The Dying Hour (16 page)

T
he twitter of birds woke Karen and Julie at first light.

They were stiff, sore, and cold as they pushed away their blanket of branches. They stood and moved their tired arms and legs to replace the morning chill with the warm flow of circulating blood. There was little they could do about the hunger that scraped at the walls of their empty stomachs. Or the disgusting feeling of being coated with grunge.

As quietly and carefully as possible, they resumed their blind attempt to trek from the deep woods and contact help. They didn’t run, but moved at a good pace, having quickly become reacquainted with the terrain. Karen estimated it took them about two hours to find the edge of the gravel road. They remained concealed in the bush, careful to keep the road in sight.

By the time the sun was directly above them they had gone a great distance. Still, Karen was uneasy. Had they gone the right way? Her unease was underscored by the fact they had not come upon a single sign of people, or vehicles, or buildings. She could only pray they had chosen the right direction.

A branch cracked loudly, then another. Then Julie cried out as Karen turned and saw her fall and slide down a rugged hill for thirty yards in a noisy avalanche of rocks and undergrowth. Karen rushed to her side. Julie’s pants were torn and her leg was cut.

“Anything broken or sprained?” Karen helped Julie to her feet.

“I don’t think so. I think I’m just banged up but OK. Just give me a minute.”

Julie rubbed her leg, glanced up, and froze.

“Look,” she whispered.

It took Karen several seconds to follow her gaze and focus through the tunnel of trees and branches. But far off in the distance it was there.

A flash of color from an object.

Hikers? Hunters? Something solid. A vehicle maybe?

The women exchanged glances. Karen cast around. Then spotting a stone and earthen rise, made a decision.

“You rest here. I’ll go up there and see if I can get a better look, see exactly what it is before we go over, OK?”

Julie nodded. Then, for the first time, she smiled.

Karen patted her shoulder, then slowly began to ascend the rise. It was difficult, but the view would be the payoff. She figured the rise should take her above the grove and give her a clear line of sight toward the flash of color.

Karen lost her footing a few times, sending a trickle of stones down the slope behind her. She stopped, waited, regained her footing, then continued. She had to do this a few times before she reached the top and disappointment.

At this angle, the foliage was dense, nearly obstructing the view. She took her time focusing her eyes, trying to discern what the patch of color belonged to. It appeared to be a vehicle. A camper tent trailer, or car, or truck. After considering it for a moment, Karen decided she and Julie should get closer to it to see what sort of people went with it.

Carefully, she turned and began to make her way down the incline. It was just as tricky going down as it was going up. It took longer than she’d expected. When Karen arrived at the bottom she was confused.

Julie was gone.

What the heck? Not a trace of her. Did she walk off?

“Julie?”

It grew quiet. No birds in the area were chirping. Karen took tiny steps from the area, then she saw Julie and was relieved. There she was, on the soft grass in the shade of a tree, on her back. Resting.

“What we should do is—”

Karen halted as Julie groaned, her head lolled to her side, revealing that half of her temple was a bloodied pulp. Karen heard a branch snap, a swish of fabric, turned in time to see a large branch block out the sun as the reverend brought it down on her head.

“
D
id you hear me?” Marlene Clark said. “You’re not walking away from me until you tell me the truth about you and Karen.”

Detectives Stralla and Ansboro let the standoff play out. The wheels were turning now. They saw it in Terrell’s worried face.

“Everything, Luke,” Marlene said.

Resigned to defeat, he lowered his head slowly, then brought it up.

“OK.”

“And them.” She indicated the detectives. “Whatever you tell me, you tell them.”

“All right.”

“Let’s go back in the room,” Stralla said. “Luke, do you waive your right to a lawyer?”

Luke looked at Marlene.

“I do.”

“Hold on.” Stralla pulled a sheet from his file. “Before you say anything, sign this, confirming that you’re waiving that right.”

Terrell rubbed his lips with his fingers after he signed it, then said: “First, the dope, the coke you found in her umbrella, is mine.”

“Cocaine! Oh God, this is about drugs?” Marlene said. “You’ve got her involved in drugs?”

Stralla shot a look to Bill, who understood immediately.

“Marlene,” Bill said.

Terrell buried his face in his hands.

“I love Karen. She makes you better than you are. She’s got a moral backbone stronger than steel. She’s an angel but—”

Stralla and Ansboro, arms folded across their chests, stared at him.

“Because of her beliefs, and they’re mine too. Only her conviction is deeper. But we didn’t do drugs and she didn’t want to have sex—” He stopped, looked at Marlene. “She wanted to wait until after we were married. And she didn’t want to move in together. I was good with all of that. But my course load was getting overwhelming. I saw less and less of her. My friends at Loader gave me some pills to help me pull off some marathon work sessions. I liked it.

“Then I tried cocaine. Karen noticed a change in me, started to question me, started to wonder if I’d be able to survive a year apart before we got married. We began to bicker. I started to confide in Carmen.”

Ansboro snorted,
“Confide?”

Terrell let a beat pass.

“I started using more dope, I started running up debts with a dealer. I got scared and I got some cash together to put on my debt. Then word whipped through the Village that there were going to be big busts. I panicked, so I hid my dope in Karen’s umbrella without her knowing.

“After I did it, I got thinking how I was just wrecking my life. I thought of Karen going to Africa, I thought if I could get her to stay, get married and be with her, everything would get back on track. Then one night Carmen came over. We did some coke and things happened. We made love. Later, I felt horrible, felt guilty. Then I got angry and blamed Karen for frustrating things by having such high standards. I called her that night. We argued about Africa, and—”

Marlene cupped her hands to her face and wept.

“Did you tell her about Carmen?” Stralla asked.

“No, but she suspected it,” he said. “That’s the truth. It’s why I never told you everything. I drove her away.”

“Who else knew you hid dope with Karen?” Stralla asked.

“Not a soul.”

“Not even Carmen?” Ansboro said.

“No one, I swear. I couldn’t risk anyone knowing.”

“And what were you looking for the morning you went to her apartment?”

“Her umbrella.”

Marlene shook her head in disgust.

Ansboro slid a blank sheet to Terrell.

“Write down all the names and numbers of your dealer and dope connections.”

“Are you going to charge me?”

“You’re such a bastard,” Marlene said.

“Just do it,” Stralla said.

Ansboro studied the information.

“Did you ever clear your drug debt?”

“No.”

“Do you think any of these people would harm Karen as leverage against you? Or go looking for your stash, do something as payback for your outstanding debt?”

The thought hit Terrell like a blow to his midsection. He blinked several times.

“No. I don’t know.”

“From what you’re telling us now,” Stralla said, “Karen was far more emotionally distraught that night than you led us to believe. She likely felt her whole world was coming apart, because of you.”

It was true.

“Makes me wonder if you would’ve ever told us the truth, if we hadn’t found your cocaine.”

“I’m sorry,” Terrell whispered. “It was my dope and my cash and my fault she ran.”

“Cash?” Ansboro repeated. “You hid your cash with her?”

“Yes, three thousand to pay the debt. I thought you’d found it, too.”

“Where did you hide it?” Stralla asked, already flipping pages in his file folder.

“In her car, under the hood, between the battery and the battery tray.”

Stralla looked at him, then Ansboro, as he punched a number into his cell phone. It was for the crime lab in Marysville.

“Hi, this is Stralla, can you get me Van Cronin, right away?” Stralla continued turning pages, even though he was certain of the answer. “Van, Hank in Bellingham, on the Harding Toyota. Did you find cash hidden under the hood under the battery? No? All right, hang on.”

Stralla asked Terrell details about how he’d hidden the cash, relaying them to Cronin, who actually went and checked the car again.

“Thanks,” Stralla said, hanging up. “No cash.”

K
aren’s head was a mass of pain.

Her mind sparked like a live wire burning a hole through her skull. Agony for her to think. Her ears throbbed.

Everything was black.

Her jaws were locked open with the gag clamped between her teeth and tied excruciatingly tight around her head. The pressure made her dizzy. Cord bit into her wrists, her ankles. She didn’t know where she was. What had happened. Tears stung her eyes. Her aching body, her filthy, famished, exhausted body, sagged in utter defeat as the realization slowly crushed her.

No.

Let this be a bad dream. This can’t be. Don’t let this be,
she pleaded in vain as it all came back upon her, driving her deeper into the darkness.

She and Julie had escaped from the reverend. Had gotten free and had fled into the woods, running for their lives. For how long? She didn’t know. A day? A night? She didn’t know. They had seen no one. Heard no one. They’d run and run until Julie slipped noisily down a slope. That’s when they saw the object. Through the trees. A colored object. Someone to help them? Karen had climbed a hill to see better, but when she came back down Julie was…

In that horrible nanosecond Karen had understood what had happened to them. They had traveled full circle, back to his RV. The reverend had come upon them. He had clubbed Julie with a tree branch. When Karen turned, he clubbed her.

Oh no. No. No. No.

The fear returned. Where was she now? What had he done with Julie?

Karen opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to her surroundings. It was dark. Some diffuse light had pierced the roof of her enclosure. Where was she? She was not moving. She was not in the RV.

A shrill twitter.

A bird.

Her nostrils filled with the smells of dirt and cedar. Hard earth beneath her. Beside her. Cool, damp earth, branches and boughs above her. She couldn’t move.

She was encased.

In a shallow grave.

He’d put her in a grave! Left her in an isolated woods to die!

A tremor went through Karen as she fought to cry out. For her mother. Her father. Her sister. Luke.
Somebody! Please.
Marlene. Karen thought of Marlene.

She could hear Marlene’s voice telling her to hang on.

Like the time they were kids on that camping trip near the river and the reservoir. They’d gone swimming. She’d swallowed water, slipped under. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Then she saw an angel and dreamed she was being pulled from the water. It was Marlene.

“No. No. No. You‘re not dead! Hang on, Karen!”

Hang on,
Karen told herself as she lay in her shallow grave, her heart thundering against her rib cage as something began wriggling over her stomach. Oh God. It was large. She felt it moving! Something slithered under her wrist, its scales scraping against her skin as it constricted and contracted.

A snake! A big one! Moving over her body!

Her stomach clenched. Gooseflesh rose on her skin as she tried to scream. As quickly as it began, it ended as the snake slid away. Her pulse continued galloping for several horrible moments. Then her face twitched. Tiny, tiny legs scurried across her cheek, down her jawline toward her ear.

A spider.

Tears rolled from her eyes.

She stopped breathing at the sound of rustling. A branch snapping. Someone was approaching. Someone big. Heavy. Human. Getting closer. Karen had nothing to lose. She made muffled cries. Squirmed. Writhed. Struggled to be heard. The footfalls made the ground near her vibrate.

The light above her darkened. All went silent.

Karen froze.

In her heart she prayed it was a savior.

In her head, she knew it was the reverend.

He’d buried her. The way a cougar will bury its kill and return later to feast. Karen understood. The reverend had come for her. Her terror gave way to anger, outrage, and fury.
How can you do this to people?
What had he done to Julie? Whatever he was planning to do with Karen, she would fight him. She would…

She held her breath.

The light grew intense as he removed the branches and boughs above her. His face was silhouetted against the sky as he gazed upon her for the longest time before he walked around her. Karen then felt his big hands under her arms, as he hoisted her to her feet. Grunting, he hefted her over his shoulder. She weighed nothing to him.

Her head swirled, dizzy from fear and hunger.

His upper body was solid, powerful. He moved at a fast, surefooted pace over the rugged terrain. Karen strained to see more, but her aching, weakened body, her position over his shoulders, gave her a blurry up-side-down view of trees, earth, and small hills.

Soon she heard the river flowing, saw the RV, the campsite. He grunted, knelt, and stood Karen upright.

Less than ten feet away was Julie Kern.

Chained to a tree.

Mouth gagged.

Hands bound.

Eyes open wide in horror.

M
orris Pitman hefted the box that had been delivered by special courier van from the University of Washington to the Benton County Coroner’s Office.

Inside he found a dozen or so textbooks of all sizes. Most of them likely out of print, he thought, carefully placing them one by one on his desk. The look and smell of their covers, spines, and pages took him back forty years to his college days. The History of Torment and Torture was one of the stranger but more fascinating courses he’d taken.

Pitman got busy with his investigation, which arose from the disturbing evidence of the letters
VOV
seared into the flesh of Roxanne Palmer, above her heart.

The killer had left his mark in keeping with the ancient method of branding victims. Pitman needed to find the reference to the practice. Not branding in general, but branding whereby the torturer leaves his name, or mark, as a tactic of terrorizing other potential victims.

This was what Pitman suspected was at play in the Palmer homicide. If he could find the reference in an obscure book, it might provide a building block in the pursuit of her killer. This unique ritual, this specific methodology, was his signature. Of that, Pitman had no doubt. But if he could point to the exact source of this signature branding, the inspiration, it would shrink their potential suspect pool to someone who would have to be familiar with such a practice.

If Pitman’s memory was correct, the reference to signature branding stemmed from the course he’d taken and was buried in one of these books, most of which had indexes that cited branding methods. The reference could also have been mentioned briefly in a nonrelated passage.

He sighed.

This was going to take time. He’d have to go through each textbook. Better get started. He began flipping through the first book, which braced him for a refresher on the darkest dimension of human behavior.

He scanned through the illustrations—pricking of accused witches with needles, water dunking, stretching limbs on the rack, ripping away fingernails, gouging out eyes, acid wash, crushing bones. It went on. Disembowelment, inserting white-hot rods into rectums, vaginas, ears, or mouths, the gallows, whips, hacking off of limbs, and branding.

Pitman searched through passages on branding in book after book. There were references to letters signifying the crime or offense of the victim being seared with red-hot irons into their flesh, usually on cheeks, heads, necks, or other areas. But he failed to find the reference of a signature of the executioner. As he continued looking, he considered the psychological characteristics of those who inflict acts of depraved cruelty on other human beings.

In many instances, they themselves have been tortured, or come to believe in the righteousness of the cause. But studies had indicated that whatever the motivation of tormentors, it becomes easier for them each time to commit such unspeakable acts. They develop a pathological hatred for the victim, someone to be regarded as subhuman.

But what was at work in the case of Roxanne Palmer? Pitman asked, turning to his computer, clicking through his report and the photographs of her remains. What savage urges were driving her killer? Judging from the near surgically precise skill at amputation he demonstrated, he was certainly practiced. Meaning, of course, he’d done this before, and most certainly would do it again. Judging from the way he displayed Roxanne, he wanted the world to know what he’d done. And judging from his signature, he wanted to communicate an identifier, wanted people, and perhaps other potential victims, to know it was him. He enjoyed his power. Pitman looked hard at the picture showing his signature branded into Roxanne’s skin.

VOV.

What did that mean?

And where had he seen reference to this specific practice? Pitman clamped his jaw shut and resumed searching through the course material. It was among these textbooks. It had to be. Or was his memory playing games with him?

Damn it. No.

He remembered reading an ancient work. Was it a novel, or was it a paper, put together by Jesuit scholars? As he recalled, it was drawn from trial transcripts, letters, and the secret diary of an executioner-torturer. A European who signed his work by searing his initials or mark into the flesh of his victims. He’d gained notoriety with a greater audience. Not unlike what was at play here.

“Now, why can’t I find it?” Pitman said aloud in frustration.

“Morris?”

Lieutenant Buchanan and Detective Kintry were at his door.

“You all right?” Buchanan asked.

“Yes, just working on something challenging. How about you?”

Buchanan was holding a sheet of paper.

“Just got off the line with the FBI’s ViCAP section chief. They have a match on Palmer. An unidentified unsolved of a white female in Oregon, near the California line. They want to set up a meeting ASAP. I’m going to talk to the investigators there. What do you make of that?”

Pitman removed his glasses.

“Could be another piece of the puzzle.”

The fact of the matter was, he feared the prospect of a rising body count. He replaced his glasses and scrutinized his old textbooks. The answer had to be here.