Echoes of Terror

by Maris Soule

  Don’t give me away, Sarah, Misty prayed, listening to the padding of Sarah’s bare feet, along with the muffled sound of his sneakers.

  Aim high, she reminded herself, hoping it would be the heaviest part of the lamp that hit his head.

  Heart in her throat, she waited, seconds turning into eternities.

  Step by step, they came.

  She couldn’t breathe, the lamp growing heavier, her arms going numb as she held it above her head, ready to strike.

  As Misty had expected, Sarah came through the doorway first, the girl’s eyes focused on the beds; dark, water-soaked locks of hair hanging down below her shoulders. Misty saw a resigned look on Sarah’s face, an acceptance of her fate. The girl moved toward her bed like a zombie, her captor directly behind her.

  Sarah didn’t look to the side; didn’t see Misty at all; just kept walking.

  The moment The Beekeeper came through the doorway, Misty slammed the lamp down on his head. She heard a thud and felt a vibration travel through her hands to her arms, and down through her body.

  He turned his head slightly toward her, a look of amazement on his face, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he folded before her eyes, his mouth opening, and his knees buckling. She saw his arms stretch forward as he reached for the floor.

  Only then did Misty move. “Run!” she screamed at Sarah. “Follow me.”

  Misty ran for the front door, released the dead bolt, and opened the door before looking back. Sarah was still by the bedroom door, struggling to move forward. For a moment, Misty considered going back to help the girl; then she saw The Beekeeper’s arm appear through the doorway, saw the strip of sheeting he still held in his hand. Misty knew then that he had Sarah, and that she couldn’t go back, not without help.

  A cold, misty rain hit her the moment she stepped outside of the house, reminding her that she didn’t have any clothes on. For a second, Misty paused, looking around. A large section of cement in front of the door gave way to a narrow dirt path flanked on each side with patches of shaggy grass that needed cutting. Beyond the path was a dirt driveway that led in two directions, both disappearing into thickly wooded areas.

  Which way to go? She wasn’t sure. All she knew was she had to get away from the house, away from him.

  In the distance she heard the sound of a car. It seemed to be coming from her right. Choosing that direction, she ran. And she yelled. At the top of her voice, she screamed, “Help!” Over and over she yelled, hoping someone would hear her.

  Gravel tore at the bottoms of her feet, the cloth still tied around her right wrist flapping behind her as she ran. Fine droplets of rain began sliding off her hair and down her face, but she didn’t care. She was free. She was going to be rescued.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Katherine and Vince examined the King Air’s tires. Someone had stabbed at each multiple times. They checked at the terminal, but the Wings of Alaska employee on duty had seen nothing. “One of the problems of a public owned airport with no official attendant on duty twenty-four-seven,” Katherine said. “I’ll call it in, and we’ll write up an official report.”

  Not that she considered slashed tires a high priority, not with two teenagers in the clutches of a pervert. But she did wonder why Vince’s plane had been targeted. Why no other planes had suffered any damage.

  “Betsy,” she said when her call in was answered by the morning dispatcher. “What’s the status on the missing girls?”

  “Nothing so far,” Betsy responded. “Gordon’s not in. You want to talk to Jim?”

  She had little choice but to say yes.

  “Heard you were off the case,” Jim Preto said the moment he answered.

  “Officially, yes.” Katherine left it at that. “Anything new on Bell or the girls?”

  “Not much. A couple of landlords we contacted remembered someone who might have been Charles Bell. Said about a month ago a guy who fit Bell’s description asked about places to rent. Seems he never followed up.”

  “Meaning we’re no further ahead than we were yesterday.” She thanked him anyway, and then relayed the information about Nanini’s slashed tires before she disconnected.

  As they walked back to Nanini’s plane, he asked, “Is something special happening at five o’clock?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Any reason why Bell has picked that time?”

  Katherine started to shake her head, then stopped. Five o’clock. The exact time Charles had wanted his note delivered to her. The exact time the police had raided his house and freed her, seventeen years ago.

  At five o’clock she was no longer under his control . . . now he wanted her back. A shiver ran down her spine, and she forced herself to forget what he’d done to her when he did have her under his control. She wouldn’t think about what he might do to her if he once again held her captive. “What did Misty’s father say?” she asked, trying to keep her mind on the present. “Can he get his hands on that much money in such a short time?”

  “My partner asked the same question. Truth is, I don’t know.”

  “I heard you tell your partner Morgan might not pay.”

  Nanini nodded. “That’s what he said last night, when Crystal and I talked to him.”

  “I’ve sometimes wondered what my parents would have done if he hadn’t killed them.” Having admitted her doubts, she wished she hadn’t and looked away.

  “It must have been terrible, knowing they were dead and couldn’t come to your rescue.”

  Katherine looked back at him. Would he understand? “There were times, early in my captivity, when I tried to convince myself that my parents weren’t dead and that they would find me and rescue me.”

  “But, nobody came.”

  The way he said it, she knew he did understand. “Not for a long, long time. Not until I’d given up.” And given in.

  Katherine flinched when Vince’s arm went around her shoulders. “Don’t,” she said and pulled away, adrenaline shooting through her body.

  “Sorry.” He raised his hands in supplication. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t scare me,” she lied, her heart beating like a jackhammer. “You took me by surprise. That’s all.”

  “This is bringing it all back, isn’t it?”

  She forced herself to exhale slowly. Way too much, she thought.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Susan Lange was on her radio-phone talking to an Alaska state trooper when Martin Liskovic arrived with the crime-scene tape she’d asked him to get out of her vehicle. Susan motioned for him to cordon off a wide area around the body. While she continued feeding what she knew about the murder to the trooper on the line, Susan watched Martin string the yellow tape from one tree to another. As soon as she’d answered all of the trooper’s questions, she signed off. Her next call would be to the Skagway police department.

  She knew the chief was still in the hospital, so she asked to talk to Sergeant Gordon Landros.

  “He’s not in,” the receptionist/dispatcher answered.

  “Then Katherine,” Susan said. “Officer Ward.”

  “She’s not in either,” the woman answered.

  “Then let me talk to whomever is in charge.”

  It was Jim Petro who finally took her call. “We found your missing officer,” Susan said after identifying herself. “I’m no medical examiner, but I’d say he’s been dead for a day or two.”

  There was a moment of silence before Petro keyed a response. “I’ll let Sergeant Landros know. Damn.”

  “Yeah.” Damn pretty much summed it up.

  “Cause of death?”

  “Sanguination,” she said, remembering the path of blood-soaked earth from the trail to the spot where Phil Carpenter’s body had been covered with leaves and brush. “Looks like the killer was behind him, caught him off guard, and cut his throat before he had a chance to react.”

  “Damn,” Preto repeated, a slight catch in his voice indicating a stronger e
motional response.

  “We’re cordoning off the area,” Susan said, to fill him in. “And, I’ve called in the state troopers. They’re sending someone.”

  “Good. Very good.”

  “I had to move some of the leaves covering his face,” she said, certain the police wouldn’t be happy with that. “I needed to for a positive identification.”

  “Just a minute,” was the officer’s response.

  She could hear him repeating what she’d said to someone else. Finally he came back to her. “I guess we already have an assistant district attorney here for that murder on the Klondike Highway. Our dispatcher said the two cases are probably related, and we should be sure the evidence at your site is processed right. Anyway, until he or the troopers arrive, don’t go near the body. Don’t touch Phil’s clothing, or—”

  She cut him off. “There is no clothing. Your officer is naked. He’s lying on his stomach, just off the trail—which is barely a trail—and is covered with branches and leaves. There’s no sign of clothing anywhere.”

  “No clothes?” Officer Preto sounded stunned. “Oh, my God. Was he . . . that is, do you think he was, ah . . . molested in any way?”

  “Molested?” The possibility surprised Susan, and she glanced past the spot where Martin was securing the crime-scene tape to another tree. She could see the soles of Phil Carpenter’s feet and the faint outline of his legs.

  When she’d knelt beside him, it was his upper torso she’d focused on. She’d noted the pale, grayish hue of his skin, the vacant, unseeing look in his eye, and the blood, already dried, that rimmed the cut on his neck and trailed to the ground. The manner of death had been quite clear, and she hadn’t bothered to check other parts of his body. A medical examiner, during an autopsy, would be able to tell if there were other injuries or if Phil Carpenter had been sodomized.

  “Not that I could tell,” she said.

  “I sure hope not, but, from what everyone’s saying, I wouldn’t put it past the bastard.”

  “You know who did this?”

  “We think so. So, don’t do anything to mess up the evidence.”

  Considering how young the officer sounded, Susan bet she knew more about preserving evidence than he did. “Just be thankful the bears didn’t find him.” There wouldn’t have been much left of Phil Carpenter if a bear had come across his corpse.

  “Amen,” she heard the officer say before another voice in the background asked him a question. He relayed it to her. “What about Phil’s Tahoe? Have you secured it?”

  “There is no vehicle,” she said. “And, if there were any tire tracks, I probably messed them up when I pulled in here. This trail is way off the beaten path. If Katherine hadn’t suggested we look here, we wouldn’t have found him.”

  “Katherine?” Officer Preto said. “Katherine told you to look there?”

  “She called me this morning. Said her grandfather mentioned the lake up the mountainside, and she remembered Phil was still trying to catch trout out of it. She pretty much directed me straight to Phil.”

  “Katherine,” he repeated, and then cleared his throat. “Ranger Lange, you’d better give me the coordinates of where you are.”

  As she’d already done with the state troopers, Susan gave Preto the global positioning coordinates. That conversation over, she helped Martin finish with the crime-scene tape. As soon as it was up, she told him to go back in her SUV and get in, out of the rain. She’d be down in a minute.

  Susan watched Martin disappear down the trail, then she turned back to look at the body sprawled out on the ground. One thing she would never understand was man’s inhumanity to man. She’d been raised a Methodist, had listened to various ministers preach about goodness and kindness, had even worn a WWJD bracelet when she was a teenager. What would Jesus do? He’d probably weep, she thought. He’d taught the golden rule: Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you. Well, mankind certainly wasn’t following that rule.

  Shaking her head, Susan Lange turned and walked back to her SUV.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  9:30 A.M., Friday

  The parking lot next to the police station was almost full when Katherine pulled in. She recognized some of the vehicles. The three SUVs with red lights on their roofs belonged to members of Skagway’s volunteer fire department. A rusted and dented four-wheel-drive Ford truck was owned by Joe Ketterman, a retired park ranger, and the ten-year-old, faded-gold Lexus GX was the pride and joy of Manny Schwartz, a seventy-year-old, retired, San Francisco police officer who spent his summers in Skagway. The black Tahoe with Alaska state government plates had probably arrived from Juneau on the early ferry.

  The troops had arrived.

  Katherine used the side entrance to the station, and Vince followed her in. As they walked down the short hallway to the booking area, Katherine could hear Gordon’s voice. He was up in the front office area, speaking to the owners of the vehicles parked in the lot. Step by step he was relaying what they had learned in the last eighteen hours, giving details about the kidnapped girls and Charles Bell, the “alleged” kidnapper. “The cruise lines have been alerted,” he said, “as well as all other means of transportation out of this area. Unless this guy has found a way to walk on water or cross into Canada without going through customs, he’s here.”

  “You’ve checked lodgings and RV parks?” asked a gravelly male voice that Katherine recognized as belonging to Manny.

  “Checked and double checked,” Gordon answered. “Now we need the rentals checked.”

  “But no heroics,” another male voice stated. “This has got to be done by the book. We don’t want this pervert getting off on a technicality.”

  Katherine didn’t recognize the voice, but she’d bet it was the DA or assistant DA from Juneau. It was up to him to make sure, once they caught Charles, all evidence was admissible in court and no fancy defense lawyer could get him off on a technicality.

  “And, be careful,” Gordon added, tension lacing his voice. “This bastard has killed two people so far, one of them our own. We don’t want him hurting these girls, and we don’t want any of you getting hurt.”

  One of our own. Katherine sucked in a breath, the slice of toast she’d had for breakfast turning into a lump in her stomach. She wanted to go up front and ask Gordon where they’d found Phil, how he’d been killed, and how long he’d been dead, but she didn’t want to start crying in front of the others. The creak of a chair brought her attention to her left. In the back office, Jim Preto sat at the break table nursing a cup of coffee and a long face. Although the new baby in Jim’s home had been seriously cutting into his sleep time, if she wasn’t mistaken, the red rimming his pale-blue eyes was from tears, not a lack of shuteye.

  Jim was lanky as a lodgepole pine, but scrappy as a badger, and this was his second year as a seasonal officer. He was the jokester, always ready with a funny story, always laughing. The look on his face now was anything but amused. He frowned as Katherine and Vince approached, actually glaring at her. “Phil’s dead,” he said, a spear of accusation in his voice. “Park ranger Susan Lange called it in. She found his body.”

  “I just heard,” Katherine said.

  “His throat was cut,” Jim said, looking as if he blamed her.

  Katherine closed her eyes and fought back the memories of her parents’ and brother’s bodies, their throats cut and their open eyes staring out at nothing. She remembered the blood. A pool of it under her brother’s head. A stream of it flowing down the front of her mother’s nightgown. Dark red in the dim lighting. Metallic smelling.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned and felt her knees buckle.

  She would have crumpled to the floor if Vince hadn’t grabbed her. His hands locked around her forearms, strong yet gentle, holding her erect and pulling her back to reality. Through her uniform, she could feel the warmth of his fingers, and realized she was leaning against his body.

  Don’t fall apart, she thought. Not in front of these two men.

/>   Reassured that her legs would hold her, she opened her eyes, and took in a deep breath. A step forward released her from Vince’s almost-embrace. Jim was watching, still frowning.

  “Ranger Lange said Phil was exactly where you said he would be.”

  He’d emphasized “exactly,” making Katherine wonder if he believed she was involved in Phil’s death. She couldn’t have people thinking that. “I told her where I thought he might be. That’s all.”

  “Gordon says you know the scumbag who’s doing this.”

  Jim’s look was accusing. The same look she’d endured long ago. As if she’d wanted her family killed, wanted to be held captive . . . wanted Phil dead.

  “Fuck you,” she said and turned to walk away, only to bump into Vince. Unable to contain her anger, she shoved at the wall of his chest. She was not going to stand around and defend herself to an officer who didn’t know diddly squat about anything.

  “Katherine,” Vince said, not moving.

  She looked down at the floor, not wanting him to see the tears welling in her eyes.

  Another voice repeated her name. “Katherine.”

  She looked up and around Vince. Gordon stood a few feet ahead of her.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Phil’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  “Jim thinks I had something to do with Phil’s death.”

  Gordon frowned, looking beyond Vince and Katherine and into the office area. She also looked back. Jim had risen to his feet and now stood beside the table.

  “You told him I knew Charles,” she said, knowing it was inevitable, yet feeling betrayed.

  “I just—” Jim started, but a wave of Gordon’s hand silenced the officer.

  “You—” Gordon demanded and pointed at Vince. “Come with me. The girl’s father has arrived. And you—” He pointed at Jim. “Get the list Betsy has ready so these men can get started searching house by house. And you—” His finger pointed at Katherine. “Get on that phone and get us a current picture of Charles Bell. Now!”