by Rick Mofina
“It’s mostly good since they put up the new towers, but people down your way without landlines say it’s still really sketchy.”
“Great,” Claire said, sighing.
“Just keep your phone charged and keep trying. Calls seem to get through, eventually.”
“I will, thanks.
At the big granite rock they turned onto the pathway. Branches swept against the doors as the truck bumped along through the short stretch of dense forest before coming to the cabin.
The sight of it stirred memories.
Claire loved the soothing way the sunlight pierced the arching treetops and dappled the property. For a moment she blinked fondly, as if seeing an old friend. But the sentiment was eclipsed as she walked to the door.
It took several tries before she unlocked it.
After Bobby unloaded her bags and groceries from the truck, Claire offered him two twenties but he refused.
“Thank you again.”
“No problem. See you tomorrow sometime,” he said, then drove off.
Claire stood alone in the quiet of the cabin, wishing the tranquility were a sedative. She remained tense, from the trip, the day, everything. She checked her cell phone, the signal was good, but there were no new messages. Is anybody going to tell me what’s going on? She set up her laptop on the kitchen table, logged on and checked her email. No responses to her calls. She reviewed online news sites. Nothing new on Amber’s case.
All right, you’ve got things to do.
She put her groceries away and went to the master bedroom, remembering that Robert had kept an ancient portable TV around somewhere to catch Lakers and Dodgers games. She found it in the closet, took it out, turned it on and adjusted the antenna until she picked up an L.A. news channel.
She left it on to monitor reports on Amber while she unpacked a few things. Claire then undressed and went into the bathroom. It’d been a long, hard day and she wanted to wash off the grime and stress of the drive.
She’d eat something and then start work.
Reaching into the shower to turn on the faucet she stopped.
What’s that on the stall floor?
Claire lowered herself.
A dried stain webbed around the drain, lacy pinkish and with some muddied residue. Claire hesitated, guessing it was from Robert after he’d done some work outside-maybe he’d cut himself? She poured some shampoo over the stain, turned on the hot water. As she washed it away, she thought it had been ages since the cabin had a good cleaning. She considered hiring a cleaning service to scour the place.
While Claire showered, she planned the rest of her day. She’d go over her patient files to ensure she hadn’t overlooked anything in her more difficult cases.
Overlooked anything? Who am I kidding?
Her ever-present guilt over Amber resumed gnawing at her. Claire resurrected Martha Berman’s advice and tried to concentrate on the things she could control. She stepped from the shower and toweled off. As she started dressing, her attention went to the TV and live news coverage of a motel under the graphic Arrest Made in Missing Woman Case.
She turned up the volume.
“…Again, KTKX has breaking news. The AllNews Press Agency is reporting that the LAPD has arrested Eric Larch at the motel behind me, the Palms of Paradise Motor Inn on West Olympic Boulevard in Los Angeles…We now have on the line Mark Harding the ANPA reporter who broke the story.”
A still photo of Mark Harding appeared in a lower corner of the screen.
“Mark, what can you tell us?”
“Eric Larch was identified as a person of interest in the case of his estranged wife, Amber Pratt of Alhambra, who has been reported missing. Police say they have not yet located the woman…the L.A. County Sheriff Department’s Cold Case Task Force has said that the Pratt case is linked to five unsolved murders of women across the L.A. area but so far they’re not confirming if Larch, who I am told is facing questioning, is suspected of being the so-called Dark Wind Killer who has written to the ANPA. Police refuse to discuss any aspect of their investigation into this very gruesome case.”
“Thank you, Mark… Again, an arrest has been made in the case of… KTKX will monitor this breaking development…”
Claire’s heart raced.
Oh, God, please find Amber.
Maybe Eric took her somewhere to talk? Maybe she got away and hid in a women’s shelter until they arrested him? Maybe she’ll try to call me?
A thousand more thoughts blazed through her mind.
If they find Amber tonight, how would she get back to L.A.? She’d call the store and pay Bobby or his mother to drive her. But how would Tanner or Robert reach her? Her phone seemed unreliable. She’d keep checking it and her email for messages. She’d call Tanner. She’d call Robert, Belinski, Julie, everybody. That’s what she’d do.
She’d call until she got answers.
Claire took a deep breath. Okay, calm down.
Eric’s arrest was a good thing. It might be the beginning of the end of this nightmare, she thought, and finished dressing. She stood in front of the dresser mirror and began brushing the tangles from her damp hair.
She stopped in midstroke.
Reflected in the mirror were the spindles of the bed’s headboard behind her.
Claire turned around.
Two sets of white braceletlike loops hung from the headboard-one at the lower end of each spindle at the separate side of the bed. Puzzled, Claire took one in her hand before realizing what the loops were.
Plastic handcuffs.
Small brownish clouds lined the edges, like dried blood.
Claire drew back the bedsheets and inspected the pillow, finding a few strands of long hair. She held them to the window, up to the fading afternoon light. The hair was not hers and it was not Robert’s.
Claire took a step back from the bed.
Suddenly she was engulfed in a storm of betrayal.
Robert had brought a woman to the cabin, to their bed. Was it Cynthia? Is this why he hesitated about selling it? He’s using it to bring her here for what? Some kind of bondage sex?
Claire bit back on her tears.
I’ve been such a fool.
She gathered her clothes and her bag and hurled them into the next room. Anger and pain pummeled her as she tried to think.
She couldn’t think.
She couldn’t breathe in this place.
She had to get outside.
63
Big Bear Lake, California
The screen door whacked against the cabin as Claire shot through it.
Nothing made sense.
Grappling with her rage, she followed the path that twisted and turned to the secluded edge of their property. It led to the lookout and gazebo where she and Robert would go to enjoy the lake view and the mountains.
By the time she reached the scenic spot, she was in tears.
How could you do this? How could you? We spent part of our honeymoon here. We planned our life here. We dreamed here.
Bile rose in the back of her throat and she felt sick to her stomach.
God, she hoped she was not pregnant. Her world had been turned upside down. Not long ago she’d ached to have a baby-had planned to have a baby with Robert and now-now this.
How did it come to this?
Everything was crashing down around her.
Claire gripped the railing to steady herself.
I am the dumbest person on earth. How could I have been so stupid and so blind to all the signs?
There was Robert’s brooding at the time Dr. LaRoy said they’d be able to have a family. And Robert’s solo trips to the cabin; and the way he’d let her know that he’d lived in Canada with Cynthia; and the way he’d run his hands over those young women at the banquet; and the fact Julie was uncovering more about his past.
Why haven’t I heard from her? Why hasn’t she called or texted me?
As Claire cast around for answers she saw a planter box near the gazebo, one
of the new ones Robert had built, mocking her like a monument to his betrayal.
Still, Claire was drawn to it.
I thought he’d made them for me. Maybe he made them for her.
The box was about six feet long, two feet wide, stood about two feet tall. Looking upon it, tears rolling down her cheeks, Claire saw how he’d filled it to capacity with her favorites, wild roses, fireweed and lilies. Bits of petals had fallen to the ground, like confetti.
Confetti, how fitting.
Claire glanced at it, then started to turn away when one small petal caught her eye, a shiny one. At first she thought it was like others on the ground surrounding the planter.
But it was different.
It was the size of a small postage stamp, bright red with tiny bright pink stripes.
With gloss.
She picked it up.
It was a fingernail. Amber’s fingernail!
Claire’s stomach spasmed.
She searched around the planter and froze.
On the opposite side of the box, halfway down, poking through the latticework, Claire saw fingers in a desperate futile escape posture.
“Amber!”
Claire touched them.
They’re warm! She’s alive. Oh, God please let her be alive!
With her bare hands, Claire began ripping out the flowers, stopping when she’d discovered a rubber hose that surfaced from somewhere deeper in the box. A breathing tube? Claire continued attacking the soil, clawing at it, then her fingers hit something solid-wood a sheet of plywood.
The hose continued down through a circular hole in the plywood.
“Amber, it’s Claire! Can you hear me? I’m going to get you out! Tap if you can hear me.”
In the stillness, Claire heard a soft knock on the wood.
“Oh, thank you! Good, good!”
Claire ran her hands along the wood that served as a coffin lid, looking for a way to remove it, but it was no use. Screws held it down tight. She’d need a tool, something to pry it off.
I walked by a shovel and wheelbarrow leaning against a tree near the back of the cabin.
Claire ran back and grabbed the shovel.
Her heart racing, pulse thudding in her ears, she rushed back to the gazebo, never hearing or seeing the SUV stop in the front of the cabin.
She returned to the box.
“Amber, I’m going to get you out now!”
Gripping the shovel, Claire began smashing at the latticework on one side. Then she attempted to work the shovel’s tip between the one-inch plywood lid and the lower body of the box. She made several attempts to force the blade tip into position, either missing or finding that the seam was just too tight.
Grunting and cursing, Claire refused to give up.
Finally, she found a spot that yielded enough play for her to thrust the blade tip in with enough purchase to leverage the area.
The seam cracked, surrendering a few more critical inches.
Claire pulled out the shovel and as she steadied herself to make a second punch, she stopped.
What was that? A footfall or a twig snap?
As Claire turned to face the cabin, the last thing she saw was a silhouetted figure before the sky exploded with a million constellations, propelling her into darkness.
64
Big Bear Lake, California
Claire’s eyes opened to a watery haze.
What…where…
The swollen side of her head throbbed, making her woozy. Her blood pumped hard as she tried to see, tried to…
What happened?
Swimming through disorientation, she smelled the cabin and recalled the fragrance of flowers as she focused in the dim light. She was facing the fireplace. Yes, she was in the cabin.
Crickets.
Evening.
Inside, the cabin was lit only by candles flickering from various shelves and tables. The air was silent but for the crickets.
And the roar of remembering.
Amber.
Claire’s head was pounding and she tried to think. Okay, she was sitting in a hard-back chair but it felt so strange, so weird.
In the dull stillness, large shapeless shadows danced along the walls.
Okay, I have to get Amber out of the box, get her to a hospital but- No. It was a dream. No. Robert was cheating here with Cynthia? No, it was a dream. I must’ve fallen, got a concussion or… I have to get up and call an ambulance. Get up now!
Claire’s effort to stand was halted.
Her legs were bound at the ankles to a wooden kitchen chair. Her wrists were bound to the armrests. With plastic handcuffs.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
Breathing hard in the quiet, she struggled in vain until she cried out in frustration. Squirming in her chair, she strained her neck to turn to the kitchen. On the floor she saw…Robert!
First she saw his travel bag. Then she saw him in the kitchen, his back to her, standing at the table, in jeans and a T-shirt, casually flipping through newspapers by candlelight.
“Robert! Help me!”
Nothing.
“Robert, please help me!”
He didn’t react.
It was as if she didn’t exist.
This isn’t real. I’m having a nightmare. So wake up, wake up!
She strained against the handcuffs and felt pain.
They’re real.
Claire went numb, time raced with her fear rising as she struggled to comprehend what had befallen her. It was incomprehensible. She had to think. She must get through to him; convince him to release her.
What are the levers, the triggers?
She swallowed hard and tried to keep the fear out of her tone-tried to talk to him as his wife.
“Robert, I love you with all my heart. We’ve both been through so much lately. We can help each other. Whatever you’re going through, we can help each other. I love you. I want to help you, let me help you.”
He didn’t respond.
“Robert, I understand it can be painful to talk about these things.”
He continued ignoring her. She tried a direct approach.
“Robert, what have you done with Amber? Show me where she is. We need to help her.”
Like a tradesman whose break was over, Robert took his bag and left the kitchen for the hall to the bedrooms. Then she heard the shower running. Alone in the living room, she struggled against the plastic handcuffs until her wrists bled.
It was futile.
She began writhing in her chair. If she could tilt it so she could stand maybe she could crab-walk to the kitchen and a knife. It was not easy. Her position afforded her little strength, but after several attempts she succeeded.
She was on her feet in a spine-breaking posture. The chair was heavy. Its weight threatened to pull her back down.
She had moved about a foot when the shower stopped.
Startled, Claire lost her balance and slid back into a sitting position, a prisoner again. Then she heard humming.
What was he doing?
She listened.
Forgetting how long it had been since the shower stopped, she prepared to try again when there was movement in the hall.
“Robert, please, I’m begging you!”
He emerged from the darkness like a ghost.
“Robert is gone, Claire.”
She gasped.
He stood before her, naked.
In the near dark of the candlelight his face glowed white but Robert’s features had vanished in the brilliant makeup, the streak of bright red smeared across his upturned mouth, his cheeks, a fury of cuts, his eyes burned from huge black smudge pools with fierce streaks for eyebrows, amplifying his rage.
“You know who I am.”
Claire’s heart hammered against her rib cage as she nodded weakly.
“Say it.”
Claire was speechless.
“Say it!”
“What have you done with Amber?”
“Tell me who I a
m and I will show you wonders.”
“Please, let me help you, Robert.”
“Robert is gone.” Suddenly he thrust his face within inches of hers. “Tell me who I am. Say it.”
“You’re the killer in the news.” She choked back her sobs. “The Dark Wind Killer.”
He stood up and thrust out his chest.
“I am a deity, spawned in hell. I control life and death.”
“Please.”
In a heartbeat he moved behind her chair, with his superior strength he tilted her back as if she weighed nothing and dragged her into the bedroom, which was lit by candles.
He turned her to the bed.
“A masterwork in progress, don’t you think?”
Claire’s breathing stopped, her skin prickled with gooseflesh.
Amber was naked, spread-eagled on the bed, each wrist and ankle restrained by plastic handcuffs. Her thinned, weakened body was muddied and bloodied. Her face laced in blood and bruises. Barely conscious, she sensed Claire’s presence and groaned.
Claire’s chair tilted as he dragged her into the second candlelit bedroom where a naked woman was bound on the bed in the same way as Amber. Her face was bloodied, but when Claire recognized her, she cried out, “Julie! Oh, God, Julie!”
“She meddled and now she’s a very special project.”
He dragged Claire back out to the living room.
“You lied, Claire. You were supposed to go to Las Vegas. No matter. I can adapt. Your time was coming. You’re just like Cindy. You and Julie interfered but you failed. Just like Cindy did.”
Claire sobbed.
“When I’m done tonight, I’ll move on. The world’s a big canvas and my fan base is growing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to resume my work. It’s going to be a long, glorious night.”
He drew his hideous, horrifying face to hers, opened his mouth wide and extended his tongue, and when she averted her face in disgust, he gave her a long, reptilian lick from her neck to the top of her head.
Then as if in a cobra strike, he seized her throat.
“I’m saving you for last.”
Left alone in the living room, restrained to her chair, the only sounds Claire heard were crickets and the hammering of her heart, then the screams from the bedrooms. The pain and outrage hit Claire again and again.