Desperation Point

by Malcolm Richards

  “You don’t think she did?”

  “She was married to a serial killer. What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve made a good start. But there’s more to find out here.” He handed her back the news article and the certificates. “Keep going.”

  The pride in Nat’s eyes turned to disappointment as she stuffed the documents inside her bag.

  Aaron glanced at his list of Spencer’s victims:

  Reece Pilkington, 8 years old. Disappeared August 2001 from harbour area, St. Ives. Family holiday—Grady Spencer aged 66

  Lee Mallon, 8 years old. Disappeared June 2004 from Market Jew St, Penzance. Mazey Day (local festival)—Grady Spencer aged 69

  Toby Baker, 9 years old. Disappeared August 2007 from cliff path near family home, Zennor—Grady Spencer aged 72.

  Neal Carr, 5 years old. Disappeared July 2009 from promenade, Penzance. Family holiday—Grady Spencer aged 74.

  “You said Grady Spencer walked with a limp for as long as Rose could remember, right?” he said. “How long are we talking?”

  Nat shrugged as she stared at the floor. “About forty years. Spencer moved next door when Rose was a teenager.”

  Aaron’s eyes shot back to the victims’ details, racing through each line of information. Something was connecting in his mind, but it wasn’t making itself clear.

  “Spencer’s victims—the ones identified so far—were all male and under the age of ten,” he said, thinking aloud. “All were taken during the summer months, which would have meant lots of tourists and big crowds . . . which, in turn, would have made it easy to lure a kid away without the parents noticing until it was too late. . .” Aaron closed his eyes for a moment. “Which makes sense with every one of his victims, except Toby Baker.”

  “The boy whose parents you visited today? Is this to do with your development?” Nat said, peering at the list of victim details.

  Aaron stood and began pacing the room. “How does an old man with a walking stick snatch a kid from a dangerous cliff path without, one, doing himself an injury, and two, getting caught? The Bakers told me there were walkers on the cliff that day but not hundreds. They said Toby ran on ahead and disappeared behind an outcrop of rock. When they turned the corner minutes later, he was gone. They’ve spent years thinking he’d fallen to his death, his body swept out to sea.”

  What was his subconscious trying to tell him?

  What was he missing? Returning to the desk, he snatched his notebook from Nat’s hands and quickly added another name to the list.

  Cal Anderson, 9 years old. Disappeared August 2010 from beach, Porth an Jowl, presumed drowned—Grady Spencer aged 75.

  “Cal was kept in captivity for seven years until he was found unconscious on the shore,” Aaron said. “With the other victims, there are gaps of two to three years between each abduction. Why the difference? Why did he get to live? And what about Noah Pengelly?”

  “Spencer didn’t abduct Noah. Cal did.”

  “How do we know that?”

  There was a long pause before Nat spoke again. “Because Noah told Jago. And Jago told me.”

  Snatching up the pen again, Aaron added yet another name to his list.

  Noah Pengelly, 4 years old. Disappeared May 2017 from backyard of home, Porth an Jowl—Cal Anderson aged 15. Grady Spencer aged 82.

  Synapses fired in his brain. A picture was forming. “There’s another difference between Cal and the other victims,” he said. “What do we know about the day Cal vanished?”

  “The police reckon he wandered from the beach to explore one of the sea caves, found an old smugglers tunnel, and followed it right into Grady Spencer’s basement.”

  “Which means Cal wasn’t a planned abduction.”

  The picture was becoming clearer. He could almost see it. “We know the remains of at least eight victims were found in Spencer’s house. According to the most recent press release, forensics established that the murders of the four remaining unidentified victims precede those of the identified. Which makes five-year-old Neal Carr the last child to die by Spencer’s hand. Spencer was already seventy-four. Seventy-five when Cal walked into his basement a year later. And then there were no more victims. Not until nearly seven years later, when Noah Pengelly was snatched from his backyard—which is a very different and very risky modus operandi.”

  Aaron stared at the list, the words jumping up at him from the page. Damn it, what are we missing?

  Beside him, Nat shook her head. “You know what I don’t get? How does someone as terrifying as Grady Spencer persuade any of those poor kids to go off with his ugly ass? Most of them were old enough to know about stranger danger, don’t you think?”

  And just like that, the picture snapped into focus.

  Aaron looked up from the list of victims.

  “You’re right,” he said, his voice trembling with excitement. “Most of those boys were old enough to know about stranger danger. But what if those strangers happened to be other kids?”

  Realisation sank claws into their minds.

  Nat looked up, eyes growing wide. “You mean. . .”

  “He groomed them,” Aaron said. “That sick psycho groomed each of his victims to lure the next. Those poor kids probably thought they were bringing in a new friend.”

  Nat’s usual bravado was gone, replaced by quiet horror. “And Cal?”

  “Perhaps Spencer had grown too old to carry on his life’s work. Perhaps he saw an opportunity for his legacy to continue. . .”

  Silence descended over the room.

  “That’s quite a theory,” Nat said, at last. “Pity you don’t have any evidence to back it up.”

  “But what if it’s true? What if I found evidence? This book could blow the whole case wide open.”

  “And make you a rich man. What about the victims’ families?”

  “If it was my child, I’d want to know the truth.”

  “You think you’d feel better knowing that not only was your child brutally murdered but they’d also been brainwashed into being an accomplice?”

  “No, but. . .” Aaron felt a stab of irritation. Why was he having to justify himself to a seventeen-year-old? “Look, there’s clearly a crucial part of the story missing from the police investigation. We could do something about it. And if by doing something about it, I get to write my book and you get to earn a little money to help you escape small town hell, then what’s so wrong with that?”

  Nat glared at him, her nostrils flaring. “If you can’t see what’s wrong with profiting off the murders of young children, then you’re no better than the tabloids.”

  “You didn’t seem to have a problem with profiting off their murders when you broke into Grady Spencer’s house.”

  Nat’s face grew a deep shade of scarlet. Her jaw fell open, then snapped shut. Aaron heaved his shoulders as he paced the room once more. This was no time for a moral debate. The damage had already been done to those families. Grady Spencer was responsible for their pain. All Aaron was trying to do was tell the story. And if by telling this story he saved his career, then there wasn’t even a debate to be had. Which was why Nat needed to know the truth.

  “I saw him,” he said, coming to a halt. “I saw Cal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He quickly told her about following Carrie that night, about seeing her almost end her life, about seeing Cal, about the animal attacks and his visits to Penwartha and Glebe Farm.

  Nat was silent as he spoke, her complexion growing pale.

  “Don’t you see?” Aaron said, spinning on his heels. “Cal is alive and he’s out there. If he really has been brainwashed by Grady Spencer, if he’s capable of killing animals, of abducting children, it’s only a matter of time before he goes one step further. Porth an Jowl still isn’t safe. Carrie and her family still aren’t safe. We could do something about it.”

  “So, this is why you’ve got me doing your research? So you can go on a bear hunt?” Nat laughed, but there was no hu
mour in her voice. “You’re insane.”

  “Possibly,” Aaron told her. “It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack, I know. But unless you have any better ideas, what else can I do?”

  “Here’s an idea. How about going to the police and telling them who you saw up at Desperation Point?” She shook her head. “Have you even told Carrie?”

  “I tried. She wouldn’t listen. And I can’t go to the police, not yet. They’ll want evidence. Without it I’m just another prank call.”

  Nat stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. “Yeah, well, good luck. I’ll keep looking into Grady Spencer but I’m not traipsing around the countryside, hunting Cal Anderson. I’m too young to have that kind of a death wish.”

  She moved to the door.

  Aaron held up a hand. “Wait. Does that mean Rose will be hearing about what I’ve told you?”

  “Which part of death wish didn’t you understand?”

  “Fine, so for now let’s keep everything between you and me.”

  Hovering at the door, Nat glared at him. Her shoulders sagged. “The way I see it, if you want to find Cal, you have two options. The first, you continue following Carrie until either he makes another appearance, or she has you arrested.”

  “And the second?”

  “Try using a map, dumb-ass.”

  Aaron followed Nat’s gaze until he was staring at a framed print hanging on the wall, depicting an aerial view of Cornwall.

  “I’m not sure what—”

  Nat threw her hands in the air. “Plot out the attacks!”

  Muttering under her breath, she pulled the door open and let it slam behind her as she left.

  Aaron stared after her, blinking.

  “She’s right,” he said. “You are a dumb-ass.”

  He had an ordinance survey map somewhere, purchased from a service station when he’d first entered the county. Jumping up, Aaron hurried over to the desk and began rifling through the mess of notepads and printouts stacked on top. He found the map a second later and unfolded it, spreading it out on the floor.

  Grabbing his laptop, he started going through his notes on the five animal attacks he believed Cal was responsible for, including Aunt Bessie the Goat and Ross Quick’s dismembered flock of sheep, then marked their locations on the map with a black marker pen. Next, he located Porth an Jowl. He quickly discerned that all five attacks had occurred between one and three miles from the town.

  Trembling with excitement, Aaron drew a circle around the town and animal attack sites. If Cal really was responsible for the attacks—and Aaron was convinced that he was—then the circle represented his hunting ground.

  It was within that circle that Aaron would find him.

  But how?

  Even though the circle covered an area of just a few miles, it was nearly all farmland. There were a few villages but he doubted Cal would be found in any of them. He would either be on the move or hiding where he’d be difficult to find—in woodland or abandoned structures, or outbuildings belonging to farms.

  Even with the map, searching for Cal would be like searching for a grain of salt in a sandpit.

  Aaron needed a plan.

  22

  CAL HAD BEEN STANDING at the bedroom window for a long while, watching banks of rain clouds draw across the sky like stage curtains. Now dusk had fallen over the land, casting the fields in shadows. The oncoming darkness made his stomach twitch. For the briefest of seconds, he was back in Grady Spencer’s basement, cold steel bars pressed against his skin. Then, like the day, the image was gone, replaced by his mother’s face.

  It had been three days since he’d last seen her. Three days in which he’d been forced to remain at the farm, the pressure that was always present in his chest growing stronger, until his bones ached and his lungs gasped and his heart threatened to rupture. He should have slipped away, waited until everyone was asleep, but Cynthia had made it clear what would happen. She would tell Jacob.

  You should cut out her tongue, then she won’t say a word. That would be fun, wouldn’t it, boy? Tasty, too.

  The problem was Jacob had already returned.

  Exhaling plumes of frosted breath, Cal turned from the window and stalked through the shadows, passing bare walls and empty bunk beds.

  Throwing open the door, he stepped into the darkness of the landing. A deep, commanding voice floated up from downstairs. The others were gathered in the meeting room, listening to Jacob’s nightly lesson. Cal knew he should be there, that to be elsewhere was a sin. But tonight, he didn’t feel like it.

  Besides, time had slipped away from him again, his thoughts repeatedly returning to Desperation Point, to his mother leaning precariously on the cliff edge, to the stranger who had been watching her. The man was a threat, Cal could see that now.

  You should have taken care of him when you had the chance, boy.

  The house had fallen silent. Tonight’s lesson had come to an end. Somewhere below, the meeting room door opened. Cal shrank back as lanterns balled light onto the walls and feet raced up the stairs. The children filed into the bedroom, unaware of the figure cloaked in the shadows of the landing.

  Cal listened to the rise and fall of their excited chatters. It was a sound that could often fill him with happiness. Other times, it was a sound that triggered frightening, violent urges.

  Look at all those little hands and toes and chubby red cheeks. Ripe as juicy apples waiting to be peeled.

  Another figure ascended the stairs, her features sharp and angry in the lantern light. Morwenna. Cal watched as she ground to a halt outside the bedroom door, her body tensing. Lifting the lantern, she turned her head in his direction.

  “Jacob wants to see,” she said, her words short and sharp.

  A young voice called out from the bedroom. “Morwenna! Jack took my blanket!”

  The young woman swore under her breath, shot Cal another glare, then stalked into the bedroom. Cal tuned out her raised voice as he made his way downstairs and along the hall, stealing past the open meeting room door, where bodies still gathered, lingering in the warmth of an open fire. As he passed the kitchen, he saw Cynthia standing next to the coal oven, watching over a pan of heating milk.

  Startled, she looked up, catching his gaze. A veil of guilt fell across her face. Then she was gone from view. Cal reached the end of the hall, stopping before a door, its painted surface cracked and peeling like everything else in the house. The pressure in his chest was becoming unbearable.

  He knocked and stared at the soft glow of electric light seeping beneath the door. The feeling in his stomach turned into a swarm of bees as a voice told him to enter.

  The study was cramped, with a low ceiling and cluttered book shelves lining the walls. Jacob sat at an old oak desk, soft lamp light illuminating his features. He was a small, middle-aged man, with a lean, wiry frame and cropped, dark hair; the kind of nondescript man that would be passed by unnoticed in the street—unless you caught his attention.

  It was his eyes that gave him his power, Cal had quickly come to understand. They were furtive and intelligent, darting about the room, absorbing every minute detail. And yet, underneath, there was something dark and predatory lurking, a savageness that belied their outward benevolence.

  Jacob looked up as Cal entered, fixing him with a stare that penetrated skin and bone, that left him feeling as small and weak as the little ones upstairs.

  “The children were whispering tonight,” Jacob said, his deep voice calm yet instantly commanding. “They were wondering why you’d missed another lesson.” Cal kept his eyes on the floor, his lips pressed together. “Look at me, boy. A downcast gaze is a sign of weakness. And you’re anything but weak. You’re strong. A survivor. You have the scars to prove it.”

  Cal shut his eyes. For a moment, he was back in Grady Spencer’s basement, a scalpel in his hand as he advanced toward his terrified mother. Do it, boy. Show your father how well he’s taught you.

  He opened his eyes again.
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  “That’s better. A sign of a true leader.” Jacob’s smile wavered as he leaned forward. “But those signs are fading lately.”

  He wanted to look away again, to stare at the floor or the books on the shelves, but Cal held Jacob’s stare. That was how you survived as prey—by keeping your eyes on the hunter.

  “You’ve been going out at night again,” Jacob continued, the frown burrowing deeper.

  Cal pressed his lips together so tightly they throbbed. Cynthia had betrayed him after all.

  “After the incident with the sheep, you agreed to stay here on the farm, so that we could work on containing all that rage. So that we could hone it for its rightful purpose. Yet, the moment my back’s turned, off you run. Where do you go, Cal?”

  Cal’s jaw was beginning to ache with tension. He stared at Jacob, at the space between his eyes.

  “Do you go to see your mother?”

  Anger flashed in Jacob’s eyes, only there for the briefest moment, but as powerful as lightning.

  “I’m becoming concerned,” he said, leaning back and resting veiny forearms across his stomach. “Leaving the farm without consent not only endangers you, it puts us all at risk. I’m beginning to wonder about your loyalty, Cal. About whether I was right to allow you back into the fold. To trust you after you deserted us.”

  Cal felt his heart race a little faster as Jacob probed him with his eyes. It was as if he were trying to read the very fabric of his mind. Then the man’s expression softened, and his shoulders heaved as he let out a heavy sigh.

  “Don’t you realise how important you are to me, Cal? To all of us. The other children look up to you, for guidance and inspiration. They look to follow your lead. And that’s my worry.” Another sigh escaped Jacob’s lips as he rested his hands on the desk. “If the other children see you leaving the farm, if they see you coming and going as you please, with no care for the rules, it won’t be long before they begin to question and doubt. If that happens, everything I’m trying to achieve—for you, for society—it will all be lost. I’ve worked too hard to lose everything.”