Wild Night is Calling (2 page)

“We’ll find her,” Zach said.

It didn’t take long before they were in Lake Hubbard, yet Caitlin still had no clue where to start searching. The town wasn’t large, but it was certainly too big to find one woman, when they had nothing to go on but the first name Josh.

She looked to Zach. He was so cute with his hair curling around the collar of his polo shirt. Clean cut. Nice. The kind of guy she could rely on to help. At least she had that going for her. “Now what?”

“Now we go to the police station.”

A quiver seated itself in Caitlin’s stomach. She drove two blocks and stopped for a red light before she was ready to speak. “Are you sure we need the cops?”

“Any other ideas?”

She didn’t have a single one.

“Me, either.” Zach reached out and patted her arm. The gesture was awkward, as if he was trying to be reassuring and didn’t quite know how. “So we go to the police. Maybe they can help us figure out where Josh lives.”

“Why would they know? Has he been in trouble with the law?” Possible scenarios sprouted and bloomed in her mind.

“I have no idea,” he said. “Except for that one thing with the girl, every time I hung out with him, he seemed perfectly normal.”

“A lot of people seem normal. Seeming normal doesn’t mean he hasn’t been in trouble before.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

Her throat pinched. A sob jerked deep in her gut. This whole thing was seeming more hopeless all the time. Maybe Zach was right. Maybe going to the police was their best choice. Maybe it was their only choice. And if Hannah hated her as a result, she would just have to live with that.

The light turned green, and Caitlin continued through the outskirts of Lake Hubbard. The bright colored signs of fast food restaurants, bowling alleys and big box stores shimmered in the humidity. The scent of burgers and deep fried grease wafted in through the windows. Caitlin hadn’t eaten since she’d scarfed down a cream puff right before they left the park, but the last thing she wanted was food. She just wanted to be on her way home with Hannah. She just wanted everything to be back to normal. And if it took going to the police to make that happen, maybe that’s what she’d have to do.

“We’ll find her. It’s all going to be all right.”

“You keep saying that. But…” The horrors of the past battled at the wall she built in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to remember the details. Didn’t want to think it was possible such terrible events could happen again. “It was bad enough with Hannah’s stepfather, but there was another guy, too. Just last year.”

“Sounds like your friend has gone through hell.”

“She has.” And Caitlin had, too. Everyone had.

“I know you’re afraid for Hannah, but Josh will be cool.”

“You don’t know…”

“No. You’re right. I don’t. We don’t know anything for sure.” Zach covered her hand with his and gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Listen, we don’t have to go to the cops. If you want me to go door to door, I’ll do it. Whatever it takes. We’ll make sure she’s okay.”

The street ahead blurred in a mosaic of streetlights and shadow. She opened her eyes wide so tears wouldn’t spill over. She’d never had anyone promise to do whatever it takes. Not for her. And although she suspected guilt might have something to do with Zach’s kindness, she soaked it in all the same. “No. You’re right. Let’s go to the police.”

Caitlin’s iPhone gave a chirp. A new text message.

She clawed at her bag with a shaking hand, trying to keep her eyes on the road.

“Here.” Zach pushed the phone into her palm.

She flicked it to the new text. It was from Hannah.

Need help. 315 Bransheer Court, Lake Hubbard.

A wave of dizziness swirled around Caitlin. Forcing herself to breathe, she managed to pull off the street and find a spot on the curb. She shifted into park and tapped the screen with shaking fingers, redialing Hannah’s number. “Please pick up. Please.”

Hannah’s phone rang on the other end. Two rings. Four. When it transferred over to voice mail, Caitlin cut off the call.

She switched back to Hannah’s text and stared at the screen, as if she might be able to see more between the letters if she just stared hard enough. For a second, she almost punched in 911, but she couldn’t do it. Not until she knew what had happened. Not until she was sure it was her only option.

Caitlin looked up to find Zach staring at her. His eyebrows canted downward with worry, but he looked downright Zen compared with the panic racing through her mind and jangling every nerve in her body.

He was a nice guy. He’d promised to help.

She flashed Zach a look at the screen. “Do you know how to get to this address?”

He pressed his lips into a slight smile and nodded. “It’s not too far from here.” In a steady voice, he told her what turns to make. Before she was sure she was ready, they were pulling into the driveway of a green, two-story Victorian.

They were both out of the car in a second and racing for the door across the expansive front lawn. Caitlin stabbed the bell with a finger. Zach banged the door with a fist.

No one answered.

“Oh God, we’re too late.” Caitlin cupped her hands over her mouth holding in the sob that threatened to erupt from her chest.

Zach raced back to the car. When he returned, he brandished a tire iron in one fist. “Stand back. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She did and he swung. It hit the monitor window with the force of an explosion. Glass shattered, shards flying into the hall and skittering over the tile floor. He reached through, unlocked the door and pushed it open.

A sound echoed down the hall, something guttural, like the dying groans of an animal. Caitlin stifled a scream. She was going to be sick.

Zach spun to face her. “Stay behind me.” He raised the tire iron and charged deeper into the house.

Caitlin reached out to grab him, to stop him, but her hand grasped nothing but air. He wasn’t prepared for what he might see, what he might interrupt. But then, neither was she. No one could have been.

She ran down the hall after him. A cloying odor hung thick in the air. Strong and visceral, it made Caitlin cover her mouth to keep from gagging. A light shone from a bedroom at the top of the stairs. Caitlin focused on it, raced for it. She almost smacked into Zach, standing in the doorway.

Why had he stopped?

She opened her mouth to ask, but the question shriveled and died in her throat.

Peering over his shoulder, she could see a body on the bed. Spread-eagled. Wrists and ankles tied. Blood everywhere. So many cuts. Some so deep, the flesh gaped open. Some so deep Caitlin could see bone.

Oh…sweet lord…no…

Another gut-wrenching moan shuddered through the room.

“No no no no no…” The words thrust from Caitlin’s chest on a wisp of breath. She focused on her friend.

From the bed, Hannah glanced up and looked straight through her. A smile curved one corner of her lips. She held up the knife, its blade dulled with poor Josh’s blood. “We said we were going to have a wild night, right? To celebrate? I’ve been doing so well.”

Next to Caitlin, Zach made a strangled noise deep in his throat. Shock widened his eyes and slacked his jaw.

Caitlin knew what he was feeling. Like it was a dream. Like nothing he was seeing was real. But it was real. Too real. No one knew that more than she did. And seeing the faraway look in Hannah’s eyes, so much like the last time, Caitlin recognized that once again she was the only one who could set this right.

She reached into her bag. Her fingers brushed the iPhone, and then dipped into the zipped pouch sewn into the purse’s lining. She pulled out the loaded .22, buried the barrel among Zach’s soft blondish curls, and squeezed the trigger.

Part 2

O
fficer Dettwiller pulled up into the driveway and parked his cruiser. Thompson at Dispatch has gotten the 911 call, and it had taken Dettwiller four minutes to get from the other side of town to this sleepy, tucked-away residential area.

Lake Hubbard had a population of less than forty thousand, and as a result, serious crimes were usually few and far between. But in the last eighteen months there had been more murders than in the past twenty years combined. Nasty ones, too. Some of them even had parts missing—parts the coroner theorized had been consumed by the perpetrator. Or
perpetrators
; some of the crime scenes pointed to a pair of killers, working together.

This quaint little Wisconsin town had become quite the dangerous place to live.

Dettwiller picked up the radio and brought the mike to his face. It smelled like the chili-cheese dog he had for lunch, reminding him he hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

“This is car six-fiver. I’ve arrived at the four-four-two. Over.”

“Proceed with caution, six-fiver.”

Caution indeed.

Dettwiller hung up the mike, unsnapped the top button on his holster, and extracted himself from the patrol car. There were two other vehicles in the driveway, and Dettwiller unclipped the Maglite from his belt and directed the beam through their windows. One had its doors still open. Both were empty.

The night was still, quiet except for the ever-present buzz of mosquitoes. He slapped at one that had begun feasting on his neck, and then aimed the flashlight at the house.

A two-story Victorian. Green. Pretty, but just your regular single family dwelling, not unlike the one Dettwiller had grown up in. Wholesome, white bread, small town.

But Dettwiller knew from experience that things that looked normal on the outside often hid terrible secrets.

Like crazy cannibal killers,
he thought.

He played the light over the front door, saw it was halfway open.

Thompson had said the call was from a distraught teenage girl. If the teen could be believed, there were two dead boys inside.

The chances of that were slim. A more plausible explanation was the caller had taken drugs or had been drinking, especially with Summerfest in full swing. Either that or this was some sort of joke or prank. Dettwiller had done a few things as a teen he hadn’t been proud of. Hell, he’d done things as an adult that shamed him. Things he’d never tell Molly, or his kids. Why, just last month, he’d been getting off his shift and—

Dettwiller’s flashlight beam caught some sparkly, jagged glass. A broken window. His apprehension kicked up a notch. Was this a B & E? Or could there actually be some bodies on the premises?

The front door swung inward. Dettwiller quickly drew his sidearm—a 9mm Sig Sauer—and thumbed off the safety while lifting the weapon. When his Maglite illuminated the person opening the door, Dettwiller knew this was no prank call, no regular old breaking and entering.

The girl in the doorway was covered, head to toe, with blood.

She was Caucasian, five-six, late teens, in jeans and a tight tank top. Her blond hair was matted and clung to her round face. Bits of tissue peppered her top. The girl’s jeans were so soaked with blood they looked black. Dettwiller couldn’t tell if the blood was hers or not.

After the preliminary shock, training took over and Dettwiller covered her with his weapon.

“Police! Hands where I can see them, Miss! Now!”

Despite her appearance, the girl seemed extremely calm. She slowly tilted her head to the side, and then raised her hands.

Empty.

Then another girl appeared beside the first one. Same race, same age, a bit heavier and taller and wearing a short skirt. She also had blood on her, but only a few splotches. When Dettwiller saw what the second girl held, his adrenalin spiked.

“Drop the weapon! Now!”

The new girl flinched, and then immediately tossed the gun onto the grass beyond the porch.

“Keep your hands up! And both of you walk to me! Slowly!”

They complied, though as they walked, the girls clasped hands, their bloody fingers intertwined above their heads. When they were a few feet away, Dettwiller ordered them face-first onto the lawn. He holstered his gun and gave each a thorough pat-down. Neither seemed injured. No weapons, and no ID. But these were girls and girls had purses, and Dettwiller would bet a weeks’ worth of donuts their purses were inside.

“It was self-defense,” said the less bloody one, her cheek in the grass. “They attacked us.”

“You the one that called 911?”

“Yes.”

“There are two dead boys inside the house?”

“Yes, we didn’t have a choice and—”

“Was that your gun?”

“My daddy gave it to me, for protection.” Her voice had begun to crack. Dettwiller figured she was barely keeping it together.

“Okay, Miss. What are your names?”

“I’m Caitlin Olendorff. She’s Hannah Freese.”

“Can you talk, Hannah?”

“I want to change my clothes.” Unlike Caitlin, Hannah’s voice was emotionless. Dettwiller wondered if shock was setting in. If it hadn’t yet, it would be soon. For both of them.

“Caitlin, I’m going to put you and Hannah in my squad car, where it’s safe. I need to go inside the house and look around.”

“Please don’t leave us,” Caitlin said.

“It’s okay. I won’t be long.”

He helped them up, getting blood on his hands in the process. Putting them into the backseat of his cruiser resulted in more blood, everywhere. Dettwiller wondered about the DNA evidence, but figured it would be okay. The thing he needed to worry about right now was securing the scene.

He left the girls locked in his back seat, and then opened his trunk. In a kit he had alcohol wipes. After getting the blood off his hands, he snapped on a pair of latex gloves, grabbed some evidence bags and shoe guards, closed the trunk, un-holstered his Sig, and went to go do his job.

Dettwiller’s first stop was the gun Caitlin had tossed onto the lawn. He picked it up, weighing it in his palm. A .22 Taurus, small enough to fit in a purse. He made sure the safety was on, dropped it into a plastic bag, and shoved it into his pocket. Then he began to approach the house.

In his seven years on the force, Dettwiller had only worked four murder scenes. He was patrol, not a detective. Rather than be assigned cases, one had to fall into his lap during his shift. The first two were murder-suicides: one an unemployed husband taking out his frustrations on his wife; the other a known drug addict who apparently had had enough of her children complaining they were hungry. The third was a tavern brawl that had gone too far. In the movies, actors got up after being hit with a bar stool. In real life, not so much.