He should have been tired, having been on his feet for several hours now, and he should have been starving, having had his last meal on the plane that had flown them to Erie that morning. But John Mancini was at his efficient best when chaos threatened those around him, and the events of the day had more than qualified. He’d stayed in the upper field until the last of the bodies had been removed, and was preparing to follow the last of the ambulances to the hospital, hoping that at least one of the women would be able to give them enough to begin the search for Michael Homer.
His eyes darted around the parking area, searching for Genna. When he could not locate her, he walked back to the car, thinking perhaps he’d find her slumped down in the passenger seat, sound asleep, though he figured it would take more than common fatigue to remove her from the action.
He was more than a little surprised to find that she had left the camp entirely.
“She said she wouldn’t be long, but for you to call her at the cottage,” a young trooper told him. “She sounded like you would know what she meant. One of the troopers went with her. Oh! And she gave me the number in case you’d forgotten it.”
“I have it,” John said as the man began to search his pockets.
John dialed the number and listened to it ring and ring. Perhaps she had done whatever it was she’d set out to do, and was on her way back. He called her cell phone, but there was no answer there, either. He paced next to the car, trying to decide if he should be worried or not. He dialed the cottage again with the same result.
“Hey, John,” one of the field agents from Pittsburgh came toward him from across the clearing. “I just heard that one of the women at the hospital is insisting on talking now. Sharpe wants you there pronto to get a description of Homer from her. A forensic artist is already on her way. You’re to follow Detective Shivers from Wick’s Grove.”
“I’m on my way,” John turned back to his car, then stopped, and called to the young trooper, “How long do you expect to be here?”
“No one’s said, but I’m expecting we’ll be around all night.”
“Will you watch for Agent Snow? Just tell her I went to the hospital to speak with one of the victims, and ask her to call me when she shows up.” John got into his car, adding, “I’ll probably catch up with her before then, but I’d appreciate you watching out for her.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” the trooper nodded. “But take care up there by the road. I heard there’s all kinds of media people up there. All of the networks and CNN and you name it, they’re up there.”
“Thanks.” John waved as he started the car and rolled up his windows. Stopping to chat with the press wasn’t on his agenda.
John called the cottage twice more, and a nagging fear had begun to prick at his senses. He’d decided to have one of the field agents go up to the lake to check on her if no one picked up on the next try.
Someone did.
“This is John Mancini,” he said when an unfamiliar voice answered, taking him off-guard. “Who is this, please?”
“This is Patsy’s friend Nancy, John. From the cottage next door.”
“Oh, Nancy, of course. Patsy and Genna have both spoken about you.”
“I was sitting out on my deck, and I heard the phone ring and ring and ring, and I thought, I should probably run over there and answer it if it rings again, since it seems like someone’s pretty anxious to get in touch with Patsy. Of course, she’s not here, you know.”
“No. I didn’t know. Do you know where everyone is? Have you seen Genna?”
“Well, Patsy’s gone off looking for Crystal,” Nancy told him, filling him in on Chrissie’s sudden departure as Patsy had related earlier in the day. “And Genna is out on the dock putting the cover on that flat-bottomed boat of Patsy’s. Looks like it might rain. Do you want me to run down and get her for you?”
Relieved, John said, “No, but I’d appreciate it if you’d tell her that I called and that I’m on my way to the hospital outside of Wick’s Grove.”
“Oh, my, I hope you’re all right?”
“Oh, fine. But if you’d tell her that I’m meeting an artist at the hospital, she’ll know what I mean. And tell her to meet us there as soon as she can.”
“I’ll certainly do that, John. Now, I should tell you that Genna was looking a little peaked, and so I suggested that she stop over for a bite. I made a lovely shrimp salad this afternoon thinking I’d have plenty to share with Patsy, but of course she isn’t here. So I offered to make up a plate for Genna—she did tell me that shrimp salad is such a favorite of hers—so if she’s a teensy bit late, you’ll know not to worry, that she’s having a quick meal and will be on her way soon enough.”
“And what about the state trooper who accompanied her?”
“Oh, he’s helping her with the cover. I imagine they should be finished in another few minutes.”
“Thanks so much for looking after her.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, believe me, John. Now, I’m looking forward to meeting you soon.”
“Likewise.” He hesitated for a minute, then said, “Look, Nancy, if you’d do me a favor. . .”
“Of course.”
“Go across the road and ask the guard who’s staying in the cabin. . .”
“Kenny Harris.”
“Yes. Kenny. Ask him if he’d come on over and stay until we can get back there. And tell him that I’ll call in backup from the state police for him as soon as we finish this call.”
“Oh, my! This sounds serious! Is something wrong?” Nancy’s voice dropped to a dramatically low level.
“You’ll see it on the evening news anyway.” John sighed, then gave Nancy the short version.
“You think he’s here? That awful man? Here, at Bricker’s Lake?” Nancy sounded shocked at the possibility.
“I don’t know where he is, frankly, though if I had to make an educated guess, I’d say he’s put some distance between here and wherever it is he’s hiding out. But if you’d just keep your eye on her while she’s there, I’d be grateful.”
“Just don’t you worry, John, I’ll be watching her,” Nancy assured him. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”
Michael Homer looked down at the woman who lay, bound and gagged, at his feet.
“Not for a second,” he said, then began to giggle. “Now that was a fine turn of events, wouldn’t you say, Miss Genna? Having the fox put in charge of the henhouse, so to speak?”
He leaned down to look into her face. Her eyes were still closed, her lips still parted just ever so slightly.
He felt for a pulse, hoping he hadn’t killed her, worried, because off the top of his head, he couldn’t really recall just how much force it had taken to render her unconscious. He’d intended on applying only enough pressure on her windpipe to knock her out for a while, but it was so easy to get a bit carried away with the spirit of things sometimes. But yes, there was a pulse. She just hadn’t come to, yet. Unlike that young state trooper. He’d had every intention of putting him out for a long, long time. And he had.
He went into Patsy’s bathroom and came out with a washcloth that he’d soaked in cold water. Just in case he needed it to revive her when he got to the holy place. It wouldn’t do to have her out cold then. One had to be conscious, didn’t one, to be consecrated? How could he fill her with the spirit if she wasn’t aware of what was happening?
He was pondering this minor philosophical point as he lifted, then carried her through the cottage over his shoulder, out onto Patsy’s deck and down the steps with little effort. He whistled as he strolled down to the dock as if unencumbered, not worried that anyone would see him. The neighbors on the right hadn’t been there all month. And Kenny wouldn’t be coming over to see what was going on this night or any other night.
Yes, life was sweet when things worked out your way.
With one foot, he kicked the gate open on the side of the boat, and stepped down cautiously. He really didn’t much care for boats, though he was grateful for the opportunity Patsy had given him to learn how to run one. He’d watched her operate this baby several times; enough, he hoped, that he could manage to get it from the dock to their destination. Of course, he didn’t much care for water, either, if the truth was to be known. Hadn’t he watched Patsy land a nasty looking pike right out there in the middle of the lake? He’d shivered at the thought of the damned thing swimming with him.
But tonight, the lake was his friend. His means of fulfilling the last of his tasks. And once Genna had been taken care of, he would be free.
Hadn’t Mother told him not to leave loose ends? To finish what you’d started?
It had taken nineteen years, but better late than never.
“I didn’t mean for them to die,” he said aloud. “I’m sorry. I did not mean for them to die.”
A sound from Genna drew his attention.
“No, I will not untie you, and no, I will not take off the gag, if that’s what you’re asking.” He looked down upon her smugly. “We’re not really so clever after all, are we, Miss Genna FBI Snow?”
He leaned down and looked into her face. Her eyes were still closed. He looked around for the washcloth, then remembered he’d left it on the kitchen counter. He hesitated, wondering if he should run back up to the cottage to get it, but then remembered that John had promised to send someone over to keep them safe. He decided to skip the washcloth. If she was still out when they reached the beach, he’d use some cool lake water.
Checking that the bag he’d earlier placed in the boat was still there, he fished in his pocket for the boat key he’d taken from the nail by Patsy’s backdoor and started up the motor. With great caution, he backed the boat away from the dock, holding his breath, lest he hit one of the pilings. It had looked so easy when Patsy did it.
There now, not so very difficult, he congratulated himself as he successfully navigated the boat into the lake and then steered to the right. Giving the throttle a bit of a jiggle, he made slowly for the opposite side of the lake. He wanted to savor every minute in her company—even though she wasn’t technically there to share it with him. He glanced back at her still form there on the deck and hoped she’d come to on her own. He hadn’t come all this way, done all he’d done, to have her spoil this last, most important event for him. And it was going to be an event, he nodded to himself as he looked ahead, searching in the dark for the landmarks he’d so carefully scouted over the past month.
There, to the left, was the house with the flagpole, and though the flags had been taken down for the night, the lights at the very top were still on. And there, just a few cabins down, was the long dock that had the large fake owl perched upon the first of their pilings. He turned toward shore slightly, knowing that within a minute he’d come to the darkened area that would be the old camp beach. This would be the tricky part, though. There would be no lights there—and he couldn’t very well use a flashlight, someone would surely see that and he couldn’t take that chance—and he wasn’t sure of the water’s depth, or how close he could get to the shore. These things he’d had to leave to chance.
He slowed as much as he could, cutting the motor when he heard the bottom of the boat scrape against the sand beneath them. Taking a deep breath, he counted to three and lowered himself over the side of the boat into the shallow water, grimacing as the long fronds of lake flora brushed against his legs.
“Ugh,” he muttered his distaste, but proceeded to drag the boat with the rope tied to the bow, careful now not to damage the bottom. After all, he’d need it to escape later.
He still hadn’t decided just what to do with Genna when he’d finished purifying her. He certainly couldn’t take her to the cabins as he had the others. Maybe he’d just leave her tied up there, in the woods. It was such a remote spot, they wouldn’t likely find her for several days.
“It would serve her right,” he muttered to himself as his feet found purchase on the slippery lake bank, “if they didn’t find her at all.”
Not, of course, that he intended that she die out here. The entire camp should be considered a crime scene, he rationalized, and so the law, if they had any sense at all, should search the entire premises for. . . well, for whatever might be there. In this case, the whatever would be Genna Snow. A thoroughly consecrated and pure Genna Snow.
What was the expression about pure snow? Pure as the driven snow? He giggled at the pun and wished there was someone he could share it with. But alas, he knew he was his own, his only, audience.
He held the rope slack in his hands and looked around the darkened beach for something to tie it to. Finding nothing but the fallen trunk of an old tree, he looped a knot around a section twice and hoped it would hold. There was a bit of a breeze picking up now. With any luck—and he had to admit his luck had been pretty darned good lately—there would be no wind to coax the boat away from the shore before he was finished. Satisfied that he’d secured it as best he could, he waded back into the lake and climbed awkwardly over the side of the boat. Lifting the unconscious woman, he kicked open the gate with one foot, then slid back into the water.
Across the narrow beach, he carried her limp form in his arms, searching for the path he’d earlier marked by tying strips of white cloth to trees along the way. Following his markers deep into the woods, he came to the clearing he’d prepared for the job at hand. He placed Genna on the ground, then leaving her still tied, returned to the boat where he retrieved the bag that held all he would need to complete his mission.
Retracing his steps, he removed the white ties from the trees. Just in case. . .
Genna lay on her side, one ear to the ground, and listened as his footsteps pounded softly through the earth beneath her. She rolled her head gently as best she could, encumbered as she was by her bindings, and sought to collect her wits. By laying quietly in the bottom of Patsy’s boat, she’d figured out early on that they were on their way to the beach at Shepherd’s Way. By counting the seconds it had taken Michael to carry her from the beach to the place where he’d laid her down, she’d been able to roughly pinpoint their location in the woods. They were about as far from the cabin area—which was crawling with law enforcement agents—as they could be, and still be on campground. With all of the missing women having been accounted for, there would be no reason for a search of these dense woods, particularly at night.
Forcing a few deep breaths to calm her, she tried to formulate a plan to escape, acknowledging that it would be damned hard to get away with her hands tied behind her back, and her ankles tied together. She would need to be rid of at least one or the other—the ankle or wrist ties—to get away from him.
Her senses came on full alert, hearing the first echo of footfalls that rang through the earth below her. The thought that she had escaped him once before, in these very woods, gave her courage.
And it was then that it occurred to her that if he had plans to rape her, he’d have to untie her ankles.
Had she not escaped once before by using her legs, her feet, to hurt him, to surprise him? Would he be remembering that detail tonight?
Around her the night sounds of the forest seemed to hush as he came closer. She turned her head just slightly so that she could see him enter the clearing, but her heart all but stopped in her chest as he drew near.
Appearing like some malevolent specter, Michael was dressed in the white robe he’d worn so many years ago. From the bag he carried, he set white candles into the ground around her in the shape of an arc. One by one, he lit the small candles, chanting as he did so.
When the last candle was lit, he lowered himself to the ground, his legs on either side of hers, and began to pray.
Following the unmarked Wick’s Grove police car along the dark and narrow country roads, John tried to put his finger on what precisely it was that was nagging at him, pricking, thorn-like, at his weary brain. It had been a very long day, and there would be hours more ahead before it would end. He recognized the fatigue for what it was and knew that something more than merely being tired had set him on edge.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him once again how long it had been since he’d last put something in it. Maybe at some point over the next few hours, he’d be able to steal five minutes to find something besides crackers from the hospital’s vending machines and too-dark coffee. Though right now, he conceded, even that didn’t sound so bad.
Not as good as homemade shrimp salad, he sulked momentarily, thinking that he should have asked Nancy to send some back for him with Genna.
It took another thirty seconds for it to hit him, and when it did, he slammed on the brake, stopping in the middle of the darkened road. He sat there, thinking back to the conversation, astounded that it had slipped by him.
“. . . so I did offer to make up a plate for Genna—she did say that shrimp salad was such a favorite of hers. . .”
Genna was allergic to shellfish.
The sudden realization stunned him, all but suffocating him with its certainty.
The car he’d been following had failed to notice that he’d stopped, continuing on ahead as if the driver, like John, was experiencing impaired reactions of his own that night. John made a U-turn on the narrow road and headed back the way he’d come, with his foot all the way down on the gas. He searched his pockets for his phone and hit speed dial, hoping, praying, that he could reach someone, and that it would not be too late when he did.
It took him ten minutes to find his way back to the little cottage that overlooked Bricker’s Lake. He wasn’t even aware that he left his engine running after pulling into Patsy’s driveway and slamming the gears into park.
He found the young state trooper laying in the driveway, a rope wound tightly around his neck. John stopped to check the man’s pulse, and was not surprised when he failed to find one.
Racing into the house, he called her name, knowing that she would not be there.
But where?
He ran next door, kicked in the backdoor, turning on the lights as he went from room to room. On a bedside table was a brown leather handbag, and the wallet inside contained a driver’s license in the name of Michael Holmes. A Styrofoam form on the dresser held a blond wig styled with bangs. The style was reminiscent of that in the photograph of Anna Homer, which Genna had lingered over in the front bedroom of Clarence’s house.
“Shit!” John yelled to the night as he went out the backdoor and slapped his hands on the railing of the deck that overlooked the expanse of lawn, which flowed down to the lake like a green river.
Where had he taken Genna?
From somewhere out in the night, a cat wailed.
Kermie.
John started tentatively across the grassy area, his eyes searching the dark for the orange tabby.
In the moonlight, the cat appeared like a Halloween caricature, standing on the end of the dock, his back arched, his tail raised straight into the air. As John approached, the cat wailed again, and it was then that John noticed that Patsy’s flat-bottomed boat was missing.
“Son of a bitch,” John growled, searching in the dark for the kayak.
A canoe rested against the large trunk of an old pine. Though not his first choice for water travel, it would have to do. He hoped he could manage to get it from one side of the lake to the other without tipping over.
“I’ll make sure there’s some extra Fancy whatever that cat food is called in your bowl in the morning,” John told Kermie even as he dragged the canoe to the lake and kicked off his shoes. Climbing awkwardly into the small craft, he tucked his Glock under the seat and leaned the paddle over his lap while he juggled his cell phone.
There was no doubt in John’s mind where Michael would be taking Genna. He only hoped that his call to the state police would get them—or him—there on time.
John forced himself to paddle methodically, trying to match his strokes evenly, one side to the other, to keep the canoe on course, hoping that the wind would not turn to his disadvantage. It had been so much easier, paddling with Genna, matching her strokes. The fist beneath his sternum tightened as he thought of her at the mercy of the man whose evil had stolen her childhood. Something she had said to him that afternoon as the surviving women had been bundled onto stretchers came back to him, something about how terrible that these women had been victimized first as children, then as adults, by the same evil force.
John’s jaw set firmly and he paddled a little faster, careful not to lose the rhythm he’d painstakingly developed, with one thought in mind: Michael may have destroyed a piece of the child, but he would not destroy the woman.
The clouds cleared from the moon, sending a ribbon of moonlight across the lake as if to light the way. Watching the shore as he passed by, hoping that something would appear familiar as he glided by, John scanned the landscape. And there, off to the left, was an open stretch of beach. Paddling more cautiously, he approached in silence, gliding across the lake, a chilly wind now at his back pushing him toward shore. There, close to the beach, Patsy’s flat-bottomed boat rode the faint ripple of lake tide, rising and falling ever so slightly in the shadows of the moon.
John angled the canoe behind the boat, then sat motionless, listening for some sound in the stillness of the late summer night. All he heard was the lapping of the water against the sides of the boat, and the occasional groan of the rope tied to something on shore. Hopping quietly out of the canoe into the warm lake, he dragged the canoe onto the beach and leaned over the side to locate his gun.
“Aaaaahhhhh!” An agonized scream rose over the trees and through them. Somewhere in the woods ahead, someone had been hurt badly.
Firing his gun twice into the air, hoping that someone from the vast law enforcement community gathered at the camp several acres away would hear, John ran to the edge of the woods. He had no flashlight, nothing to guide him except his instincts. Pausing, he strained his ears, hoping for one more such scream to guide him through the dark, but no sound came. He searched for something that could be an opening in the shrubs leading to a path, and finding one, proceeded to follow it, hoping it was the right one.
Seventy-five feet into the woods, he saw what appeared to be a faint glow off to his left. He slowed and made a concerted effort to make as little noise as possible as he passed from the shelter of one tree to the next, until he could see the pale yellow light of the candles in the tiny clearing straight ahead. He crept closer, silently, until he could hear a murmuring, as if an angry prayer was being uttered. A white-shrouded figure covered something on the ground.
His heart in his mouth, John knew with certainty what that figure was.
Lowering his gun, John sought an angle that would not put Genna in danger, but could not find one.
“Ah, hell,” he whispered, then hastened into the clearing, and smashed the butt of his gun against the back of the hood.
“Uhhhh!” The figure grunted and fell forward, then arching his back suddenly, threw John backward with a fury.
Using both hands like a club, Michael swung at John, connecting with his head, knocking him off his feet and throwing him backward. John landed on the ground with a thud, and managed to get off one shot as Michael fled into the woods.
John paused long enough to pull the gag off Genna’s mouth.
“Go after him!” Genna gasped as he sought his pocketknife to cut her hands free.
“I’m not leaving you here so that he can circle back around and slit your throat,” John told her, pulling her to her feet. “Besides, I think I hit him in the back of the leg. I don’t know how far he’ll be able to go.”
He wrapped his arms around her and held on for a very long moment.
“Are you all right?” he whispered in her ear.
“I am now,” she told him, leaning into him, letting the intoxicating euphoria of relief engulf her. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he replied. He rocked her in his arms for one more moment, kissing the side of her face with utmost gratitude as he said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Only when he smacked me across the face,” she nodded, touching the back of one hand to her cheek. “I think it was his way of telling me he didn’t appreciate being kicked in a sensitive area.”
“You kicked him. . .”
“It worked the first time, I figured it was worth trying again. Unfortunately, it took me too long to get up with my hands tied behind me.” She tilted her head to one side and said, “I hear someone.”
“Too loud to be one person,” John said dryly. “It must be the reinforcements I called for.”
“Mancini!” someone yelled from yards away.
“Here!” he called back.
“How’d you lose him?” asked a member of the task force that had been formed that night, as he stepped into the clearing.
“Well, it was a choice between running blindly into the woods, where in all probability I’d get lost so that he could circle around and finish her off,” he nodded toward Genna, “or wounding him enough to slow him down while I untied Agent Snow. I opted for the latter.”
“Good choice,” the trooper nodded, “any idea which way he was headed?”
“He went off through the woods there to the left, but he could be anywhere. He’s obviously spent a lot of time around here these past few weeks, and knows the woods a lot better than any of us, especially in the dark. But if we could get some good flashlights back here, maybe we’ll be lucky enough to find a trail of blood and track him that way.”
“Well, we were lucky enough to find this.” A young officer wearing the uniform of the Wick’s Grove police department stepped into the clearing, Michael’s white robe over one arm. “And judging by the hole in the back, I’d say you did in fact hit him.”
He held up the back of the robe and turned it inside out, displaying a splatter of red in the flashlight’s glow.
“Good,” John said dispassionately. “Now let’s see if we can figure out where he’s gone to lick his wounds.”