The Dying Hour (5 page)

K
aren Harding was sinking in a bottomless, black chasm.

The darkness was overwhelming, tossing her between sleep and waking terror. Her mind swirled with wild uncontrollable emotions. She’d lost all sense of time, all sense of direction and perception. Why was this happening? It took prayer and every fiber of her being to stop her descent into the abyss.

Slowly, with deep breaths, her thoughts became lucid.

Turning to the crack of light, her thread of hope, Karen put her mind to work as she lay in the back of the RV listening to the engine’s hum and the tires against the pavement.

This was what she knew. She was alive. She was not dreaming. She had been abducted by the reverend. And unless she fought back, this cell under the twin bed would become her coffin.

The steady drone told her they were moving.

On some road somewhere.

Her pulse raced, struggling to keep a heartbeat ahead of fear, the way she’d seen the baby rabbit in a documentary fleeing for its life from a large wolf. Eyes wide, darting left, darting right, stumbling as the wolf pawed its legs, screaming as the hunter’s fangs tore at its fur, staining it with blood, until the rabbit disappeared into dense bramble.

And lived.

Karen would fight back.

Her will to survive would be her ally. Still, she was calmed only slightly by her determination. She could not stop trembling. Could not slow the adrenaline coursing through her.

The hot breath of fear was gaining on her.

She swallowed hard and searched for strength. Searched for it in the memories of her mother and father. Marlene. Luke. She searched for it in the smallest victories.

Like the gag in her mouth.

By chewing and stretching the dampened cloth, she had worked it to the point where it had slackened enough for her to close her mouth. The relief for her aching jaw was immeasurable. She could breathe, swallow.
Call for help.
But if need be, she could open her mouth and let the gag slip back into place and bite down on it so it appeared secure.

The binding around her wrists was more difficult.

She used every conscious moment to work on it. At times she worked on it automatically, stretching with every degree of strength she could summon. She would beat this rope. By clenching her stomach muscles, and those in her arms, she was loosening the rope. Almost imperceptibly. But she could feel it. It was going to take time, but eventually she might, just might, be able to slip her hands free.

She prayed.

Prayed that someone would come for her. But how would they know where she was? She was kidnapped but had no idea by whom. A stranger? She had no idea where she was. What time it was. What day it was. She was thirsty. Hungry. The wolf was gaining on her. Tears stung her eyes and she sank deeper into the darkness. As if she were buried alive.

Karen caught her breath.

The mattress above her had creaked.

The woman above her.

She remembered seeing her arm. There was a person above her. Karen heard a muffled groan. Was the woman a prisoner like her? But the wrist hadn’t been bound.

Maybe she was another wolf.

Karen swallowed. Blinking as she thought. And thought. She could call out to her. No. Not now. Not while the RV was moving. The reverend could hear. And there might be others in the back of the RV.

Karen strained to listen.

She forced herself to the crack of light. Pushed hard against it, harder than she’d ever pushed before, so she could see as much as possible. She used her peripheral vision, exerting it until her eyes hurt. She scanned the rear, then the rest of the RV, all the way to the driver’s seat where the reverend was behind the wheel. As best she could tell, no one else was in the vehicle but the three of them.

And it was night.

At that moment they slowed down. Karen was jostled as the RV slowed, then turned. Onto another road. A soft quiet road. Almost like sand, or soft earth. The motion rocked Karen side to side. They were definitely off road. A backcountry road? Driving slowly, they climbed, dipped, and turned. Going forever, it seemed. Karen’s heart thumped against her ribs.

Where’s he taking us?

The woman above her moaned.

Brakes creaked. The RV stopped. The engine was turned off and ticked down in the quiet. Karen heard crickets chirping. Heard the reverend get up from behind the wheel and walk toward them, his footfalls growing louder. She felt weight shifting as the mattress above her squeaked, then he walked off. The vehicle tilted as he opened the door and stepped from it.

Striving to listen, Karen was convinced he had walked away on the soft earth. Convinced she was alone with the woman above her. This was her chance. She swallowed and cleared her throat.

“Hello.” It was her loudest whisper.

Silence was the response.

“Hello. I’m down here under you. In the storage space.”

A woman’s muffled groan.

Karen blinked and listened for any sounds of someone approaching before trying again.

“My name’s Karen. Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

There was movement on the mattress but no response.

“We have to get away from him. We have to help each other.”

The whole frame and mattress began to vibrate above Karen. Then came a loud thud on the floor next to her. Karen gasped and thrust her face to the crack of light.

Something had fallen onto the floor.

Her heart stopped.

She was staring into the horrified round eyes of a young woman who appeared to be her age. Silver duct tape sealed the woman’s mouth.

Oh God.

Karen heard the sounds of someone rushing to the RV. Heard the door being yanked open, felt the dip of someone stepping inside, stomping to the bedroom, halting at the sight of the woman splayed on the floor.

Karen’s body tensed at the sudden loud clank of metal as something was dropped to the floor beside her. She strained against the crack to see a shovel and a saw.

S
awridge County Detective Hank Stralla had a kind, intelligent face, Marlene Clark thought, sitting across from his desk in his Bellingham office.

He set a ceramic mug bearing the county’s logo in front of her. His wooden chair creaked as he sat down and sipped from his own cup.

The corkboard to his left was feathered with county memos, a calendar marking duty and court dates. In one corner she noticed a snapshot of him in a ball cap with a beaming boy who had his eyes. The boy looked to be about seven. They were holding up a fish. On the wall above Stralla there was a clock. Marlene could hear it ticking.

“How’s the motel?” he asked.

“Good.” Marlene had arrived the day before, insisting that her husband, Bill, stay with the children in Vancouver. She had to come alone.

Because if she came alone, it would be all right. It wouldn’t be serious. Police may have found her sister’s car, but it would turn out to be a mistake, a Karen thing, she had lied to herself as she drove, her knuckles whitening on the wheel.
God, let this be just a little Karen thing, please!

Marlene had driven directly to the site on 539 and stayed at the scene. She’d watched the search late into the night, then gone to the motel where she found a Bible on the nightstand and read from it until dawn.

Day two, and here she was sitting in Stralla’s office. He opened a manila folder identified with neat block letters in felt-tip pen:
KAREN KATHERINE HARDING
.

“Anything else come to mind today, Marlene?”

A trace of cologne floated toward her after he opened the folder, clicked his ballpoint pen, and dated a clean note sheet.

“I think I told you everything yesterday.”

He held her in his gaze for a moment. Marlene’s voice was steady. She had been an experienced trauma nurse before becoming an OR nurse. Stralla had been a cop for too damned long. In their professions, they had seen more human devastation than people could imagine, a fact that gave rise to an unspoken mutual respect.

“Have your parents been notified?”

“Yes. They’re working with an aid group, delivering medicine in a mountain region of Guatemala. We’ve sent word through the embassy.”

Stralla nodded.

“You told me Karen has visited you before without calling first.”

“A few times, yes.”

“So this isn’t entirely out of character?”

Marlene thought for a moment. Stralla made a mental note of her hesitation. “No.”

“What’s your read on Luke Terrell?”

“Bright. Karen loves him. Why? What about Luke?”

“He told us he called her during a break at his job, they talked for a while, and everything was fine.”

“That’s what he told me, too.”

“But shortly after that call, she leaves Seattle heading north. She left without her cell phone in a storm. It tells me she was distracted by something. And the next morning Luke is in her apartment. What do you make of that?”

“I know Luke and Karen had exchanged apartment keys. Luke told me he’d gone to her place to talk to her and was there when a deputy called looking for Karen. You think he’s hiding something?”

“Maybe.” Stralla shrugged. “I’m just trying to get a full picture of Karen’s state of mind and the circumstances leading up to this.” He stared at the little circles he was making in his notes. “We just need to be certain everyone’s telling us all they know about Karen’s case.” He looked at Marlene. “Describe for me again how Karen was the last time you talked to her.”

“Happy, looking forward to Africa.”

“She mention any problems with debts, school, drugs, Luke? Any little thing or person that troubled her enough that she would’ve mentioned it?”

Marlene shook her head, then stopped.

“She’d mentioned one man, actually she thought it was funny, but he liked to touch women a lot.”

“Touch women?”

“She said he just put his hand on their shoulders sometimes when he talked. Demonstrative. She thought it was forward, not rude. All women know men like that.”

“She ever say his name, or where she knew this guy?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. It was a little thing she’d mentioned about three months ago over the phone. I don’t know but it’s possible she’d met him through the college or one of her church charity groups. You think someone followed her?”

“We can’t rule out anything.”

Stralla collected his notes. Because Marlene had filed the official missing person’s report and was Karen’s closest relative, she’d signed off on Stralla to check her sister’s bank and credit card activity. Nothing so far. Stralla closed the file folder. Time to return to the 539 site.

“Is my sister dead?”

Stralla hadn’t expected the question.

“Because”—Marlene’s voice was ragged—“you and I know how most of these cases end, so you tell me right now if you think my sister’s dead. You tell me.”

Stralla recalled images of corpses, autopsies, and funerals and knew the odds were against them here.

“We don’t know if Karen’s dead. No evidence has surfaced telling us she’d been hurt. Right now, all we know is that she’s missing under unusual circumstances. Until we have answers, all we have are more questions.”

Marlene searched Stralla’s face for deception until she was satisfied there was none.

T
he Big Timber Truck Stop outside Bellingham was one of the largest in the Pacific Northwest.

It was a twenty-four-hour operation offering fueling, a restaurant, a store, laundry and shower facilities, a chapel, motel rooms, and customs preclearance. The perimeter was dotted with ten-foot chain-saw wood sculptures of bears, moose, wolves, and eagles, produced by Odell White, the former logger who had opened Big Timber twenty-odd years ago.

Detective Stralla rolled by dozens of idling rigs and stopped near the restaurant beside a Sawridge County Sheriff’s four-by-four. It was Raife Ansboro’s, a detective in the division who was helping him on the Harding case.

Ansboro had called Stralla just about an hour ago. He was a calm, monotone-voiced man who lived alone in a cabin. Nothing much excited him. But today Stralla detected a degree of optimism.

“Got something at Big Timber, Hank. Better get over here.”

Stralla entered the lobby, went down the hall to where Odell was telling Ansboro, “I got Percy working on it,” then to Stralla he said, “You two go use my office. Everybody’s here now, I’ll go round em up.”

Odell’s office was cluttered with a battered file cabinet, a desk stained by forgotten cigarettes that had burned to the butt, and two swivel chairs upholstered with what looked like animal fur. There was also a small table with invoices, order forms, and catalogues specializing in truck supplies.

Ansboro held up a sealed plastic bag containing two credit card slips.

“She was here.”

Stralla’s eyes narrowed to Karen Harding’s signature on both slips. In clear, neat, and almost cheerful script. One was for gas. A second for the restaurant. The information on the slips faded, but Stralla saw the date and time. Although he already knew, he opened his slim binder to his case log. The time was consistent with the phone-in report by a trucker who said he’d seen Harding standing next to her Toyota on 539.

The receipt’s code indicated who had served her.

“Odell’s got everyone coming in who worked that night.”

“This is good, Raife.” Stralla looked around the office. “Odell’s got security cameras all over the place, doesn’t he?”

“That’s the good news. But Percy thinks they crapped out in the storm.”

Stralla cursed to himself.

“He’s in the back working on them.”

One knock sounded on the door before Odell cracked it.

“All here.”

Stralla and Ansboro followed Odell down the hall beyond the hum and soapy smell of the laundry rooms where truckers were folding shirts and jeans, to a small room where four people sat in metal chairs around a Ping-Pong table. The group of staff who had been on shift when Harding was at the restaurant. Two women, a man in his twenties, and a man in his sixties, who looked pissed off. They were studying the sketch of the restaurant floor plan Ansboro had made. Fingers tapping booths as they determined who sat where and who ate what.

“I told them what this is about,” Odell said.

Stralla asked the staff to tell him all they could remember about Karen Harding and the others in the restaurant.

“She was here.” Betty Dane tapped her nail on a booth by the window. “I brought her a chicken sandwich and side salad. That poor little girl.”

“Describe her demeanor.”

“Like she had plenty on her mind. I think she was writing a letter.”

“She talk to you or anybody?”

Betty’s hoop earrings chimed as she shook her head.

“And the other people?”

“You had truckers, here, here, here, and here.” Lorna, the older waitress, tapped the tables on the drawing. “Here you had a man by himself, older, quiet, reading a book.”

“Right,” Betty agreed. “Looked like a minister. And next to him there was a retired couple. I think they’re locals.”

“Jimmy and Connie. Got a place in the country two exits south. Next to them was a woman and her daughter, who was maybe twelve or thirteen. Except for Jimmy and Connie, I think the others were travelers,” Lorna said.

“And the truckers?”

“Most of them are regulars,” Betty said and Lorna nodded. “We’re on their route.”

Stralla nodded to the young man who had filled Harding’s gas tank.

“I can’t remember much. We had rigs backed up in the other bays. It was busy because of the storm. And we had the power surge.”

The cook had his large tattooed arms folded across his chest. He raised his craggy face and squinted at Stralla.

“You think somebody from here might’ve followed her?”

“Anything’s possible.” Stralla’s eyes lingered on the tattoos. Maybe someone had tampered with her car.

“Well, let me tell you,” the cook said. “You’re searching for a needle in a haystack. We get a lot of people passing through here.”

“Don’t I know it? Thanks for helping us out. Please, everyone, call us if you remember anything, any little thing.”

After the staff members left, Stralla asked Odell if he’d volunteer all credit card receipts for the time surrounding Harding’s disappearance.

“Sure.”

Percy York caught up to Odell and the two detectives in the hall. The responsibility for maintaining Big Timber’s security cameras fell to Percy, a part-time mechanic and self-taught computer geek.

“Anything?” Ansboro said.

“Come and see.”

Stralla’s cell phone rang.

“Stralla.”

“Hi, Jason Wade from the
Mirror.
Do you have a second?”

“A second.”

“I’m on my way to see you, as soon as possible.”

“Why? We’ve got nothing new for the press.”

“I want to confirm something Karen’s boyfriend told me.”

“Concerning?”

“His last conversation with her before she disappeared.”

Stralla considered his watch and Wade’s request. “Tell me now.”

“I’d like to do this face-to-face. I’m on the road now.”

“Suit yourself. Call me when you get to town.”

Wade had captured Stralla’s interest, he thought, slipping his phone into his pocket. The kid was a digger.

Big Timber’s security system was shoehorned in a dark room near the arcade. Percy went to a table with several consoles, video recorders, and four small TV monitors. “The heads were dirty and we had a surge from the storm. I don’t think it reset properly.” A shape in a snowstorm began swimming on one of the monitors. Looked like a woman walking in the lot.

“I think that’s her.”

“Hang on.” Stralla left, then returned with Betty and Lorna. “Run it again. Now tell me, is that her?”

Betty nodded.

“Yes, that’s her.”

The picture quality was terrible. A grainy figure moved between trucks, got into a car, and drove out of the frame. It could’ve been a Toyota.

“Take it back,” Stralla said.

After taking several moments to line up the tape, Percy tried several times in vain to find a clean stream of footage.

“But you’ve got stuff from other cameras, other angles throughout the lot and the building, right?” Stralla asked.

“Yes, from a number of cameras. What I just showed you is the best.”

Stralla turned to Odell. “You going to volunteer your tapes so I can take them to somebody who might clean them up?”

“Sure, Hank.”

Odell and Percy gathered the tapes into a brown take-out bag for Stralla, who then walked to the lot with Ansboro.

“We could have something here,” Ansboro said before starting his engine.

“We could.” Stralla watched him drive off, turning at the lot exit marked by a ten-foot grizzly, poised to do battle. Then the detective studied the credit card receipts, thinking that the last thing Karen Harding might’ve written in her life was her name.