacks or why we believe there is a connection between them and Kloss. I can tell you, despite the rumors, that these fatalities were not the result of a mountain lion attack, and appear to have been inflicted by a canine. I cannot say more at this time. Thank you for your patience and understanding, and our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of the victims.”

  * * *

  Considering the miserable week I had, I was in high spirits as I pulled out of A Plus Classic Auto Restore with my baby blue ’66 Mustang. I didn’t recognize it at first. It looked like it had just rolled off the showroom floor, with the exception of the interior. They replaced the interior carpets and replaced the vinyl on the seats. The new dashboard was on order as well as other piddly things. I had Mike drive the BMW back from the car shop to my apartment complex, where he parked it and transferred to the passenger seat of the Mustang. He waited as I quickly packed a suitcase with some things I had left behind when I was there last, six days ago. I checked the answering machine and unsurprisingly it was full. God only knows how many hundreds of calls I received over the week. I wondered if any were from that sonofabitch cop, threatening me for duping him on Holly’s whereabouts. I decided I didn’t want to know. All that mattered is I hadn’t seen him since. I wanted to have a nice Friday evening, to celebrate the end of an era in good company and for capping six rueful days of separation from Holly.

  We had spoken to each other only once, when I called her after the chief of police’s press conference. She was justifiably furious at how they were treating Kloss, smearing his reputation. She had hinted that she and Alison made plans for tomorrow night (which was now tonight) to celebrate me parting from the Air Force. I had no idea what it was or where it was, but I was excited nonetheless. I informed Mike of it and added that he wasn’t invited, and how it was just the three of us for a fun filled weekend. He nodded and even forced a grin and hoped I would enjoy my weekend. Not unlike the new Cobra-Alison fiasco, I couldn’t keep the charade up and told him to pack his crap for the weekend and let’s skedaddle.

  I jaunted down my apartment stairs grinning. I don’t think Satan himself could have ruined my day today. I gave the parking lot a scanning (no cop cars) and got in my new ride, dropped the top. I drove the short drive to the motel habitually checking my rear view and side view mirrors. It wasn’t a bad habit to have these days.

  At five o’clock, three hours of daylight remained and I was right on time at the motel. I nearly crushed Holly’s spine as I hugged and lifted her off the ground, spinning her around twice before setting her down and entering a well planned campaign of kisses. I gaped at her luggage, which had grown since I dropped her off—as her cash inversely shrank. There was no way it was going to fit in my trunk, but she had a separate travel bag for our weekend trip, along with two sleeping bags and another bag of god-knows-what.

  I had daydreamed of this moment for days and it was finally here. She walked behind me so she couldn’t see the fire in my eyes as we closed in on my Mustang. I was still a good five cars from it when she muttered, “Oh you did not.”

  After boasting about my ride and stuffing everybody’s bags in the trunk, we had Nawien bolt out of the room and jump into the back seat. “Where to?” I asked.

  “Take highway 505 to the 128. Can we stop by CVS first? I need to get a couple girl things.”

  “Eww. Okay.”

  Holly smacked my shoulder and said she’d shove one up my ass if I wasn’t careful—funny thing was, we were thinking about completely different things, I’d later learn.

  She and Alison came out of the drug store with a few plastic bags in hand. I noticed beef jerky through one of them. Inside the car she emptied the contents of a bag of jerky on the seat for Nawie, who inhaled it and licked her lips all the way to the freeway. Holly produced from the bag a bottle of Pepto Bismol, and chugged a quarter of it in one try. I didn’t need to ask why, as my stomach had also went through hell all week. I could only imagine how much worse it was on her. Not only because her brother now had more name recognition than the president, but from being marked for death. I loved how she could smile and be chipper in the midst of this ordeal.

  “The 128 is coming up. What next?”

  “Take it west,” she said. She reached back and covered Nawien’s eyes as we passed the Wolfskill exit. I didn’t suspect Nawie would take it to heart, but I suppose Holly did.

  “To Lake Berryessa? Seriously?”

  “Just because we unloaded a couple of bodies there doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it there. Besides, we’re going to the other side of the Lake, to the old campgrounds.”

  “We’re camping there? That’ll be cool. I haven’t gone camping in
ages.”

  “Me neither. And since they added the new campgrounds closer to the freeway, with bathrooms and a shower, there won’t be anyone in the old campgrounds.”

  “You’re probably right. Good call. I’m excited.”

  We exited the highway and turned onto Kern Road. A homeless man in fatigues and a backpack stood with a sign that read: Homeless Veteran. Anything Helps. God Bless.

  Holly pulled a five dollar bill from her pocket before I could accelerate past him. She threw it out of the top-less car and shouted an apology at him.

  “You could have at least slowed down so I could have handed him the money,” she said querulously.

  “He may have been an axe murderer,” I countered. My humored expression suggested that I didn’t in fact believe that to be a possibility.

  “The Zodiac killer murdered a few people at Lake Berryessa,” Mike said. “Kevin has a point. And he was never caught.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he was the Zodiac,” Holly said thickly. “You guys are heartless.”

  We pulled into Calico Gas Station—once a hot-bed of criminal entombment, now a source of cold beer, ice, and disposable foam ice-chests. I entered alone, with the promise to be back in a jiff. The frumpy old man waddled his way to the counter and rang up my items. He warned me of the heat and suggested I drink plenty of water (which was conveniently for-sale and overpriced at Calico’s) or buzzards would be pickin’ my bones clean come nightfall. I thought that the buzzards had plenty enough human flesh to fill up on behind his store.

  Two twelvers of Corona, three limes, a foam ice-chest (weighing upwards of one gram) and two bags of ice later, I had an empty wallet, and a still-hungry hand in front of me. He repeated, “$39.58, young man.” The problem wasn’t that I couldn’t hear him. The problem was the highway robbery being committed. I pulled out my Visa and slapped it on the counter. His face was screwed up as he stared at the buttons on his cash-register. “Part cash and part credit, huh,” he mused. When he started looking for the operator’s manual, I took my cash back and went full plastic. I signed my name and carried the goods out of the store to my gorgeous car with my even gorgeouser girl smiling inside it. The memory of poor Kloss popped in my head, but I blinked him right out. No sense in lookin’ for an eraser when it’s written in ink, Sue Ellen’s Pa used to say. I was starting to like her Pa. I didn’t even know his name and already he had given me more advice than my own father.