Echoes of Terror

by Maris Soule

  The trail ended at a small, natural clearing near the mountain’s base, and Susan turned off the SUV’s engine. This was the spot. She remembered the fallen lodgepole pine she’d parked beside and the nearby European mountain ash bush. Her memory and Katherine’s grandfather’s directions had been spot on. “Here is where we get out,” she told the other two.

  “Where’s the lake?” Amy asked, looking around.

  Susan pointed up the mountainside.

  “Up there?” Martin tilted his head back, shielding his eyes from the misting rain.

  Susan smiled. Up there wasn’t a gradual slope. The mountainside went straight up, and, from what Katherine had said, even her grandfather, in his prime, considered it a difficult hike.

  “I didn’t think we’d be rock climbing,” Martin grumbled.

  “There should be a trail at the edge of this clearing.” Susan pointed toward the rim of the clearing where stands of devils club and alder melded into hemlocks and Sitka spruce. “We’ll split up here. Look for a pair of posts. Or any kind of marker; any sign that someone went into the woods.”

  Susan watched Amy and Martin walk to the edge of the clearing. She wasn’t sure if Martin thought she couldn’t see when he grabbed Amy’s hand, or if he didn’t care. Amy glanced over at Susan, indicating her awareness, then said something to Martin and pulled her hand free. As soon as the two reached the wooded area, they did as instructed and started walking in opposite directions. Susan took a moment to call in her location, and then she began searching her portion of the clearing.

  Amy was the one who found the posts. “Over here,” she yelled, and Susan and Martin quickly joined her.

  Just as Katherine’s grandfather had said, two posts marked the start of a trail, albeit a faint one. Crushed undergrowth gave proof that the path had been used recently. Susan told her two volunteers to get anything they thought they might need out of the SUV; that they might not be back for some time.

  She was wrong, however. They’d barely traveled a quarter of a mile along the trail, Susan leading the way, followed by Martin and Amy, when Susan noticed a dark stain on the ground ahead . . . and a mass of flies. Black flies were common in the summer, but these were blow flies, and the only time Susan had seen them gathered like this was when there was something dead in the area.

  She stopped where she was. A line of darkened soil and leaves led from the main path to denser underbrush along the side.

  “What?” Martin asked, nearly running into her.

  “I hear something,” Amy said, coming up behind them.

  Susan wondered if she would ever forget that buzzing sound, or the sight of a bare foot, just barely visible through the tangle of underbrush. She took in a deep breath, forcing her rapidly beating heart to slow, and swore.

  Martin evidently saw it at the same time. “It’s a bare foot,” he said.

  “A bear?” Amy said behind him, her voice rising and taking on a note of panic.

  “No,” Martin corrected. “A foot . . . without any shoes or socks. It looks like a man’s foot.”

  Susan only marginally listened to Martin’s explanation. In her own mind, she processed what she had to do next. “You two stay here,” she ordered, a wave of her hand marking the spot. Subconsciously she may have wanted to shield them from what was ahead, but her primary intention was to keep the area as pristine as possible. Although the foot might belong to someone catching forty winks, the blow flies told her otherwise.

  Carefully, she inched her way closer to the foot. The steady, drizzling rain had dampened down the smell, but, as she neared the body, she caught the distinct coppery odor of blood and death. Covered with pine boughs, dried needles, and branches from shrubs, the body was lying face down, and Susan couldn’t get a clear view, but she could tell it was a man. Not only was his foot bare, so was the rest of him.

  She tried not to step on anything that might be considered evidence, but, with the man’s face turned away from her, she couldn’t be one hundred percent sure it was Phil Carpenter. Although she knew she shouldn’t touch anything, she had to know. One by one, she removed the leaves covering his face.

  It was Phil.

  She didn’t bother feeling for a pulse. The gash on the side of his neck told her there was no hope. Something sharp, probably a knife, had severed the carotid artery. Phil would have died within seconds. He may never have known exactly what happened.

  A maggot poked its head up from the edge of the slash, and Susan gulped back the nausea that threatened to erupt from her stomach. She didn’t bother trying to stem the tears. This was a colleague, someone she knew. They had a history of living in the area year-round, enduring the long winters, and the annual onslaught of tourists. Police officers didn’t get murdered in Skagway. They either stayed until they retired, or they moved on to better paying, more stimulating positions in other cities and other police departments.

  She took a step back and pulled out her radio. “You two,” she said, looking at Amy and Martin, “go back to the clearing. I’m going to call this in. There’s crime scene tape in the back of my SUV. One of you bring it to me. The other stay by the vehicle and, when the police arrive, bring them up here.”

  “Is he dead?” Amy asked, her voice shaky.

  “He’s dead,” Susan said, hating the finality of those words.

  “Is it the fisherman?” Martin asked, his voice only marginally stronger than Amy’s.

  “Yes,” she said and pressed the button to transmit.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  A fine, misty drizzle blurred Vince’s view of his plane, the inside of the Tahoe’s windshield rapidly fogging up as the warmth of their breaths created a contrast to the chilly outside air. Katherine had asked him to call his office before he went to his plane and see if his partner had discovered the phone number for the fax. Vince figured Bob should have had time to gather that information. What he didn’t mention was how Bob would gather it. Katherine might be off Misty’s case, but she was still a police officer and letting her know some of the ways they operated wasn’t a good idea.

  His satellite phone still showed a charge, and Vince tapped the icon for his office number. Edith, their sixty-year-old secretary, answered and put him through to Bob. The first thing Vince asked was, “Have you heard anything more from the kidnapper?”

  Bob’s response was somber. “We got another fax. This one came through after I left last night. He’s given us a routing number . . . and a time limit.”

  “How long do we have?”

  “Until five o’clock this evening. Of course, I don’t know if that’s five o’clock Skagway time or Seattle time.”

  “Skagway,” Vince said, and glanced at his watch. They had just a little more than eight hours to find the pervert.

  “He wrote the time in big letters. I don’t like the feel of this.”

  “Neither do I.” Vince glanced over at Katherine. He still had a feeling she wasn’t telling him everything, but he would work with what he did know. “You said ‘wrote.’ Is he hand writing these faxes or sending them through a computer?”

  “Unless he’s scanning what he’s written and then transmitting it through a computer, I’d say he’s using a fax machine. Why?”

  “Just thinking of ways we could trace these faxes.”

  “I’m already on that,” Bob assured him. “I’ve got the telephone company tracing where they’re coming from, and I’m looking into where the money is to be sent. We’ll want to know both.”

  “I talked to Tom last night,” Vince said. “He doesn’t want his money sent anywhere, not unless it’s an absolute necessity.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” Bob sounded astonished. “This is his daughter we’re talking about. The Little Princess.”

  “Tom feels, even if he pays the ransom, there’s no guarantee Bell will let Misty go,” Vince said.

  “Have you talked to Crystal? What does she say about all this?”

  “She asked him what he valued
most, his bank account or his daughter? I actually liked her at that moment.”

  “I don’t know why you have such a negative opinion of her.”

  “She’s a user.”

  “She’s beautiful . . . and smart.”

  “Maybe not so smart, and how much of her beauty is the result of cosmetic surgery?” Again Vince looked at Katherine. “I prefer natural beauty.”

  She frowned, and Vince had a feeling compliments were not the way to her heart. Not that he was interested in getting to her heart, of course. His physical responses to her were simply a result of too little sleep, nothing more. Nothing stronger.

  “Tom liked what he saw,” Bob reminded Vince, bringing him back to the subject of Crystal.

  “As you said, the lady’s smart. She saw how vulnerable Tom was after his wife died, and she played her cards just right. But I think the honeymoon’s over.”

  “Is Tom there yet?” Bob asked.

  Using his free hand, Vince wiped the moisture from the inside of the vehicle’s windshield and stared across the asphalt. “I don’t see any of his planes, and I’m sure he’d call me once he arrived.”

  “Look, you know Tom a hell of a lot better than I do,” Bob said. “Let’s say we’re right down to the deadline. It’s almost five o’clock, and you haven’t found Misty. How long would it take Tom to come up with that much money?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jeez, Vince,” Bob grumbled. “We can’t wait until the last minute to do this. We need to have everything in place . . . You know, just in case you don’t find this guy by the deadline.”

  “You find out where that fax came from, and I’ll find Misty,” Vince said.

  “Vince the invincible.” Bob’s tone didn’t sound flattering. “So, how did you miss that chat room Misty was in?”

  Vince knew this wasn’t the time for excuses, but he felt the need to explain. “You were there the day Misty whined to Tom that we were all treating her like a baby and that he didn’t trust her.”

  “Yeah, I remember the conversation, but I guess I expected you to keep monitoring her on-line activities.”

  “I told her I wouldn’t.” And he didn’t go back on a promise.

  “And you call Crystal a user.” Bob scoffed. “Vince, old buddy, your Little Princess sure duped you.”

  He hated to admit it, but Bob was right.

  “Guess she duped me, too,” Bob said. “But, let’s be honest. Tom hired us to protect his company. Babysitting a teenager was not part of our contract.”

  “True.” Not that hearing that alleviated Vince’s feelings of guilt. And, if he didn’t find Misty, they probably wouldn’t have a contract.

  His gaze drifted back to his plane. No contract, no private plane. No . . .

  Once again Vince rubbed his hand across the Tahoe’s windshield. “Shit,” he said, and wondered why he hadn’t noticed it in the first place.

  “What?” Bob asked through the phone.

  “What?” Katherine asked, clearing a spot on the windshield in front of her.

  “Someone slit my tires.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  9:00 A.M., Friday

  The moment Misty heard the doorknob turn and saw the bedroom door open, her heart started beating faster. She’d barely slept and wasn’t sure what time it might be, or when she last ate, but the gnawing sensation now invading her stomach had nothing to do with hunger.

  “Good morning, girls,” The Beekeeper said, at least giving her some sense of time.

  “Please don’t,” Sarah gasped as he neared her bed.

  “Relax, sweetie. I’m here to take care of your needs, not mine.”

  Once again he’d left the door open, enough light filtering into the room to allow Misty a better view of what was going on. She watched him fold the blankets back from Sarah’s naked body, and heard the girl suck in a breath. She wanted to tell him to leave Sarah alone, but she was afraid if she said anything, he’d climb on top of Sarah again . . . Or worse, turn away from Sarah and rape her.

  “I imagine you’re sore. Need to use the bathroom. Probably feel dirty.”

  Sarah didn’t say anything, the only sound coming from her a small whimper.

  “We don’t want you all smelly when you get rescued.” He moved to the end of the bed, and Misty could tell he was untying the bindings from around Sarah’s ankles. She also knew when he looked at her. “They will come to rescue you, won’t they?”

  “I . . . I hope so,” Misty said, not as sure as she’d been the day before.

  “Of course they will.” He moved to the other end of the bed, releasing the strips of sheeting from around the bars of the headboard, just as he had done whenever he allowed them to get up. “Your father will pay the money, and I’ll get what I want.”

  “What do you want?” Misty asked, afraid his answer might involve her.

  “A reunion. Come on, sweetheart,” he said, helping Sarah stand. “Time for a little exercise. We don’t want you getting bed sores and too weak to walk.”

  “Please let me go,” Sarah whimpered. “My mother needs me. My brother and sister.”

  “Shh,” he soothed. “Soon enough.”

  Again, Misty could tell he was looking at her. “Don’t go away,” he said, and pushed Sarah toward the doorway. “You’re next.”

  He didn’t close the door behind them, and she could hear their progress down the hallway, could hear the flush of the toilet a few minutes later, then the sound of running water. She wondered if he took the bindings off Sarah’s wrists before he put her in the shower. Did he get in with her? Did he do it to her while they were under the water?

  The image of them standing under a stream of warm water, him shoving himself into Sarah, made Misty’s stomach churn even more. She fought anew against the bindings around her wrists and ankles. She’d pulled and twisted so many times, her wrists throbbed from the effort, and her skin was raw.

  Would someone rescue her?

  She pulled both arms as far down as she could, her shoulder muscles aching not only from the strain but from the battering they’d received when she did try to escape. As before, the cloth wrapped around her wrists gave a little, but not enough for her to slip her hand out, not with the material double wrapped around each wrist.

  Was her father still in China or was he on his way here?

  She’d thought maybe her phone call to him from the ship, her not-so-veiled threat that she might run away, would have caused some sort of reaction. She’d been upset when she thought it was Vince following them on the highway out of Skagway, but at least his presence would have shown her father did care what she did . . . that he did love her.

  But, there’d been no Vince; no running off with Brian.

  Brian.

  Misty closed her eyes, still remembering the sight of him collapsing next to his Blazer.

  She never should have suggested the trip across Canada. She never should have agreed to go on a cruise to Alaska. Everything she tried to do turned out badly. If only she hadn’t been such a difficult baby, her mother wouldn’t have had so much stress, wouldn’t have gotten cancer. If her mother were still alive, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be at the mercy of this monster.

  Once again, Misty pulled at the restraints on her arms . . . then stopped. Had she heard something tear? Had her right arm moved a little farther than before?

  Misty pulled again. Harder this time. Pulled. Jerked. Pulled. Jerked again.

  And then she stopped.

  She’d heard a tearing sound, had felt a change in the tension around her right wrist.

  With renewed vigor, she tugged, twisted, pulled, and jerked. Each movement brought pain to her wrists but also increased the tearing sound and eased the tension on her right arm.

  The cloth finally gave with a snap, her right elbow hitting the mattress, a strip of sheeting brushing against her shoulder as her hand moved forward. Her right arm was free.

  Quic
kly, Misty rolled to her side and loosened the binding around her left wrist.

  All of her pulling had tightened the knot into a small lump, so she twisted her body until she could suck on the cloth. If she could dampen the material enough, it might give. She broke a fingernail, ignored it, and used the ragged edge to work at the knot.

  In the background she heard the water stop running and knew her time was limited. Would he towel Sarah off or bring her back wet? She had to move fast.

  Using her teeth, she pried the knot open, unwrapped the cloth, and sat up. The bindings around her ankles weren’t as tight, and she’d loosened both by the time she heard his voice.

  “Come on; stop shivering,” he said. “You can’t be that cold.”

  “Please, I don’t want to go back in there,” Sarah whimpered. “I don’t want you to do it to me again.”

  “I’m not going to do it; not now,” he said gently. “We have your friend to take care of first.”

  Misty pushed the wool blankets back and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She felt weaker than the last time she’d stood, and her chest ached from being crushed against the floor, but she knew she had to ignore the pain. Without hesitation, she grabbed the lamp on the small table between the two beds. She’d already come to the conclusion that it was the only object in the room that she could use as a weapon. A jerk on the cord freed it from the wall, and, lamp in hand, Misty hurried over to the wall next to the doorway.

  In her mind, she rehearsed her moves, just as Vince had taught her. When attacked, if you know what you’re going to do, then you don’t have to think about it, he’d told her. You just do it.

  In this case, she was going to be the attacker, but she was sure the same rule applied. The Beekeeper—or whatever his name was—would push Sarah through the doorway first, and then he would follow. Misty knew she had to wait until Sarah was clear of the doorway; only then should she bring the lamp down on his head.