Carved in Stone: A chilling serial killer thriller (Vanessa Stone Series, Book 1)

by Julia Shupe

  Birds chirped in the branches above. Cicadas sang by the bank. The rain purred. And Carlton regarded the mess he couldn’t remember making. This was such a peaceful place, he thought. Death and destruction and anger didn’t belong here. His violence had been an intrusion. Bracing his hand against the trunk of a tree, he shuffled his feet until he faced the water, his eyes fixed on the peeling bark. He needed a beer. No, two. Try ten.

  His fingers, claw-like, dug into the bark, while he summoned the courage to face the man he was. So this was where his blackouts took him, to the banks of this quiet little inlet in the woods. This was the place where he’d hidden his most unforgivable acts, the ones he couldn’t remember committing, but should.

  Ever so slowly, he peered around the tree, his gaze landing on a small stone bench. Had he sat there at night, cleaning blood from his knives? Alone beneath a bright moon and a carpet of shining stars? Had he communed with nature beside a field of dead women? The thought brought bile to the back of his tongue.

  He forced his head to turn and look, at the grid of police tape and excavated grounds. It was early yet. Not a soul could be seen: no cops, no forensics, no investigative teams. He’d chosen a spot, fifty yards from the scene, but he hadn’t expected a private showing. He’d just wanted to take a good look at the place, see how a brother-in-arms was doing it. Serial killers, he knew, were quite rare. It was interesting—if not impossible—to see one’s handiwork up close.

  Though curiosity had brought him here, it was horror that kept his feet rooted to the ground. His eyesight had always been keen, exceptional. Even from this distance, he could make out every detail, and from the moment he saw it, he knew it was his. Eighteen holes had been trenched into the ground, eighteen graves marking each of the women he’d killed. This, he concluded, was the source of his pain. This was the reason he was drinking himself to death. The blackouts, the lost time, the depressive, suicidal thoughts: when standing beside this desolate place, it all made sense in an instant. This was the missing piece that pulled it all together. When Carlton wasn’t playing Carlton anymore, this was the man he became, his alter ego. It was a truth he felt in his bones. This wasn’t the work of a brother-in-arms. This was a hell he’d created for himself, by himself, unaware that he’d even been doing it.

  Escalation, Dr. Waite had warned him, all those years ago. This was what she had feared would happen. It was the very thing she’d cautioned him of. And for years, he’d taken care to avoid missteps. He’d fought the inner demons. He’d imposed self-discipline. He’d failed a few times. Well, sure: who hadn’t? But all in all, he’d tried to be a better person.

  I think you will fight this particular demon all of your life.

  Dr. Waite’s cutting words came whispering in his ear. Perhaps she’d been right all along. Maybe he deserved a cell at Folsom, after all. Had it been so bad? Worse than this? At times, he’d been thankful for the routine and regimen. On occasion, he’d longed for solitude, of course, but a formulaic life had certain advantages.

  He cracked a smile that trembled at the corners. What a crazy thing to admit out loud. Did a convict exist, besides him, who would say it? Prison, for all its tedium and noise, had been his anchor back then. He knew that now. It had given him a fresh perspective on life. It had offered protection, and silenced the voices. It had made freedom taste all the sweeter. Nothing scares a convict more than losing his freedom once he’s regained it, and the fear of that loss typically keeps the beast caged.

  Only this time, it didn’t. The beast got out.

  He scanned the tread-upon ground. The beast had gotten out angry and lashed out. It had broken its shackles when Carlton wasn’t looking. While trying so hard to live a straight and narrow life, it had snuck into the world and wreaked havoc.

  He looked at his hands, at his palms and fingernails. They looked like his hands, but what had they done? Did the beast take them over at night? While he slept? Did it crouch in the dark behind his eyes, by day, watching and hunting, and then choosing the next girl?

  He shifted on his feet, his eyes following the lines of yellow tape. Something niggled him. Something didn’t fit. The scene felt like him. He knew it was his, but if he’d somehow developed a split personality, why was it determined to stay hidden? He’d tried to be good. He’d tried to be normal. But he’d failed—time and time again. He’d never be normal. He knew that now. He’d never be sane. The darkness always won.

  He’d ignored the impulses for many long years, but after a time, had waived a white flag. He’d raped, beaten, succumbed to his darkest fantasies. And apparently, his secret self was committing the same crimes. He was two halves of a whole, two men. But there were many distinct differences.

  For a moment he wondered what his darker self was like. Did it revel in depravity while he suffered the guilt? Was it trying to protect him from disgrace and shame? He wondered why it bothered anymore. The jig was up. Its cover was blown. It could come out now. He was standing in front of its handiwork. Why carry on this tiresome charade? Its existence had been exposed. Shouldn’t the identities merge? Carlton was no psychologist, but the idea seemed to make sense. If his secret identity was meant to protect him, it could finally punch out the clock. Retire. Carlton didn’t need its protection anymore. He’d accepted himself for the beast that he was. He’d continue to fight the evil urges all his life, but he’d never stop killing. Not completely.

  Carlton, though he’d tried hard to deny it, was a killer, and always would be. Sandra could make all the excuses she wanted. She could cite abandonment issues, blame his mother, or his father. She could blame the abuse they’d forced him to suffer. She could paint him as the victim of a poor environment, cite of a lack of love or warmth, as a boy. But at the end of that list was Carlton, a monster who’d hidden among sheep for decades. Many people suffered shitty childhoods, but most learned to deal with the cards they were dealt. Why did it have to be different for him? Why must he suffer such frenzied desires: the chopping of feet, the raping, the skinning? How many people dreamed of that?

  He’d spent time researching other monsters like him, watching interviews of Arthur Shawcross, Richard Ramirez, and Charles Ng. He’d even watched an old recording of Ted Bundy, the night before his execution. But he’d found these men to be different than he, true sociopaths, devoid of empathy or remorse. They wore their evil like badges on their breasts. They gloried in it, took delight in causing pain. But Carlton, despite his many faults, wasn’t like them. He hated the compulsions that drove him mad. His need to kill was a sickness without a cure. It was a pressure that built in his head until released, a force he tried to suppress with beer, pot, and lesser distractions.

  His breath came faster, until he was nearly hyperventilating. He had to leave this place. Right now. He peered at the wasteland before him and quailed. Never had he wanted to become this man. He’d fought it with everything he had. He’d done his best to live a simple life, take walks, watch TV, enjoy a book, and report to a job that fulfilled him. Nothing had worked, and nothing ever would. This was who he was, deep inside, in his soul, and it was nothing if not depressing.

  I’m a plague, he told himself. I’ll never stop this. Wrapping his arms around his body, he hugged himself. Why the hell can’t I remember this place? Now that I’m here, I should remember every detail. Shouldn’t the images come rushing back?

  In a moment of bravery, he stepped around the tree, scanning the field for cops or laborers. Maybe he should turn himself in. Right now. If he wanted to stop, it might be the only way. Or was it? he thought, hands fisted at his sides. Wasn’t there one more thing he could do? One final solution that would put an end to this?

  Crouching to find his keys, he felt a strange sense of calm take him over. It was time to end this, go back to the beginning. And there was only one way to do it right.

  Chapter 39

  I was sick to death of these damn video files. My butt had molded into the shape of my chair, because I’d watched them after d
inner, late into the night. But I was proud of myself, of my commitment to Danny. Despite the fact that I’d watched them from home, I’d spent the majority of my evening with him. We’d eaten pizza at the kitchen table, and ice cream on the living room sofa. In boots and raincoats, we’d taken a walk, then plopped into beanbags and watched Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. It was peaceful and comforting, a perfect evening, and it was just the medicine I’d needed.

  But now it was morning at the station again, and I was crouched over the computer, my muscles already beginning to tighten. Yesterday, I’d watched footage of the coffee shop register, and having seen nothing helpful, switched to the one above the entrance. The faces, unfortunately, were beginning to blend together. The images were excellent, not the least bit grainy, but no one had yet piqued my interest. I’d learned a thing or two about OceanTide Perks; it was a fairly decent place to work, filled with people, and natural light. And the grounds—the part I could see, at least—were peppered with greenery and flowers in rainbow colors.

  I peered at Gil over the top of my monitor. He was chewing on a pen and staring at something. He was wearing his favorite shirt, the blue-checkered one, the one his wife had given him last Christmas, which reminded me, of course, that I needed to call her. I’d received a summons that required a response. This thing wouldn’t go away just because I wanted it to. As with any challenge in life, I had to face it head on.

  Jacob had called to check on me, and I suddenly wished he were here right now. Refusing to dwell on what that meant, I stood and stretched, reached down to touch my toes, and when I returned my gaze to the monitor, I froze.

  “It’s him,” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat. “I’ll be damned. It’s him! It’s really him.” I swiveled the monitor toward Gil and found my voice. “Gil, it’s him. It’s Carlton Tubbs.”

  Gil rounded the desk in an instant. “Hot damn. Can you make the image bigger?”

  Lifting the thirty-year-old mug shot of Tubbs, I placed it alongside the image, and stared. But the more I enlarged it, the cloudier it became. It certainly looked like Tubbs, I thought, albeit an older and sicklier version. He was paunchy now, and his clothes were dirty.

  “It’s him,” I repeated, my heart racing in my chest. “It really is him. I can’t believe it.”

  Gil squinted, a smile playing on his lips. “Well butter my butt, and call me a biscuit. It’s Carlton Tubbs, in the flesh.”

  I whistled low. “Old flesh. Jeez, Gil. He looks like shit—dog shit, actually.”

  “Horse shit. How old is this guy? Sixty-four?”

  Though Tubbs didn’t actually look sixty-four, the years had etched deep lines into his face. And though the picture wasn’t crystal clear, it was clear enough to make out details. His hair was too long, disheveled, a bit greasy. The years had balded a patch above his brow, while the remnants had wreathed both ears like Homer Simpson.

  “Look at that gut,” said Gil, “And the cauliflower nose, the veins along the temples.”

  “And the bags beneath both eyes,” I added.

  “Think he’s got mold spores growing in his lungs?”

  I shrugged. “Only if we’re lucky. I don’t know much about mold spores, Gil, but I know a beer gut when I see one.”

  Gil pulled up a chair. “So I guess that does it then. Case closed. It’s always been Carlton Tubbs.”

  “You say that like you’re surprised,” I said, “Was there ever a time you really doubted it?” I watched his face as I asked the question, while quietly posing myself the same one. I’d wanted it to be Tubbs. I’d hoped it would be. But I guess, before now, I hadn’t truly believed it. “Yeah,” he answered slowly. “I’ve always had my doubts.”

  “Even with the skinnings?”

  “Yup. Even with the skinnings.” He shook his head. “It was just too easy.”

  “Too easy? How can you say that? You say that like this is suddenly over. We may have captured Tubbs on camera, but we still have to find the sonofabitch, which is a task that is proving to be much harder than it looks.”

  His smile slowly bled to a frown. “The media’s gonna have a field day with this. These are the kinds of cases that make us look bad. This guy was locked in a cell for ten years, but we let him out prematurely. We could have saved eighteen women’s lives. We’re going to get sued something fierce over this.”

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t agree more. But in our business, this happened every day. I remember a time when I was still optimistic, when I believed in rehabilitation and reform. No more. I was older, wiser, probably a cynic. I just didn’t believe a tiger could really change his stripes. Judging from the things I’d seen—which were numerous—I really didn’t think it was possible. I had no point of reference. I’d never seen it happen in real life.

  I stared at the image on the screen and pursed my lips. Now that our Cowpen killer had a face, we needed to find his location. Fast. Grabbing a notepad and pen, I began to log every detail I could see. I made a list of the clothes Tubbs was wearing, from the color of his shirt to the fade of his jeans. He wore no jewelry, no watch, no rings. Most of his skin was covered with clothing, but the parts I could see weren’t marked. I saw no scars, tattoos, wounds, or burns. Carlton Tubbs was an average man—an average man with an unusual hobby. I was staring at a savage filthy beast.

  Looking past Tubbs, I peered into the parking lot. A Toyota Camry was parked nearest the door, and a white BMW drove smoothly through the frame, but I couldn’t make out either license plate number. I looked at the time: 7:37AM. My field of vision was frustratingly small. I could hear Gil behind me, making all the appropriate calls. His voice registered faint, the words muffled. But from his tone and cadence, I assumed it was Captain Wahl.

  I drowned him out and focused on the footage.

  Every detail was critically important. I could see the corner of a silver SUV, and a red jeep beside it with the T-tops down. Neither license plate was visible. Fuck. Shifting my attention back to Tubbs, I let the recording play out, and then backed up the footage. I really didn’t know what I expected to see, but Tubbs wasn’t offering any clues. I stared as his posture and bearing, at his gait. It was hard to believe he was responsible for this. His shoulders were hunched. He lacked confidence and poise. His arms barely moved when he walked. Not that a killer would be poised, so to speak, but to do the things this killer had done, a certain level of self-possession was expected. But the man in the camera appeared meek. The cuffs of his sleeves fell half past his hands, the hands that had chopped off feet and flayed skin. I couldn’t suppress a shiver.

  “We’re back to Pain-Free,” Gil was saying to the captain. “And after that, to Sundown Fitness. We’ll find what connects these women, Captain. And when we do, we’ll likely find Tubbs.”

  I backed up the video and watched it again. There went the BMW, 7:37 AM. There was the silver SUV, and the jeep with the T-tops down, and there went Tubbs waddling past. What attracted him to the women he had taken? A high school senior? A coffee barista? A dental hygienist, and a college student? What did these women have in common?

  I froze.

  Carlton Tubbs passed through the frame, followed closely by the BMW, which was a great white shark gliding past his body. The sun was shining through the coffee shop windows, and I scribbled the date on my notepad. The day this recording was taken had been beautiful. The sun had been bright, the colors dazzling, the sky a bright shade of blue. The flowers were a brilliant array of gemstones beside the entrance. There were red pansies, pink crocuses, and lemon-yellow daffodils. There were silver daisies with bright purple centers—

  Palms on the table, I pushed myself to my feet, my chair sent spinning across the floor. Gil flinched.

  “What?” he asked, moving closer to my computer.

  “The flowers,” I murmured. “We have to go back.” I pushed my hand into the pocket of my parka, where my fingers grazed the edge of a petal. I recalled our meeting with Dr. Waite in California. Gardening, she had said. C
arlton wanted to be a gardener. He liked the idea of creating life, instead of destroying it.

  Connections are usually the simplest of things. The tiniest clue, Ness, will pull it all together.

  My sister’s words rang true.

  I pulled the delicate flower from my pocket, while Linda’s voice whispered quietly in my ear. “The nursery,” I murmured. “We have to go back. The connection we’ve been looking for is there.”

  I pressed the flower to my palm and splayed the petals. It was dead now, crushed, but not dried out. The colors were muted, but still very much the same. I remembered thinking how rare it was; I’d never seen one like it before.

  “Look.” I held the flower up to the screen. “Carlton is connected to the nursery.”

  “Okay.” I could sense that Gil was hardly impressed.

  “I pulled this flower from one of the gardens at the high school.”

  “Ness. Where’s this going? I hardly think—”

  “No, please, hear me out.” I pulled up an image of Pain-Free Dentistry then one of Sundown Fitness, and pointed. “Look. This is the connection. Right here. Remember what Dr. Waite said about gardening?” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Jacob’s number. When he answered on the second ring, I put his voice on speaker. “Landscaping,” I told him, my eyes fixed on Gil. “Do we have the name of the landscaping company who handles the Pain-Free account?”

  A sound like the shuffling of papers filled the silence. “Nope. Not a thing. But I can find out soon enough. What’s going on, guys? What have you got?”