by Jordan Dane
“The rope has stains,” she said. “The pattern is on the inside of the hemp. It could be blood.”
Lucinda knew they’d have to test if the blood was human, but when she swung the beam of light toward the pile of clothes, her gut instinct told her all she needed to know.
“There are stains on these clothes. We can’t be certain it’s human blood until we test it, but I’d bet money it is. The rope. This cage. Something bad happened here.” She lifted fabric off the pile. “I see a label off a T-shirt. Men’s clothes, I’d say, and they’re shredded.”
“Someone could’ve been bitten by a dog. The clothes could be rags they used to staunch the bleeding.”
“You really think that?” she asked.
Whitmire didn’t answer. He heaved a sigh and cursed under his breath.
“What’s it mean?” he asked. “What happened to my trooper and your agent?”
Lucinda retraced her steps in searching for Ryker. She had puzzle pieces with no answers. Trooper Peterson’s cabin looked well kept, but the kennels were borderline cruel for the dogs and she had no idea what’d happened in the cage where she crouched.
“Let’s pay a call on her neighbor. You game?” she asked.
“Yeah. I feel real sociable.”
Lucinda emerged from the hellish pit of the kennels to take her first full breath. She wanted the fresh air to clear her mind, but it didn’t. She was even more worried for Ryker as she gazed into the night sky filled with far too many stars to count. The moon cast its bluish tinge over the evergreens and the still water in the cove. The serene beauty should have settled her. With the dogs quiet, she could even hear the whisper of lapping waves along the shore, but she couldn’t get Ryker’s face—his eyes—out of her head.
“You okay?” Whitmire asked.
She took another deep breath before she answered.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “Let’s go.”
***
If Trooper Peterson’s cabin had been welcoming and cozy, the hovel of her neighbor looked the polar opposite to Lucinda as she crept toward a dilapidated shack. Windows were boarded and nailed shut. Worn wood planks were stained and rotting and the porch overhang looked as if a strong wind would take it down.
One security light cast long shadows over the property and the front porch had sprouted weeds that ignored the blight of human intrusion on the land. Beyond that, the ramshackle dwelling didn’t look as if anyone lived there. Lucinda wanted to think the place had seen better days, but she doubted it.
After she skulked by an old rusted truck that had found its final resting place on blocks, she stepped over the decaying carcass of a large fish gathering maggots. The air reeked.
“Nice welcome mat,” she whispered to Whitmire. “Shades of Ted Kaczynski.”
The rat hole had a series of connecting outbuildings like a makeshift compound linked together—a survivalist’s wet dream.
“What do you know about this guy?” she asked.
“Not much. His name’s Josh Getty. No record. Justine tolerates the guy, from what I hear.”
Whitmire shot her a stern glance that had a clear message—follow my lead. He shoved his back to a wall to the left of the front door and raised his weapon. Lucinda took the other side and did the same. The trooper pounded on the door and yelled.
“Alaska State Troopers. Open the door.” When no one came, Whitmire shouted again. “State Troopers. Open up!”
Lucinda knew they had no probable cause unless they found one. She nudged her head to Whitmire and took off toward the side of the compound to look for a reason to gain entry. The trooper followed as Lucinda headed for the only light on the property, the one she had seen from the kennel. The windows were boarded up like the front, but a door had been left open a crack.
“Here. Got something,” she whispered.
She stood to the side of the threshold—careful not to become a target—and grabbed the knob with her left hand. The door didn’t give. It had a loose metal latch on the inside. She shot a glance at Whitmire and made her move.
Lucinda kicked in the door with her boot.
“We got an open door,” she said. “Better have a look.”
“Good idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”
Whitmire took lead. He aimed his weapon and his second Kel-Lite to give him a clear line of fire. Lucinda did the same. A smothering stench hit Lucinda as she crossed into the darkness of the shack. She winced at the thick odor. As she became accustomed to the dark, her eyes trailed up a heaping pile of trash that smelled like rotting food. Oh, God. She wanted to vomit.
Whitmire maneuvered through a maze of hoarder trash. His flashlight shined onto open cans, broken glass, and piles of old clothes.
A faint patter and a shrill squeak made her stop and freeze where she stood. A cat yowled and caught its prey. The sudden shriek made the hair on Lucinda’s neck stand on end and made her skin crawl. She gripped her weapon and swallowed, hard. Not being wrong—for calling the dump a rat hole, literally—didn’t make her feel any better.
She caught up to Whitmire and stuck close.
Outside the night air had carried a chill, but inside the suffocating smell and stagnant air had sweat pouring off Lucinda. She stayed close to Whitmire and kept her eyes alert for anything on two legs. Adrenaline pumped through her blood. The shit hole gave her the creeps.
After they reached what looked like the end of their search, Whitmire raced ahead. The beam of his Kel-Lite bounced across walls of trash as he moved. When he came to a larger room, the glow of his flashlight steadied.
“Found something,” the trooper said. “Good Lord.”
Lucinda stepped into the room and the smell of blood hit her like a punch. She winced and held her breath.
“I take it, this isn’t normal?” she asked. Whitmire only shook his head with his face grim.
A double utility sink occupied one wall next to a long butcher block table with an automated saw at the end. Knives were strewn across the workstation and in the sink. Blood spatter marred the walls and surfaces. She didn’t know how hunters in Alaska harvested their kills, but nothing about the sinister room looked normal. The cement floor had a large metal grate in the center and had a slant to make it easy to clean and drain blood waste. The stifling air reeked of spoiled meat.
“This is…overkill, too.” Whitmire stood over three commercial freezers that filled the other half of the room and ran his hand over each one. “They’re all operating. Lotta freezer capacity for one guy.”
Lucinda knew what the trooper had on his mind. The chillers had plenty of space to hide and freeze severed human remains. She stared at Whitmire and clenched her jaw. She knew what they had to do, but after her thoughts turned to Ryker, nausea gripped her.
She fought hard not to picture Ryker frozen in one of the chillers, but that was impossible. Her throat wedged tight and her eyes burned with the sting of tears.
“Do it.” Lucinda gripped her weapon and nodded. “Open it.”
When Whitmire pointed his flashlight into the first freezer, the shadows in the room shifted and closed around her. The trooper flipped the lid and they both stared into the compartment. The freezer was empty. She prayed they wouldn’t find Ryker in the next ones. Whitmire opened the lids on the next two chillers.
“Dark ice in all of ‘em,” he said. “Probably frozen blood. Other than that, they’re empty. No human body parts. Thank God.”
After she shifted the flashlight toward the back of the room, she caught the glint of a metal knob and Whitmire shot her a sideways glance.
“Well, the hits keep coming,” she said. “Looks like a door back here.”
Lucinda raised her weapon and reached for the doorknob with Whitmire at her back. She made eye contact with the trooper. After he nodded, she flung the door open and stared down shadowy steps that trailed into a tunnel. The narrow walls were shored with wood until they connected with a large cement drainage pipe. Beyond the beam of the Kel-Lite, she saw
only shadows and flickering light.
“What the hell?”
“The way this place stinks, it could cover up a meth lab,” Whitmire said. “The guy could be cookin’ product.”
“I think by the time we’re done, we’re gonna wish that’s all this guy’s been doing,” she said.
“I’m calling for back up. No telling what cell reception will be underground.”
Lucinda didn’t like waiting. Patience wasn’t a quality she cultivated. Ryker knew that first hand, but she understood Whitmire’s logic in calling for support.
With her gut twisting into a tight knot, she waited.
***
Prince of Wales Island
Klawock
“Did you reach her?” The worried look on Cam’s face forced Hutch to bend the rules of decorum on the job. He reached out and held her hand, ignoring the smirk on the face of Trooper Biggers.
“No. She doesn’t answer. I rolled into voice mail, but I’ve already left a message,” he said.
Hutch grabbed their jackets and pulled Cam out of the room and headed down the hall toward the front door of the State Trooper’s building. When they had their privacy outside, Hutch stroked a hand down Cam’s arm.
“I left her a text, but she hasn’t responded to that either.”
“She’s gotta know. I think we’re on to something.” Cam slipped into her jacket and crossed her arms against the chilly night air.
“If we’re right, Ryker’s in real trouble. We could already be too late.” Hutch stared into the stars and filled his lungs with cold air. “Look, we have our pilot and Sinead gave me the last ping off Lucinda’s phone. She’s in Point Baker. That’s where we go.”
“Agreed. Let’s do this.”
Hutch kissed Cam on the cheek and they went looking for their pilot. He had a feeling there was a reason Lucinda hadn’t answered his messages. He prayed he was wrong.
***
Ryker Townsend
A distant and steady thud grew louder over my head. When the menacing noise echoed through the room, billows of dust rained down and clogged the air. The disturbance had come from a level above us. Adrenaline punched me hard. I couldn’t control it.
“Someone’s coming,” I said.
“That song. What a sick bastard.” Justine grimaced and stared at the only way into the room—a door at the top of the stairs.
“Yeah. He ruined Ray Charles for me. I should arrest him for that alone.”
Ben had been right about the song. A cruel killer like our UNSUB would get off on triggering the victim’s fear and set the stage with drama. I’d seen enough of the Totem Killer in my visions to know. I stopped cutting the ropes off Ben. I had seconds to choose. Everything came down to what I would do.
“No! Why’d you stop? Cut me loose.” Ben tugged at his ropes. “Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t. Trust me.”
My eyes darted through the shadows made by the red flickering light. I had a knife. It would have to do, even though it meant getting too close. I could barely walk and still suffered from whatever drug coursed through my veins. I needed the element of surprise and a vantage point to strike first.
I made my move and Ben panicked.
“Where are you going? Get me out of here.”
Ben had embraced his last hope for freedom. I’d seen it in his eyes. Now he counted on me to deliver, until he got a closer look at his savior. I was no John Wayne. When I heard the creak of a floorboard, my heart pummeled my chest. I didn’t have time to explain anything to Ben.
“Just…trust me.”
I touched his shoulder, but couldn’t look him in the eye before I staggered for the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Justine glared at me. “You’re in no shape to…”
“That’s why you’re gonna help me. Find cover and follow my lead,” I said. “When he’s down, you join the party.”
The music grated on my nerves. It wouldn’t stop. I barely had time to crawl under the staircase before the door rasped open. The Totem Killer would soon descend the steps enough to see I’d escaped the harness. A pale glow cut through the red pulsing light and spread across the plastic covered floor to settle on Ben like a harsh spotlight. The poor guy couldn’t take his eyes off the man who’d come to kill him.
Without the hood he’d see everything.
“Please…I don’t w-want to die.” Ben shook his head and tears spilled down his cheeks.
I couldn’t watch. I had to be the hunter, not the victim.
I couldn’t see Justine. I’d wedged my body under the stairs and gripped the knife. My ankle throbbed, but I shifted my focus onto the blade in my good hand. With my pulse punishing the inside of my ears, I struggled to slow my breath.
At the sound of a scuff on the wood landing over my head, I braced my back against the brick wall behind me and tensed. I’d have only one shot to take the killer by surprise. A shadow eclipsed the light and the top step creaked with weight. I gripped the hilt of the blade in my sweaty palm and sucked in a breath.
A hiking boot took the step in front of my eyes. In one motion I grabbed it and held on. When I stabbed his meaty calf muscle, the man cried out and sprawled to the floor on his belly. His head hit the floor hard. The crack of bone on cement sent a chill through me. I raced from cover—ignoring the jolt of pain shooting through my bad leg—and ran to the body.
Blood seeped onto the plastic from where I’d stabbed him, but his head wound bled more. The man groaned and tried to get up. Damn it! There wasn’t time. I collapsed onto him and braced an elbow around his neck, squeezing his throat with every ounce of strength I had. His body tensed and writhed until I thought I’d lose my grip, but I held tight until his breaths turned into wet gurgles.
“Finish him. Do it.” Ben begged me to take the man’s life. “Kill him!”
Ray Charles sang of a wonderful world while I fought to squeeze the life out of a stranger. I couldn’t see Ben and he didn’t have eyes on me, but his panicked cries fueled my murderous instinct. From years of nightmares where I switched places with merciless killers in my visions, I’d experienced the euphoria of blood lust. I had enough adrenaline raging through me to finish him. I squeezed harder and his body grew slack.
It would’ve been easy to kill him. I had seconds to decide if I’d cross a line I never believed possible—all in the name of self-defense—but from nowhere, the words of my mother came to me. I heard her sweet voice. She filled my head and my heart.
There’s no light without the dark.
This time her words carried a different meaning. It wasn’t a matter of accepting the darkness of my visions in order to embrace my gift. I had to fight my way out of the shadows and struggle for my way back. I had to choose the light. I had to want it. In that moment I realized—a splintered fragment of me had always been broken. It was how I understood the killers I hunted and why I didn’t judge them.
Except for the grace of God, could I have been one of them?
I released my grip and let the man live. That mercy should’ve been a relief. For any normal person—especially someone who’d chosen a life in law enforcement—it should’ve been, but not for me. I shut my eyes to fend off a surprising assault on my mind. Oh, God. Stop…please stop. After I’d let him go, the release sent me into a tailspin of dark visions. I relived my most vivid nightmares in a rush—fantasies of killing that…pleased me.
No, this can’t be happening. Surely these thoughts weren’t mine. They couldn’t be. I shut the fantasies down and walled them off in my head—the way I did with every nightmare—and stared down at the man beneath me.
I panted for air and gazed up at Ben. I thought it was over until…
“Look out. He’s got a gun,” Justine yelled.
She shoved me with her shoulder and knocked me off the man. I hit my head hard enough to see stars. She grappled with the big man in a blur. Everything happened too fast.
“Get back, Ryker,” she grunted. “He’s got
the…”
A loud blast hurt my ears. One shot. Two. Justine slumped over the man and didn’t move.
“Justine!”
I felt my lips move, but my voice sounded muffled through the ringing in my ears. I reached a hand for Justine. My fingers entwined in strands of her blonde hair, but she didn’t move. Blood seeped from beneath her and spread.
“Justine?”
***
What the hell? Lucinda Crowley strained her ears at the entrance to the unexpected tunnel leading under Josh Getty’s dilapidated shack. A loud crack bellowed into an almost undecipherable echo. The sound erupted and swelled from the underground passageway, but to her trained ear, Lucinda was certain she hadn’t mistaken it.
“I heard a gunshot.” She yelled over her shoulder, but Whitmire didn’t respond. He was still on the phone, calling for back up. She couldn’t wait. Not anymore.
Ryker’s face came to her from the shadows. She had to move. Now.
“Whitmire, I heard gunfire. I’m going in.”
Lucinda didn’t wait for his answer. She crept down the wooden stairs into the belly of the tunnel with her Glock pointed into the dark. Her world narrowed to the thin beam of a flashlight.
Chapter Twenty
“What happened?” Ben cried out.
I didn’t know what to tell him. I stared at Justine. Her body was sprawled on top of the man who would’ve killed Ben, but when her fingers twitched and she moaned, I reached for her.
“Justine? Are you…?”
Slow and deliberate, she pushed off the man under her. Blood spatter covered her face and hands and saturated her clothes.
“Are you shot?”
Stunned, she grabbed for her ribs and rubbed her hands over her body.
“No. I don’t think so.”
Justine moved enough for me to see the guy had been fatally shot. He stared through dead eyes with a slack face and a mouth brimming with blood. He had two bullet holes in his chest. Even though his blond hair and beard were matted in blood, the big man looked familiar. He wasn’t wearing old coveralls and a cap, like Ben had described, but I’d seen him before—at Justine’s.