Blood Ties

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Clay explained an organized killer was this boy turned man, and unlike the antisocial unorganized killer he had good verbal skills and a high degree of intelligence, someone capable of gaining control over victims with a con, someone smart enough to stage crime scenes to throw off investigators. This would be someone who might take trophies from his victims – not necessarily things of value, but reminders, like articles of clothing – someone who might take photographs for the same reason. Clay remembered one killer who had dozens of victims’ necklaces hanging in his closet and often gave them to girlfriends for added secret pleasure.

  Clay also knew, from dozens of interviews with serial offenders, that an organized killer felt superior to everybody. Monsters like John Wayne Gacy, who confessed to killing twenty-seven young men over six years, and Ted Bundy, executed for murdering an estimated thirty-five to sixty young women across a dozen states, laughed at the police too stupid to catch them and thought they could outwit psychiatrists.

  These were men who, like good con artists – self-confident and with good verbal skills – had no difficulty attracting women but were unable to sustain normal, long-term relationships. Some, in fact, maintained girlfriends while hunting for others to kill. Nothing in relationships satisfied them. Something in their childhoods gave them tremendous anger toward women, and they often related later that their partners were not women enough to turn them on.

  Clay finished his minilecture with a wry grin. “Disorganized killers are unpredictable and devoid of normal logic. The only reason we catch them is because of the mistakes they make at the scene of the crime. An organized killer is much different. The only good news about searching for an organized killer is that he leaves a pattern.

  “Trouble is, I can only hope a fax comes in at Johnny’s school and that it has enough information to help. Until then, there is too little to work on to let me start profiling. Nothing to give me a pattern yet – if there is one. He could be so smart there’s nothing to find.”

  George pointed to the folders. “And these?”

  “Some of it is the same mystery as before, twenty-three years earlier when I couldn’t solve it then. Autopsy reports. Coin marks and eagle feathers.”

  “Explain,” George said. “Eagle feathers?”

  “It’s called a signature. It’s not necessary to know how the crime is committed but what the murderer does to fulfill himself. I think, though, this one was smart enough to change his signature. He went to a lot of work to convince us Nick was the killer. Why alert us otherwise with something as unusual as the feathers?”

  Clay continued and told him about the eagle feathers and where they’d been found, without mentioning the one in Doris’s mouth.

  “Coins,” George said. “You also said coins.”

  Clay chose his words carefully. Despite George’s insistence otherwise, he was reluctant to speak about Doris’s murder as if it were just another case.

  “In one situation,” Clay said, jabbing the ground in three spots to show the triangular configuration of the placement of the marks, “we found perfect round circles, as if dimes had been set down, then removed.”

  George frowned in puzzlement.

  Neither said anything for a minute. They were accustomed to silences together.

  “Do you know why Fowler did this?” George finally asked. “What would motivate the sheriff into letting a guilty man escape while Nick Buffalo, an innocent man, was not only murdered but burdened with false accusations?”

  The old man was sharp. “I don’t know,” Clay said.

  “Should you not also wonder why he went to the effort of saving these files? After all, it’s direct proof of a coverup that could have cost him his career and sent him to jail. Why risk letting anyone find out later?”

  “Another good question,” Clay said. “One I hadn’t considered. My mind has been on the person behind this, not on Fowler.”

  George nodded agreement, An ant had crawled up his pants and onto his hands, which were resting on his knees. George lifted one hand and examined the ant closely.

  “Intricate,” George said. “With everything man has been able to accomplish, there is no way he could build a computer that can do everything this fragile insect can, let alone scale down the computer to this size.”

  Clay was glad for the diversion. Talking about profiling serial killers had made him feel the filth again. He stood and stretched, willing the phone to ring: Johnny with news of a fax or Russ Fowler, calling back. Clay had a question about the information on the speeding ticket. Mainly, why was it included?

  George lowered his hand and with a puff of air sent the ant into nearby grass.

  “I have been thinking, my friend,” George said. “Do you think Rooster Evans fits this profile? Abused in childhood, a trophy keeper, someone who hates women.”

  “It’s not that easy, George. How can we know he’s a trophy keeper? What do we know about his childhood? I’d have to be able to search his house completely, interview people who knew him or the family, and I can’t do that while the sheriff’s got men looking for me. Even if I could, it’s a job for federal agents, an entire team. They’re not here, and how could I direct them when I’m considered a suspect?”

  “We should draw up a list then,” George said. “People in Kelsie’s life now who were in her life then. Isn’t that the one thing you know for sure about this man? That he was there then and now? With the list, Johnny and I can ask around about them, see who fits your profile.”

  Clay grinned. George showed keen insight, and working with him did ease some of his tension and worries.

  George was also right. Twenty-three years earlier, the stalker had had knowledge of the private details of Kelsie’s life and schedule –right down to knowing where she hid her diary. Now, he’d known enough to engineer her kidnapping and, most likely, Taylor’s.

  “A list,” Clay repeated, with another grin. “Now you’re a mind reader.”

  He reached into his jacket for his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He handed it across the blanket to George. During the night, Clay had spent a half-hour’s thought, trying to remember which of the ranch workers had been on the McNeill spread the longest.

  The paper he gave to George had three penciled names:

  Rooster Evans – neighbor, now missing after death of father

  Berry Burrell – current ranch worker

  Frankie Lopez – current ranch worker

  As George examined the paper, the cell phone rang. Clay snatched it up from the blanket.

  “Garner.”

  “It’s Johnny.”

  George was gesturing for something to write with.

  “Did you get a fax?” Clay asked. He handed George a pencil from his front pocket, and the old man began to scratch at the paper.

  “No, but I heard a couple of things I thought you should know.”

  “All right,” Clay said. Tenuous as this connection was, it still linked him to the outside world. He found himself gripping the phone tightly enough to hurt his hand.

  “Russ Fowler,” Johnny said. “He’s dead.”

  “What!”

  “Natural causes. But it’s still strange. You call James; let him explain.”

  “Sure,” Clay said. “I’ve been trying to reach him anyway. I’ll keep trying.”

  Clay said good-bye. This was unbelievable. Fowler. Dead. Was it a coincidence? Or –

  George handed him the paper. He’d added to the list.

  Rooster Evans – neighbor, now missing after death of father

  Berry Burrell – current ranch worker

  Frankie Lopez – current ranch worker

  James McNeill

  Lawson McNeill

  Sonny Cutknife

  Johnny Samson

  Clay Garner

  Clay scanned it. “No, not James. We both know, that. And Lawson was with me when Taylor was kidnapped.”

  “Of course it wasn’t any of the McNeills,” George s
aid. “Just like we know it wasn’t you or Johnny. But you didn’t ask for a list of possibly guilty people. You wanted a list of all people in her life then and now.”

  “Fair enough,” Clay said. “Sonny Cutknife. Why is the name familiar?”

  “He worked at the ranch with Johnny back then. Now he’s the administrator out at the reservation. A real weasel. I put his name on the list because he also knew Nick Buffalo. He might not be in Kelsie’s life, but he does live nearby.”

  A dim memory came back to Clay of a confrontation at the ranch with Johnny and two others. He could picture Sonny. Clay dismissed him immediately. All of his experience showed him that the vast majority of serial offenders were white men.

  He was about to voice his opinion when the phone rang again.

  “Clay.” It was James. With a bad-news-tone that filled Clay with instant dread.

  “Is it Kelsie? Taylor? Have they been found?”

  “No,” James said.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning,” Clay began. “I –”

  “I’ve been at the airport. Lawson’s dead. His airplane exploded on the runway last night. They’ve just recovered his body.”

  6:30 a.m.

  Kelsie felt hung over. It didn’t surprise her. Even with the hood over her head, she’d known what happened when the airplane finally landed. A damp cloth had been pressed against the hood over her face. She twisted her head away from it, but the unseen hand had pressed harder until she was forced to inhale a dizzying sweetness that sent her again crashing into the darkness.

  Now Taylor was beside her, staring into her face. Kelsie sat upright with slow, groggy awkwardness. Her hands were free. Her feet were free.

  Taylor grinned and patted her thigh.

  Kelsie gave him a distracted hug. She was trying to understand the situation. She was no longer wearing her soiled sweatshirt and blue jeans. Instead, she was now in a sweatsuit and conscious of the fact she did not have on any panties or brassiere beneath it. Taylor was in a smaller version of the sweatsuit in the same bright colors.

  Someone had dressed her. Again. The same someone had taken away the cell phone she had tucked into her blue jeans.

  Who was he? What did he want from her?

  She turned her attention to the one question she might be able to answer: Where was she?

  Taylor, sitting beside her, hummed and rocked with happiness. She looked over his head and around the room.

  It seemed to be a living room. A sofa and easy chair were arranged around a large coffee table. The carpet was thick and luxurious. A large-screen television filled one corner. She saw a magazine rack, plants, assorted knickknacks, and various framed prints on the walls. Beyond the living room, she saw a kitchen area complete with dining table and four chairs on a hardwood floor.

  Something bothered her. Looking around, she realized it was the lack of windows. The closest thing to a window was a small, square dark piece of glass in one wall.

  Kelsie stood. Taylor stood with her and took her hand. The roughness of the skin of his hands had always repulsed her and reminded her that Taylor was indiscriminate with what he touched. At the ranch, Taylor explored anything of interest – his hands could have been anywhere, from pulling apart a dead bird to examining deer droppings. But they only had each other; Kelsie managed not to pull her hand away from her son.

  They walked to the kitchen area. She saw cupboards, a sink, and a microwave. No dishwasher, no stove, no refrigerator. Again, there were no windows.

  It occurred to her that there was no door leading out of the kitchen. Instead, the far wall of the kitchen – which she hadn’t been able to see from the living room – opened to another large room, making the entire layout of the living quarters L-shaped, living room to kitchen to sleeping area.

  She moved out of the kitchen with Taylor still humming and still clinging to her hand. In the sleeping area were two beds, one king-sized in the center of the room and one twin-sized, which was against one wall. Was the small one meant to be for Taylor?

  In the far right corner was an open bathroom area containing a vanity, pedestal sink, toilet, and shower stall, all behind a waist-high wall to give a sense of separation from the rest of the area.

  The walls, with fresh ivory-white paint, were decorated with tasteful prints. There were no windows in the bedroom area either, only the occasional small dark plates of glass where windows might have been.

  Kelsie guessed the entire living space to be close to twelve hundred square feet. It was new, luxurious, but without windows, it seemed like a prison.

  The thought went through her mind, and then she froze. A prison.

  Kelsie looked around wildly for a door. It wasn’t until she returned to the living-room area that she found it, painted the same color as the walls and without a doorframe.

  She tried the handle without much hope. It was securely locked.

  “Cowboy, me,” Taylor announced. “Hungry, me.”

  She wondered if there was food in the cupboards. She and Taylor returned to the kitchen area. She found food, plenty of it. Nonperishable items such as rice and noodles, all stored in large plastic containers. There were pouches of powdered milk and powdered juices. She found sugar, spices, and coffee. Nothing, however, was in a metal can.

  She found plates and cups, all made of the kid-proof rubber that parents bought when they had small children. She found forks, knives, and spoons also made of bendable hard rubber.

  What was going on?

  “Cowboy, me,” Taylor said again.

  “Yes,” Kelsie said, distracted. “Cowboy, you.”

  Something else was strange about this. She finally realized there were no lamps and that the light fixtures were recessed into the ceilings, covered by large circles of thick plastic.

  She left Taylor in the kitchen and walked through all the rooms again. It took her a while longer to realize another oddity. There wasn’t a single breakable object. She couldn’t reach the glass light bulbs beneath the plastic covers. The dishes in the kitchen, of course, were indestructible. The big-screen television did not have a glass screen. The furniture was heavy wood. Even the bathroom mirror was of polished steel.

  Prison. She couldn’t help the conclusion. Prison.

  She guessed that over five hours had passed before the airplane landed. How could she expect anyone to find her? This prison could be anywhere from San Francisco to Minnesota.

  There was another conclusion, more chilling. Her kidnapper had put incredible resources and planning into this room – it spoke of great purpose.

  “Hungry, me,” Taylor announced again as he followed her into the bedroom area. He hugged Kelsie’s legs and put his head against her thighs.

  Kelsie heard a light crackle. She patted her sweatpants and found the source of the crackle. It was a piece of paper. She took it out and unfolded it, dreading what she might read.

  The words were very simple. And they filled her with terror.

  Welcome home, my love.

  9:51 a.m.

  Hours later, the boy begged to go to the bathroom. He promised he would be good if only she untied him. He promised he would allow her to tie him back to the bed if only she let him go to the bathroom.

  She refused. She said she had to show him that he must learn to behave.

  He begged more. He called her Mommy.

  “I love you, Mommy,” he said, swallowing his revulsion. “I love you. I’m sorry I hurt you. I love you.”

  She began to cry.

  He sensed her resolve weakening. “I love you. Bobby thinks you’re the best Mommy in the world.”

  She threw herself across him and sobbed.

  His instinct was to attempt to buck her off. However, he endured her perfume, and he endured the smeared tears across his face and hair, in the hope that she would untie him.

  “Mommy loves you too,” she said. “Mommy’s sorry for Halloween. Mommy didn’t mean to hit you. Can you forgive Mommy for letting you fall
down the stairs?”

  “Yes, Mommy,” he said. He was smart enough not to ask her to untie him. The request might make her suspicious.

  Finally, she pulled herself away from him and slowly untied the bonds that held his wrists and ankles to the bedposts.

  He waited until he was standing. Then he reacted quickly and furiously. “Stupid old witch!” he shouted and kicked her in the stomach. She dropped to her knees, and he punched her in the head. Then he pushed her onto her back.

  “Stupid old witch,” he shouted at her prone body. He was tough. After the beatings he’d taken in his life, he was tough. No old lady was going to scare him.

  He ran from the bedroom, down the hall, down the stairs, and to the front door. It didn’t matter how far he had to run, he’d find someone to help him get to the police. Then she would really pay.

  He yanked at the handle of the door. It turned and twisted, but it did not open. It was bolted shut.

  He snapped on the front hallway light. The bolt was a key lock. He needed the key to open the door. He dashed to the back door. Same thing.

  Windows! he thought. He ran into the living room. Iron security bars had been placed on the outside. No burglars could get in. No one could get out.

  The second-floor windows did not have security bars, he thought. He’d already escaped through his own bedroom. But the old lady was in there.

  He’d try another room on the second floor. He’d jump if he had to. Anything to get away from the crazy old lady in the blond wig.

  He ran back up the stairs and tugged at the doors down the hallway. Each one was locked.

  “Bobby... Bobby...” Her moaning voice taunted him from his bedroom.

  Where could he go? Ahead of him at the end of the hallway, he spotted a small door. He ran to it and pulled, He nearly gasped with relief when it opened. He saw a set of stairs leading up to the attic. He hesitated. Would he be trapped up there?