“If you can’t get help,” her mom went on, “do exactly what they tell you to do. Make them be nice to you. Just keep doing whatever they want. And if you get the chance, you run. You run as far as you can and don’t stop. Find a house, a store, a town, someplace with people. Use a phone to call nine one one and tell them what happened.”
That was exactly what she tried to do. The man went away and gave her an opening to escape. There was no phone in sight. Instead, she found the door and undid the lock, but she had to tiptoe because the safety chain was too high. She tried once, twice, three times. It was still too high. She only needed an inch more to reach it. Heavy furniture was all she could see in the room to stand on. There was no time to move it to the door, and besides, it would make too much noise. No, she needed something quiet and used a throw pillow from the couch. If only the latch were lower, she could be out the door and free. Without something to stand on, though, it was impossible. She set the pillow down and stretched with fingers touching the chain. That was when she heard it. Footsteps came into the living room and stopped.
Ricky froze in his tracks, utterly shocked. He had hoped that Mindy wanted to be there with him, alone together. Ultimately, whether she did or not, the outcome would be the same. He was the butcher, and she was the lamb he meant to slaughter. The walls of insecurity, denial, and rage crumbled.
The look on his face spoke volumes. She was in big trouble. Like a scolded child, she ran back into the bedroom, evidence of terror and panic in her quivering wails.
Ricky came into the master suite and found her back on the bed. She had drawn into the pillows at the headboard, one pulled tightly to her chest. Before, he acted kind and gentle. Now, his consensual fantasy over, he made no show of happiness or kindness. The shift in his mood must have been palpable because terror filled Mindy’s cries.
In the middle of the bedroom, Ricky removed each item of his clothing with no show of emotion or decency. From this point forward, the night was only about his personal fulfillment. He let his anger escalate with each passing second until he was stark naked. In slow, purposeful strides, he walked to the bed, toes curled against the cold, wooden floor, and grabbed her ankle. When she struggled, a hand shot out quicker than a striking snake and clamped her throat.
Mindy jerked and squealed at the violation. Ricky’s upper lip twitched in sinister satisfaction before he released her neck and open-hand slapped her across the face. If she won’t cooperate, I’ll beat her into submission.
He ripped at the teddy. Lace burned her soft skin with each vicious tug. When it broke loose, he fell forward and smothered her beneath the full weight of his lank body.
“Do you like red?” he demanded.
She bucked in defiance.
“I said,” he growled and held her wrists above her head firmly to the mattress, “do … you … like … red?”
Again, Mindy bucked. This time, she let loose a shriek, and her face turned cherry.
He didn’t ask again. She was not likely to give him the desired reply. That was how the night was setting up. She tried to escape while he had given her the chance to play along, and now she screamed and fought instead of answering his question. Like always, he would have to take what he wanted.
A grown man and a seven-year-old girl were never intended to be together in intimate ways. Mindy felt the brutality in the mismatched experience, and her wails for mercy caught in her throat as shock filled her eyes. A look of pain flashed through them that she previously never could have imagined possible.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hell hath no fury compared to what Mindy endured. With her heart still beating, her breaths came slow and shallow. The worst part was that she remained alive, suffering beyond help and on the cusp of death. She continued to stare with lifeless eyes into some far-off place, unseen by the living.
Behind his secluded home, Ricky kept a tree stump for chopping firewood. It stood two feet off the ground and three feet in diameter, perfect for long hours of swinging the axe in preparation for winter. He carried Mindy’s naked body to it, her skin puckering in reaction to the cold, night air. Otherwise, she stayed sheltered within her state of shock. I wonder if she’ll feel this.
He hefted an axe, its blade embedded two inches deep into the stump for temporary storage, and eyed her body up and down. It briefly crossed his mind that she might scream, but he dismissed the thought. That was a perk to living in the country, surrounded by forest. If she did cry out, there was no one around to hear. Besides, the trees would mute the sound before it traveled far. The real conundrum he faced was where to begin working on her. Rage from her attempted escape still smoldered inside. She had hurt his feelings, and she was not finished paying.
Piece by piece, he decided.
The axe arced high over his head and followed the same path down. The blade connected with her left arm, just below the elbow. Mindy’s breathing accelerated, but she showed no other signs of pain. Strangely, the blow made almost no sound, not like the loud clack of splitting wood. Her flesh dampened the blows to dull thuds. Ricky found it amusing that, in the night, her blood spilled black. Black like shadows. Black like his heart.
Steadily and rhythmically, he swung and swung and swung, methodically hacking her to pieces.
The last thing Mindy saw was fireflies, thousands and thousands of fireflies in the dark sky above. Suddenly, she felt her body rising, and the lights were all around her. Warm, beautiful lights.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
A heavy mountain drizzle settled onto the green lawn, millions of tiny water beads clinging to each blade of lush grass. As Charlie ambled up the sidewalk, his mood mirrored the weather.
No matter how much he wished it, Caroline’s killer remained on the loose, and a sunny forecast was nowhere in sight. He held his head down, climbed the few steps up the porch, and knocked on the door. This investigation needed a rainbow. His friends needed a rainbow. But to get a pot of gold, one must first see the light.
Sarah came to the door and welcomed him in.
“Hey!” she beamed and stepped to the side. She looked out the open door at the damp day and closed it before the unseasonably cool air came in. “This is a nice Monday morning surprise.”
Charlie stopped on the rug, not bothering to stomp the water off his boots.
Sarah reached for his wet raincoat. “Let me take that for you.”
“No, that’s okay. I can’t stay long. Just out running a few errands and thought I’d stop by.”
“You won’t stay for a cup of tea? I have a pot almost ready.”
“I really can’t, but thanks. It sounds good.” He still didn’t move.
Sounds of cartoons came from the kitchen television. Josie was in there, no doubt, soaking up the summertime pleasures of leisure and late breakfast.
“Maybe next time.” Her face changed from one of a chipper greeting to business. “So if you can’t stay, what’s up?” She knew Charlie did not make a habit of simply stopping by just to say hi. If he weren’t staying, something was up.
“Where’s Isaac?”
A screen door shut in the kitchen and answered his question. They heard a pair of boots stomp on the floor and then come walking into the living room.
“I heard a car pull up and a door slam,” Isaac said. He gestured behind him, back toward the detached garage workshop where he had come from. “Looked out the window and saw it was you.”
The fact that Charlie was an open book to his friends was one of the reasons they loved him. The sorrow in his eyes, despite his best effort to smile, was unmistakable. It was unnatural for a man with such a jolly appearance to be so gloomy.
“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” Isaac stood next to Sarah. “He’s done it again, hasn’t he?”
“That’s the way it looks.” He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Of course, there’s no way to know for sure yet, but a little girl just up and disappeared.”
Isaac looked from Charlie to Sara
h and then back. No one spoke. No one knew what to say, but Charlie knew the questions they both wanted answers to.
“Woodland Park, Colorado,” he confirmed. “Mindy Kessler. Seven years old. Good family. Safe part of town. So safe, in fact, it’s like Mayberry, if you ask me.” He shook his head again and let out a long, frustrated sigh. His meaty hand clasped the back of his neck and rubbed. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not him, but the similarities are undeniable.”
“The profile, you mean?” Sarah looked for confirmation. “The profile of the victims you told us about?”
He nodded.
“Just because it’s been him the last two times,” Isaac started, “doesn’t necessarily mean it’s him this time, right? Don’t abductions, kidnappings, and missing children take place all the time?”
“Sure. More than any parent cares to know actually. I’d say, total, close to eight hundred thousand in the United States alone.”
“Eight hundred thousand?” Sarah sounded exasperated. “You’re saying eight hundred thousand kids go missing every year?”
“Something like that, yeah. I don’t remember the exact number, but it’s in the ballpark.”
“That is absolutely insane, Charlie. Do you know how many a day that is?”
“The vast majority of those are noncustodial kidnappings,” he clarified. “A parent without custody breaks the rules and picks up the kid from school without informing the other parent. Or occasionally, they never bring the child home after a visitation. Stuff like that.” He kicked the toe of his boot on the rug. “Then you have family abductions. A grandparent takes the minor from the parents because he or she doesn’t agree with how the child is being raised. An aunt, uncle, or cousin takes a kid to get even. You wouldn’t believe what families will do when they get pissed at each other.”
“And the rest?” Isaac asked.
“A small portion of kids are taken by people they don’t know. Say, around sixty thousand a year. Again, this is ballpark, but it’s real close. This is when somebody takes a child, does what he wants, decides it’s a bad idea, and turns him or her loose. They’re found in a grocery store parking lot or abandoned on the side of a road. Sometimes they’re okay.” He shrugged his rounded shoulders. “Sometimes not.”
He took a second and changed the beat. “Now our guy is different. He’s a member of a much more elite club. Out of all the United States, an estimated one hundred kids, maybe a few more, are taken by what’s called stereotypical kidnappings. That means that they are abducted by someone they don’t know and/or held overnight, transported more than fifty miles, used for ransom, killed, or intended to be kept permanently. That,” Charlie held up his finger, “is our guy.”
“And you’re pretty sure this …” Sarah trailed off.
“Mindy Kessler.”
“Mindy Kessler. You’re sure he did it?”
“I can’t make any promises, but yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
Isaac crossed his arms. “What does the FBI think? What do they have to say about it?”
“They’re tight-lipped, as usual, when someone out of their jurisdiction asks questions. But without jumping to conclusions, they feel the same.”
“Why Mindy, Charlie? What did she do? If it is him, why her?” Sarah’s eyes had tears in them. Somebody’s little girl was missing. That little girl’s parents, Mindy’s parents, were surely scared and brokenhearted at this very moment.
“The Denver Post and several other newspapers across the state recognized her for academics. She won the state championship spelling bee last year. Her face is still on several websites. Accomplishments, looks, and age range, all the same. Each new girl is a cookie-cutter of the last.”
Isaac looked at the floor. This was not what he wanted out of life. He could have stayed in the Middle East and had all the conflict and heartbreak he wanted. That was why he had come home. That was why he had married a sweet soul like Sarah. That was why he had moved his family to Ruidoso. All he wanted was his little slice of heaven, away from pain and suffering. He had no desire to be on the cover of a magazine, write great music, or star in a movie. He just wanted peace.
“When was it? How’d it happen?”
“Four days ago. She disappeared from a neighborhood park. She and her mom went there almost every afternoon during the week. The whole place is really set up so kids can come and go freely. She told her mom she was going to the bathroom, and that was the last she was seen or heard.”
“Anything else?” Sarah encouraged him to go on.
“The funny thing is, no one ever saw her come out. There were several locals around that day, and not one of them saw her leave the bathroom. It’s like she vanished. I can’t figure that one. People see her go in …” He paused. “But not out. Not one.” He shook his head and rubbed his neck harder. “I don’t know.”
Isaac asked, “Any chance she’s still alive?”
“I doubt it. I really doubt it. With predators like him, victims have about three hours. Beyond that … well … it’s not good.”
“What do we do then?” Sarah shifted her weight from one leg to the other and blew a strand of hair out of her face. “We can’t keep doing this, Charlie. We can’t keep sitting and waiting for something, nothing, anything to happen. We have to make a change.”
Charlie pursed his lips. He had been dreading this part of the conversation. “If it is him, and I think it is, we all know what to expect. I hope this lunatic has long forgotten about Josie, but I’d bet my meager municipal salary that he’ll send another letter.”
Chapter Forty
The following day, Isaac watched from the window of the garage as the postman deposited a stack of mail into their box on the curb. He didn’t expect the killer’s letter to arrive this quickly, but since the news, neither he nor Sarah had been able to turn off the thought.
Did he take Mindy? Will he send another letter? Will it be like the others, another threat against Josie?
Neither knew for certain if anything would happen, nor if Mindy Kessler was even the victim of the same man, but waiting, sitting in limbo, and watching the storm felt worse than nothing actually happening. The old adage, “Shit or get off the pot,” kept coming to mind. Good or bad, they didn’t want to live their lives in constant fear.
So far, since the horrid night when they lost Caroline, a nightmarish pattern had consumed them whole. The killer was on the prowl. He did terrible things to innocent little girls. Despite this, he couldn’t get Josie out of his head. He wasn’t ready to come back for her, but he wanted to. Instead, he picked another victim. And round and round it went. The pattern was steady and, worst of all, usually ended in their mailbox.
Isaac walked to the street, collected the envelopes, coupon circulars, and advertisement cards from the box, placed them in the crook of his arm, and went to the kitchen. Everything seemed normal, except the manila bubble envelope tucked into the middle of the stack. It was addressed to Miss Josephine Snow and sent off more than a warning or two. It had no return address in the top, left corner. It was different from the previous two letters—both arriving in a standard, white envelope—and looked innocent enough. Isaac’s subconscious did backflips. Please be from a friend. Please.
The letter opener slid through the adhesive flap. With little resistance, he opened the envelope and removed a piece of bloody, black lace, and immediately he knew he should have called Charlie. But he couldn’t bear the anticipation. He had to know.
Lace in hand, his mind soaked up the unpleasant reality, just like the fabric had soaked up Mindy’s blood. He didn’t need to read a piece of paper to know who it was from and whose life had been spilled on the pretty material. His heart ached and raged at the same time. Letters, for this guy, were not enough. He obviously felt compelled to send sick treasures.
The dried blood on the lace made it feel stiff and crusty. Isaac wiped his hand across his jeans in reaction. He was white as a ghost and felt as thin as one, too. His heart pounded loudly, like
it wanted to escape. Everything centered on the rhythm of its beat, the anger welling within.
A neatly folded paper remained inside the bubble wrap. The note was handwritten.
Dear Josephine, Mindy was good. Real good. But not good enough. There is simply no one else that will do. I’ll be seeing you. Soon.
XOXO
P.S. Do you like red?
Part Two
When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
St. Ambrose, 387 A.D.
Chapter Forty-One
A shadow box of arrowheads hung on the wall. In the polished glass surface, Ricky could see a reflection of the dining room behind him. He sat in a corner booth, slowly chewing a bite of burger without revealing his face. The last thing he wanted was to be caught staring. And in a room full of people, he feared the slightest mistake might draw unwanted attention.
Jack’s Café sat off the beaten path, away from the tourist restaurants that lined the main drag in Ruidoso. The old lumberjack’s kitchen served a steady stream of locals, hungry for a hearty lunch on weekdays. On both of the previous Tuesdays, Isaac, Sarah, and Josie had gone there for lunch. Going on a hunch that they would go a third time, Ricky arrived early, found an ideal seat at the self-seating establishment, and patiently nibbled at his meal. Coming back to where it had all gone wrong three months earlier felt like jumping into the fire. But then again, no one had seen his face at the scene of Caroline’s death, and he was certain he could go unrecognized.
Bells rattled on the front door. He looked up from his plate and into the reflection on the shadow box. His heart skipped a beat as Isaac stepped inside.
Ricky had thought of this many times over the summer. He knew he and Isaac would meet again, someway, somehow. Now the moment was upon him. Certain the reunion would stir something inside, he never imagined fear to be the overwhelming sensation. Sitting a mere fifteen feet away from the protector of his most treasured target, Josie, was not like watching through a set of binoculars while hidden in the woods a hundred yards away. This felt much more intense, unnerving. The tall, athletic man had a confidence about him, an essence of capability. Ricky had seen it firsthand, barely escaping Isaac on a dark, rainy night through a lucky turn of events. Ricky had no doubt that, if Isaac had gotten his hands around him in the girls’ bedroom or out on the lawn, he would be dead or in prison.
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