Chapter 6

Mark Twain Forest, June 2, 3:00 PM

Carrie Randolph clung desperately to the twelve-year-old who was trying to impress her, and she was getting seriously ticked off.

"Slow down!" she yelled against the wind whipping her long hair past her hunched shoulders.

Scott screwed the grips forward, sending the ATV over an exposed lump of bedrock.  The engine screamed as they went airborne.  They hit with the wheel turned and careened off the trail into the underbrush, by sheer luck avoiding a head on with a tree.  They skidded to a halt in head high saplings.

"You're an idiot!" she yelled as she jumped from the four-wheeler and unsnapped her chinstrap.  "You almost got us killed!"

"I knew what I was doing," said the freckle-faced imp, grinning widely.  "Had her under control all the way."

She brushed dust from her pant legs.  "I ought to break your scrawny neck, you little geek."

"What's wrong, Carrie?  You get scared?"

"Of course I got scared.  I knew I shouldn't let you drive.  Now get off.  I'm driving back."

"Aw, come on," he said, reluctantly getting off.  "I'll take it easy on the way home.  I promise."

Carrie frowned down at him.  The last year's growth spurt had put her a head taller than the next-door neighbor with whom she been almost inseparable buddies since they were toddlers.  Being nearly the same size and always together, people always took them for twins, until the last year when time and hormones had stepped in to stretch her toward maturity in both stature and temperament, leaving Scott behind in prepubescent inferiority.

"You promised," he whined.

Vaguely, Carrie understood the reason for his reckless bravado.

"You promised too," she reminded him as she straddled the ATV.  "Now get on."

"Okay, grandma," he grumbled.  "Let's putt-putt back."

She circled back toward the trail, picking her way carefully between the tangled branches of downed trees and a pile of tattered garbage bags someone had decided to donate to the park service.  The stench of something dead wafted their way, causing her to wrinkle her nose.

"Somebody ran over a snake," suggested Scott.

Carrie looked disapprovingly toward the pile of garbage bags.

"No it's the garbage," she said.  "It really burns my buns that people did stuff like that."

Intent on negotiating her new ATV safely through the brush without scratching it, Carrie failed to see what lay sprawled atop the pile.

"Damn!  Look at that!" said Scott.  "It's a person.  Carrie!  There's a woman laying over there."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, thinking that he was trying some silly ploy to get to drive again.

"I'm serious.  I think she's dead."

Carrie still didn't believe him, but when she looked where he was pointing her mouth dropped open.  She shut down the four-wheeler.  What she was seeing couldn't be real.  In a daze, she eased forward, Scott close behind.  The thing that couldn't be a woman sprawled upside down, arms trailing downhill, one leg hooked over a burst trash bag.  The head was turned to the left, dark hair masking the face and sparing the children the worst.

"Damn!" said Scott again.

Despite the heat of the day, small nape hairs prickled on Carries neck.  She suddenly felt sure that they were being watched.

The buzzing flies and a change in the wind carried the stench their way again.  She almost threw up.

"We've got to tell someone," she gasped.

Scott silently nodded.  Like her, he couldn't take his eyes from the thing.

As if obeying an unheard signal, the two of them sprinted for the ATV heedless of the saplings slapping them as they ran.  Carrie got the engine running quickly, and soon they were tearing down the logging road at full throttle, flying over obstacles and skidding through the curves, heedless of safety.

6:15 PM

"It's right up here," said the prematurely balding man hunched forward on the seat beside him.  "Take the left fork," he continued, choking down a dry swallow.  "Right up there at that trash pile."

Richard stopped his cruiser well back of the site.

"Maybe you should come up and show me, Mr. Randolph," he said.

"No.  I'm not going up there again."  The man's face was pale, his lips clamped together.  "Once was enough."

When he got within view of the trash mound, Richard stopped to survey the trail leading up.  The rock-hard, leaf-covered ground left no chance of tire marks or footprints, but he determined to err on the side of caution.  He would approach the dumpsite by going around and coming at it from the other side.  Circling uphill gave him the added advantage of coming in from upwind, although there was little in the way of breeze.  A cloud of gnats caught him in the brush and worried at his eyes as he made his way slowly down, trying to disturb the ground as little as possible.

At fifteen feet he stopped to examine the scene before approaching.  The body was definitely that of a woman.  Unquestionably dead, she had been for some time.  So there was no hurry.  He backtracked to the cruiser and called it in.

"We'll just wait here until the team arrives," he told Randolph.

"Can we sit in the car and run the AC," asked the man sheepishly.  "I don't feel so good."

"I don't feel so good either," Richard admitted.

Chief Deputy Henry Rollins was in nominal charge, but funeral home owner, Clarence Greer, the perennially elected coroner, would run things until the body was removed.  A young deputy took the scene photos as directed and acted as general gofer.  Richard's sole contribution had been to string the crime scene tape from tree to tree marking a large, arbitrarily dimensioned boundary of the dumpsite.  He had also run Randolph back home as soon as the others had arrived to take charge of the crime scene.

Now he sat on the hood of his car, ready to sign in anyone else who might have a legitimate reason to enter the scene.  A second cruiser sat at the entrance to the trail, turning away all but official traffic.  He observed the "crime team" with interest as they worked carefully through the scene:  pictures first, panoramic shots were taken from all sides, getting not just the scene itself, but the setting; then increasingly tighter shots, working toward the body, but not before the ground was thoroughly searched for physical evidence.  To an untrained observer the process might seem maddeningly slow, but Richard was favorably impressed.  Collecting evidence in situ was not something one got a second shot at.

After bagging the hands, Greer examined the front of the body minutely, and then had the deputy help him roll the body.  Richard could hear Greer's deep bass as he spoke into a tape recorder as he made his initial examination, but he couldn't make out the words.  The coroner then motioned for another set of close-ups.

At seven-thirty dappled sunlight glinted from the chrome of the impeccably polished black hearse as it slowly rolled down the logging road, carrying the unknown woman back to town for the final, but necessary indignity of an autopsy.  Richard and three other deputies loaded the bagged trash bags and loose trash of the illegal dump into a van to be taken back for closer examination.

Richard finally was allowed to help when they did a detailed search outward from the dumpsite.  In slowly expanding circles, they scoured the underbrush, photographing, bagging, tagging, and mapping every man-made item they found from chewing gum wrappers to a used condom.  They reached the crime scene tape over an hour later without finding anything that didn't appear to be weathered and old.  Rollins sent Richard and two of the others back down the road to search either side of the trail for, in his words, "as far out as a guy could throw something from a car."

As they started down the logging road, Richard heard the battery powered leaf blower.  The immediate area of the dumpsite was being cleared of leaves and debris for one last shot at finding something the killer may have left behind

Richard thought about it on the way back to town.

The perp either left the clothes at the murder scene or took them with him, and he left nothing at the dumpsite.  Stripping the body could have been an attempt to make identification difficult.  It didn't necessarily take a lot of planning or expertise, so maybe he was just careful rather than experienced.  They might recover DNA at the autopsy.  Dental records would be the best bet for identification, which in turn would be the best bet at finding out who murdered her.

Maybe where the body was found is the best clue.  The killer was probably familiar with the forest trail, which makes him a local.  If the woman turns out to be a local also, then we'll probably have a tentative list of suspects.

Because of the time frame, and because the dumpsite had been a classic stranger killer scene, Richard's mind naturally turned to Bobby Lee Paget, even though the man was assumed to still be in the Fayetteville area, almost two hundred miles away. 

If Paget killer this one, then it's a good bet that he's hiding somewhere in or near.

As he was going up the marble steps of "The Greentop," as the county courthouse was called when he got an idea.  He was just a road deputy, not part of the criminal investigation team, but he didn't think making a suggestion was out of order.

"Sheriff," he said as he came into the office.  "How about looking at some of the other trails out there?"

"Why?"

"Well the killer may have left the victim's clothes or maybe there's another body or something."

"I'd think about it if we had other missing people," said his boss without looking up from his paperwork.  "But we don't and we neither do we have the manpower to spare for that.  This is probably going to be a lot simpler than it looks right now.  When we discover who that woman is and talk to the people that knew her, we'll probably find out who killed her.  That's the way it really works, you know.  Most detectives don't detect anything but what someone tells them."

Shug Shively winced at his own condescension.  Richard was new to the department, but he wasn't a kid.

"I know you want to be involved in the investigation.  I would be too in your place."  Shug smiled mischievously.  "I ought to give you the assignment you're asking for just to teach you a lesson."

"I'd like to do it if you don't mind.  I mean it wouldn't hurt to check, would it?"

"Do you have any idea how many miles of those trails there are?"

"I could start on the trails closest to dumpsite."

"Like I said, I'm tempted to let you, but you have other things to do."

"Mind if I look on my own time?"

"Suit yourself, Carter.  I think it's a waste of time, but if it's yours and not the county's so go ahead.  Mind you, ask permission if you go through private property."

Canaan Camp

Dusk gathered beneath the row of rock maples lining the lane.  The sun lay low, half screened by trees while a large thunderstorm grumbled diminishing threats as it rained itself out south of the camp.  Cool, moist air swept from it in a backdraft, rustling leaves and softening the late afternoon heat with dwindling gusts.

Raven thrust back a stray strand of hair.  Shane was walking her back to the women's barracks.

"Bet they really appreciated storms in the old days---you know, when they first settled out here," he said.

"I imagine," she said, marveling at the fact that she was actually beginning to feel comfortable when he was near.

She admired Father Joshua, and she liked old Mr. Phillips, but both were sort of father figures and therefore safe, while Shane was her age and obviously liked her.  His self-conscious desire to please her, his clumsy attempts at humor, and his general awkwardness might make other people uncomfortable, but they allowed her to relax in his presence and forget whatever sexual interest he might have.  She felt safe with him because Shane seemed totally incapable of forcing anything on her.

"I wish we were living back then," he said, squinting out across the field where a softball game was still in progress despite the fading light.  "Back when the land was new."

He's already thinking of us as "we!", she said to herself, trying to brush away tingling apprehension.

"Not me," she said.  "Life was hard, especially for women.  No electricity, no modern medicines.  There was so much that they just didn't know."

"Maybe we'd be better off if there were a few more things we didn't know."

"Ignorance is only bliss until it ends."

"Like not knowing you're falling until you hit the ground, huh?"

"Something like that," she said with a laugh.

It was music to him.  "You've got a wonderful laugh?" he said earnestly.

"Thank you," she said, looking away as her smile faded.

Please, Shane.  Don't, she thought.

Shane saw her avoiding his eyes, and thought of Brother Caleb's advice about showing her how he felt.  He moved forward uncertainly.  Raven's tension ratcheted up and fed on itself, but she forced herself to remain still.

He's too close!

Encouraged that she hadn't withdrawn, he failed to notice the color drain from her face.  The breeze blew a stray, dark tress across her face.  Impulsively he reached to brush away, his fingertips grazing her cheek.

"I really like being with you," he said, almost choking on his own ineptitude.

Raven could only nod as she forced herself not to flinch from his fleeting touch.  She felt light-headed.  The air was suddenly too thin to breath.  Encouraged, Shane moved forward.  Because he could think of nothing else, he placed his hand tentatively on the small of her back, seeking to give her physical proof of his interest as Brother Caleb had advised.  But Raven was gone, having fled to a sanctuary deep within herself---to her place refuge and escape.

Her sudden unresponsiveness left him at a loss, not knowing if he should release her or pull her close.  He studied her face, noticing for the first time how pale she had gone.

Raven suddenly came to herself.  Shane was holding her!  He was demanding that she submit to him.  Unable to swallow, barely able to breath, she suddenly broke free of her paralysis.

"No!" she said loudly, wrenching herself away.

Startled, Shane threw his hands back.  She lost her balance and fell.  Fearing that she was hurt, he rushed forward to help her up.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She scrambled away.  "Don't touch me!" she said, eyes wide as she got to her feet.

Cold numbness gripped him as he watched her run away.

By the time she reached the safety of the women's barracks, Raven's panic had subsided enough to let her assess what had happened.  Intellectually, she understood perfectly.  Shane had caused it.  But he was not to blame.  Now there was no salvaging the hopeless situation.  Perhaps there never was.  She trudged to the maiden's quarters feeling a miserable sense of loss.

It had to have happened sooner of later.  Now he thinks I'm crazy, she said to herself.  I probably am.

"Damn you, Starry Dawn!  Damn you to Hell!" she muttered.

It was something a Christian should never say.

How can I ever "honor" my mother or whoever my father was?

My mom's not to blame for this.  I caused it by pretending to be something I'm not.  I encouraged a nice guy to believe in something that's impossible.

There was only one thing to do.  It was her Christian duty to explain things.  She owed him that much.    

Raven went back outside and walked aimlessly until she came to an old barn.  She went inside to hide herself in the deep shadows.  Then she covered her face with both hands and tried to pray.

Paget flipped the magazine closed and slid it under the bed when he heard the knock.  He closed the bedroom door and went to see who it was, half expecting to see Stick Man.  Instead, it was the kid standing on the porch.

"Got time to talk, Brother Caleb?  I really need some advice."

First advice to the lovelorn, Paget said to himself.  Now what?  Confession?  I popped her, Bobby Lee.  Now what do I do?

"I messed up big time."

"Come on in and tell me about it."

As Shane related his fiasco, Paget listened with growing interest.  He'd had a girl act like that himself.  Of course, he wasn't just trying to get a kiss.  He discounted one explanation immediately.  Miss Dusky wasn't a lesbian.  He had an instinct about such sickening stuff.  The other possibility quickened his pulse.

"I think I can help you out," he said.  "I've got just the thing to show her how much you care about her.  Wait here."

He went to the bedroom for Pale Babe's necklace.  He held it up for one last look and imagined it dangling between the Miss Dusky's breasts.  It would be like a charm marking her as his.  It was going to happen.

"Here," he said, coming out and handing it to Shane.  "Women like gifts.  Give her this.  If she takes it that'll tell you something, won't it?"

Shane held the delicate piece of jewelry to catch the light.

"It looks kind of expensive," he said.  "Are you sure?"

"Hey, don't worry about it.  The girl that belonged to doesn't have any use for it anymore.  She gave it back to me.  I don't know why I even kept it---kind of bad memories, you know.  Go on.  Give it to your girl."

"Are you sure?" Shane repeated.

"Yeah.  It would make me happy."

Shane admired the necklace.

"It sure is pretty.  I hope she'll wear it," he said dejectedly.  "I just don't know if she'll ever even talk to me again."

"Sure she will, Shane."

I know women, kid, he said to himself.  They all rise to the same bait.

After the kid was gone Paget went to check on the old man.  High on PCP he had tried to leave the house earlier, and it had been hell restraining him.  He grimaced as he examined Joshua's darkly swollen wrists.  Paget knew that PCP only inhibited pain and good sense instead of giving extra strength, but in the struggle with Joshua he had begun to doubt it.

"Crazy old queer," he said under his breath.  "Probably broke your damned wrist."

A knock at the door startled him.  Cursing, he shut the bedroom door and went to see what else the kid wanted.  When he came into the living room he saw through the curtains that it was the Stick.

"Cal, I need---" he began as soon as the door opened.

"Caleb," said Paget.  "You should call me Caleb."

Campbell frowned.  "Okay, Brother Caleb.  Can you tell Father Joshua I'd like to see him?"

"That's not a good idea.  He's sick---been puked his guts out all night.  I thought he might want to see a doctor, but he says it's just a stomach flu---that he'll be all right in a day or two."

Joshua's sudden adoption of and precipitous intimacy with Cal Hodges (now Caleb) increasingly alarmed Campbell.  Before the last sermon, he would never have dreamed of questioning Joshua's judgment.  But now it was apparent that something was horribly wrong with the old man.

"I think I'll just look in on him a moment before I go," he said, starting inside.

Paget stood in the door, blocking his way.

"I can't let you do that," he said firmly.  "He doesn't want to be disturbed."

Campbell didn't like confrontation.  He hesitated, and then, rather than addressing the problem directly, tried to diffuse the tension.

"I won't wake him.  I promise.  I'll just peek in on him for a moment," he said moving to go around.

"No.  You won't," said Paget placing a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Surely it won't hurt to ---"

"You're not going to disturb him."

"What about services tonight?" asked Campbell weakly.

Paget had forgotten.  The old man could never get it together in time.

"He told me to tell you to handle it.  Explain that he isn't feeling well, but tell them not to worry.  He'll be all right."

Without waiting for a reply, Paget closed the door in Campbell's face.  He walked to the car with a new worry.  He had never conducted services, and wasn't ready to do so now.  Beyond the unease of his sudden responsibility, however, lay a deeper concern.

"Caleb and Joshua?" he muttered as he drove away.

Cal Hodges had become Joshua's confidant with dizzying speed.

Around two in the morning Paget awoke to the sound of a crash, followed by groaning from the other bedroom.  He went in and found the old man sitting on the floor.  A lamp dangled by its cord over the front edge of the nightstand.

"What's happened?" mumbled Joshua, looking around in confusion.

"It's okay, Joshua," said Paget, as he helped the old man back to the bed.  "You just have a hangover."

"A what?" slurred the old man.  "I don't understand."

"Happens to the best of us," said Paget, recoiling from Joshua's foul breath.

Then he got an idea.  He took the old man by his shoulders, and stared earnestly into his bloodshot eyes

"John told everybody that you were sick so that he could take over services tonight," he said.

"I'm sick," said Joshua slowly.

Paget couldn't tell if the old man was stating a fact or merely parroting.

"Too much wine does that," he said.

"Too much . . . no. . .no.  Not . . . wine."

"Don't worry, Joshua.  I covered for you.  I didn't let anyone see you.  We'll just keep this between the two of us."

"Between the two of us," mumbled the old man.  "Yes."

Joshua felt weak and dizzy.  He reached back to steady himself.  Pain shot through his injured wrist, causing him to cry out.

"Sorry about that.  You fell before I could catch you.  Lay back and I'll go get you an aspirin."

Instead he went into the kitchen and mixed a wine and rohypnol cocktail.  After coaxing the old man to drink it, he stripped him to his underwear, propped him against the headboard, and waited for the drug to take effect.

"Father Joshua," he said softly.

"Yesh," answered the old man weakly.

"John Campbell wants to take the Church from you.  He wants to replace you."

"No," he said shaking his head weakly.

"Did you hear me?"

"Mmmmm."

"He wants to take over Canaan Camp."

"Who?" asked the old man in confusion.

"John Campbell.  John wants to take over the Church.  He wants to get rid of you."

"John . . . wants to . . . no . . . not John!"

"Yeah he does, Joshua.  John wants to replace you."

"John . . . wants . . ."

 In mid-sentence Joshua lost consciousness.

Mark Twain Forest, June 4, 8:15 PM

The Jane Doe had perfect teeth, so easy identification via dental records seemed unlikely.  Plus, no one had come forward to identify her, which suggested that she wasn't from the area.  Alternately, she may simply have had no one who particularly cared about her---a good possibility, he thought, since track marks on both arms and legs suggested that she had been a prostitute, the highest risk of all high-risk victims.

Truth is we don't know jack yet, thought Richard as he drove slowly through the woods.

His cruiser rode over a low mound and stopped as the logging trail petered out.  It had once gone on down the densely wooded hill, but now wrist thick saplings barred the way.  Another dead end---both literally and figuratively.  He should have quit an hour ago, but he wanted to check one last trail before calling it a day.  It would be dark before he got back to the highway.

He got out and lit up.  He'd have to do something about his breath before he went home.  The thought of disappointing his pregnant wife made him drop the cigarette after two deep drags.  Grinding it out with his heel, he vowed once again to quit.  He started to get back into the car when something caught his eye.  Downhill to the right was a small patch of odd green, a color nature would never produce.  Probably trash, he thought as he went to investigate.  It was a new blanket, carelessly folded and weighted down with a rock.  It was neither probative nor suggestive of anything, yet a shiver ran up his neck.

He found her a short distance away.

Darkness and the fact that the county had no means to sufficiently illuminate the area for a night search necessitated waiting until morning to do anything with the scene.  Shug left two deputies to baby-sit the dumpsite, set a car with two more deputies in it to seal off the entrance to the trail, and sent everyone else home until first light.  The state of the remains called for no urgency, but the two deputies were told to stay closer than they would have preferred in order to prevent further damage from scavenging animals.

Richard finally got home to find Jill on the porch in the age-old mothers' pose for wayward children returning late.

"It is about time," she scolded only half in jest.

"Sorry, Babe.  Something came up."

"And you broke a finger, making it impossible to punch in a call home?"

"I didn't think about it, not that I could have from where I was.  Cell phones are dead zone out east.  We found another body out in Mark Twain, Jill."

"Oh no.  Who?"

"We don't know yet.  Probably not local.  She was killed some time ago, so identification might take a while."

"So who ever did this lives here," she said softly.

"We already knew that."

"I did not."

Richard sat on the stairs, his mind drifting back to the scene.  He had never seen a body in such a state.  Decomp had gone far enough to be more mentally than physically sickening.  He had no training in forensics other than his introductory courses at Pere Marquette, but he knew without a lab report that she had been young.

"What a shame," he whispered, immediately thinking of the inadequacy of his remark.

"Being right isn't what it's cracked up to be, Jill.  I think I could stand a drink."

"A glass of wine?" she suggested.  "We have nothing else."

"Doesn't seem appropriate, but it'll do."

Jill took longer than he expected, and when she came out she was carrying two large steaming mugs.

"No wine?"

"You said it was not appropriate, so I tried something else."

"Coffee?  I'll be wired all night the way it is," he said, but took the cup.

He took a sip, and caught his breath.  "What the heck!"

"Irish coffee," she explained.  "Well, kind of.  Decaf, Irish coffee, made with the tequila we got for a wedding present."

"A little light on the coffee though, don't you think?"

"I want you to sleep," she explained, sipping at her own.  "Oh my!  I see what you mean.  It must be diluted."

"No," he said, choking down another sip.  "I think this might be just the ticket."

"I cannot drink this," she said, heading back up the steps.

Alone again, he noticed the sounds of the summer night for the first time, katydids, crickets, and the cicadas that hill folks called "dry flies."  Down near the creek a screech owl wailed its quavering call, sounding eerily like a woman screaming.  A shiver ran up his spine as he flashed back.  The hair was his first glimpse:  blonde, and retaining evidence or careful styling despite exposure to the elements.  He thought she'd had a lot to live for.  She at least had a lot of living left to do.

"Like the Riepe girl," he murmured.

"What?" asked Jill as she took a seat beside him.

"I think she was young, Jill.  Maybe no older than the girl down at Marked Tree."

Jill sipped quietly at her drink, sickened by his obsession.

Why do you have to do this? she thought resentfully.

He didn't enjoy dwelling on the horror, but that was a necessary part of the job he wanted so desperately.

It is part of you now, she thought ruefully.  Part of us.

"Maybe they're right about Paget.  He's handy to blame for unsolved homicides.  Back in the day, they used to credit Dillinger for simultaneous bank robberies in different states.  Whoever killed these women seems to be familiar with the area, and as far as anyone knows, Paget's never been here before."

"Why do you say he is familiar with this area?"

"Killers don't want to be seen disposing of bodies.  They have to know of a place where they won't be seen.  Paget probably doesn't know the area well enough."

"He could get a map at the National Forest office," she suggested.

"There are two more problems:  He needs a place to stay, and he needs transportation.  It strains credibility to suggest that he lives somewhere else and only comes back here to dump bodies."

He didn't notice Jill shudder at the term.

"On the other hand, the women weren't from here either or we'd have a missing persons report matching at least one of them.  I guess it's only the typology that makes me think it might be Paget.  These are sex crimes.  Sure, he's killed men, but they were collateral.  Only the women matter to him, and some of them matter a lot.  He took his time with the girl in Marked Tree.  He fed on her suffering.  He probably---no, he undoubtedly fantasizes about killing them---imagines the details of how he does it, replays it to perfect it.  He gets off on---"

Jill got up abruptly.

"I'm going inside," she said.  "Discussing torture makes me ill."

"I'm sorry, Babe.  I'll be up in a minute."

She stopped at the top of the stairs.

"Richard, when you come to bed can we speak of a nursery, and toys, and playing with our child, and holiday trips, and a college savings account?  We need dreams, not nightmares."

Blue Creek, June 5, 9:15 AM

Richard thought through the implications again as he waited for the Little Rock Field Office to put him through to agent Tanner.  The first Jane Doe to be found had her hyoid bone broken, meaning she had been strangled.  That the Riepe girl had also been strangled was the only solid parallel.  There was no word yet on COD for the victim just discovered.

A click, and then:  "This is Tanner.  To whom am I speaking?"

"Agent Tanner, this is Deputy Richard Carter from the Hawthorn County Sheriff's Department in Missouri.  Could you spare a few minutes to discuss a couple of homicides we have?  A couple of unidentified victims turned up here in the Mark Twain Forest.  Have you received information about them yet?

"I know about them, but this office doesn't have purview in your area.  You need to contact the St. Louis field office."

"Actually, I wanted to discuss the possibility of a connection with the murders in Marked Tree."

In the silence that followed, he feared Tanner was about to dismiss him.

"What makes you think Paget is your murderer?"

"I'm not saying that he is, but he did disappear in this area.  I was the one that found his car in West Plains.  It's just---well, I suppose I just don't trust coincidence."

"Are you sure you haven't just developed a proprietary interest in all of this?"

It's what Richard feared the man would suspect.

"Look---Mr. Carter, if your boss wants the assistance of the Investigative Support Unit there's an official procedure."

"I see.  Informal contact is not the way things are done whether an exchange of information is helpful or not, right?" asked Richard more sharply than he intended.

After a moment during which he though Tanner had hung up on him, the federal agent spoke, his voice all business, but non-committal.

"You're calling from home.  If you'll stay there, I'll call you back in moment or two."

"You're going to check me out?"

"Right now I know where you are, but I don't know what you are, or even who you are for sure.  You should have called from work, better yet, filed the appropriate paperwork.  By the way, this is exactly the way I ended up being quoted by a so-called journalist as an unnamed FBI agent when I was younger and stupider."

Richard thought he knew a way to speed things up.

"Mr. Tanner do you know a Doctor Laurel Senter from South Bend?"

"The forensic psychologist.  I met her once briefly."

"I met her once too.  Call her.  She can probably tell you more about me than any paper trail you might find."

"You worked with her?"

"Not exactly.  I'd rather have her tell you.  If you can't contact her, call the Lake County Sheriff's Department in Michigan."

"If you're not on the level, don't wait for a return call."

Richard took his note pad, filled only with doodles, and went to the kitchen for coffee.

What will you think about a law officer who took the law into his own hands?  And what will you make of a pardon for felony homicide?

The front door opened, and Jill struggled in carrying her books and several bags of groceries.

"You should have honked.  I could have helped you in."

"It is taken care of," she said.  "I am accustomed to doing things for myself."

"Anything still in the car?" he asked, wondering what had put her in a foul mood.

"Do you know what today is?" she asked.

"Tuesday, I think," he asked distractedly, his mind on Tanner's return call.

She shook her head and huffed past, muttering to herself in French.  He started to follow, but the phone rang.  He snatched it up and went quickly through the screen door onto the front gallery.

"You forget my birthday," she said to the empty room.  "And then . . .  Forget it!"

"So you're the guy who ended William Boyd's career," said Tanner.  "So how does it feel to be a hero?"

The flippant remark stung.  If indicative of Tanner's attitude toward him, the call would be nothing but a humiliating mistake.

"It sucks actually," he said honestly.  It screwed up my head, and destroyed my career plans."

"How so?"

"A pardoned murderer isn't likely to land a career in law enforcement."

"You're working now."

"Right.  And how soon do you think the Bureau will decide to accept my application?"

Silence for a moment, then, "You haven't actually applied?"

"I'm a little smarter than that, Tanner.  So tell me.  Am I wasting my time expecting you to take me seriously?"

After a moment, Tanner spoke again, this time his voice more business-like.

"Senter says you're good man.  Apparently you were smart enough, or lucky enough, to stop him from killing that French coed up there.  Do you keep in touch with her?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm a behaviorist.  Traumatic situations often result in a sort of repulsion-by-association mechanism.  Seeing you getting sliced up while you were strangling a guy isn't the sort of thing relationships are built on."

Tanner didn't know the half of it.  Jill had a better reason to be repulsed by him.

"Sorry about your career, but you don't stand a chance in hell of getting into the Bureau.  The political risk is too great."

Hearing the confirmation of what he already knew was depressing.

"So, do you know enough about me now to talk shop?" he asked.  "By the way, I'm working on my own time, but the boss knows what I'm doing.  I found the second body in Mark Twain."

"First Paget's car and then a dump site.  Lucky guy."

"Not lucky, just thorough.  If other people had done their jobs, both would have been found sooner."

"Not everyone is obsessive-compulsive like you.  Cut ‘em some slack."

Richard wanted to get back to his main reason for the call.

"In your opinion could Paget be responsible for our two murders?"

"Since I'm as compulsive as you are, let's have a look.  On the face of it we have a few serious problems with that theory, but seldom does real life fit neatly into a template.  Follow me?"

"I think so.  There's no such thing as a perfect example of the ideal thing."

"Right.  We've got five murders down here and two up there.  Let's concentrate on motive instead of method.  In Marked Tree it appears mixed.  Mr. Riepe was killed quick and clean---an elimination hit probably.  Minor blunt trauma facial wounds---probably rough questioning during the robbery.  The wife was a step up.  One cigarette burn and then he strangled her, but he didn't spend a lot of time with her.  With the girl he was methodical---horrible word in the context, but that's how you have to see it if you're going to understand him.  For him, she was what it was all about.  He put mutiple ligature marks on her and then he came very close to taking her body with him."

"So sadism with definite paraphilia," said Richard.  "But it all started as felony situational homicide."

"Good, you know the manual.  Essentially you're right:  opportunistic murder during a gun heist.  We think Paget is part of a militia group, but it might be that he just tied up with someone specializing in illegal gun sales.  We'll have to pin all that down before trial."

"Now in Fayetteville," continued Tanner,  "Paget bludgeoned them to death.  It looks like a drug murder, but I read mixed motives, perhaps revenge.  Or, like with Riepe, it could have been just a case of eliminating witnesses.  On the other hand, the overkill is consistent with a perp high on PCP.  You see, if we didn't have physical evidence tying Paget to all the homicides, we would never make them as committed by the same person."

"We think our first victim---the second one killed, but the first one found---may have been a prostitute.  She had been beaten like the prostitute in Fayetteville," said Richard.

"Let's see what we've got down here," said Tanner.  "Our three women were each treated differently.  I think he grades them.  Mrs. Riepe barely mattered to him---maybe didn't matter.  The Fayetteville woman enraged but didn't arouse him.  The Riepe girl enraged and aroused him.  Remember his victimology.  She was his preferred victim.  She fit his ideal, the imaginary woman he kills in his fantasy."

"I'm only guessing, because the complete report isn't in yet, but I think the second vic we found may have been treated like the Riepe girl," said Richard.

"But you're guessing."

"That's what I said."

"I can't tell you that Paget is your killer, Carter.  In fact the logistics argue against it.  There's too much running back and forth and then there's the problem that he has no history in your area."

"I can't say he is either," said Richard.  "But I still need to know as much about him as I can in case it is him.  We've already got two bodies.  We don't want any more."

"Just keep an open mind then.  Don't hammer things into a theory when they don't fit naturally."

"Noted.  So what drives him?"

"Hatred---insecurity---revenge.  Some guys like this are sexually dysfunctional.  They blame their victims for it.  My guess is the prostitute ticked him off by saying or doing something wrong.  Maybe she laughed at him, or she could have sympathized with him.  Either would have enraged him."

"So the beating wasn't acting out his fantasy?"

"No.  My guess is that he thinks all women are whores, but that whores aren't really women."

"Come again."

"He kills prostitutes because they're women, but he brutalizes women who seem decent because that fulfills his fantasy.  The beating of the Fayetteville woman is consistent with his urge, but the fantasy elements of Marked Tree are absent.  He was almost frenzied in Fayetteville, less refined and elaborate despite the fact that he had plenty of time.  I think he simply wanted to destroy her.  He beat her first---perhaps he was interrupted when the man arrived.  He killed Pearson, and then used the same weapon to kill her.  Then he was through.  Postmortem, nothing---no posing, no staging, no undoing."

"Undoing?"

"You see that in domestic homicides," explained Tanner.  "Out of remorse they cover the face, place the body in a comfortable position---I've even seen them washed and laid out like they were asleep."

"Could he have a soft spot for mothers?" asked Richard.  "Besides kidnapping her, he didn't do a thing to Cathy Howard.  And he covered the Riepe woman's face when he killed her."

"Possible," said Tanner dismissively.  "More interesting to me is his comfort level.  After he cooled down in Fayetteville, he just left the bodies as they were, wiped down the place and then probably slept the rest of the night in the apartment."

"Why?"

"Cheaper than a motel."

"You're kidding."

"No.  He thinks like that.  A neighbor saw him leave early the next morning, and the coroner fixed the time of death for Pearson at before midnight."

Richard tried to imagine a killer sleeping at a murder scene.

"Let's go back to Marked Tree a moment.  Mrs. Riepe's murder falls somewhere between that of her daughter and that of the prostitute.  He strangled her with a ligature, but he stood behind her.  I think she was a bit player in his fantasy.  He warmed up for the daughter with her---wanted the feel of the kill, but since she didn't look like his fantasy woman, he positioned himself so that he couldn't see her face."

"He covered her so that he could pretend?"

"She was too old.  He's not a pedophile, but his preferred victim is young."

"Then all of what he did down there is consistent with what happened here."

"It's not inconsistent, but I don't think he's your perp."

"Because of the logistics?"

"I'm not trying to pour water on your theory, Carter.  But you all need to look for a local perp first.  Don't do this thing with blinders on.  It could be that both your vics were prostitutes or other high risk vics.  Paget isn't your typical strip troller.  He actually prefers more low risk victims."

Richard had already come to the same conclusion, and he almost said so until he thought about how that would sound.  Then he suddenly remembered one of the things he had intended but had almost forgotten to ask Tanner about.

"One of the things that bothers me about our two victims is the inconsistency of the dumpsites," he said.

"They were both found on old logging trails, weren't they?"

"Yeah, but the second one had been posed.  He didn't do that with the first one we found."

"Both your victims were posed, Tanner stated flatly."

"No.  The one we just found was, but not the other.  I saw the body.  It wasn't arranged suggestively, just the opposite."

"But he threw her onto a trash pile, Carter.  See?  He was saying that she was garbage."  Tanner paused for a moment.  "The other one probably wasn't a prostitute."

"Then the treatment of our two victims fits Paget's profile, doesn't it?"

"It fits most of these guys," said Tanner.  But your perp probably isn't Paget.  Your perp lives pretty close to the dumpsites, he's got transportation, and he's comfortable traveling the area alone, which means he's familiar with the roads.  Paget has no history in the area.  Besides, how would he fit in?  Hell, you know what small towns and rural areas are like.  Someone would notice him, especially with his picture being shown on all the TV stations."

"Seems like a lot of coincidence," said Richard, unwilling to let go of it.  "Paget's been here.  You admit that you don't know where he's been staying.  And it looks like these women were killed like your victims."

"Only so many ways these guys kill.  By the way, any ID on the second body yet?"

"No, but she had some expensive dental work, so it should be just a matter of matching her to a missing persons report."

"I think you guys may wrap your murders up pretty quickly once you have an ID on your victim.  Ten to one she's a local, and you'll find someone who knew her that fits the profile.  By the way, has your boss requested assistance from the Investigative Support Unit?"

"He's pretty old fashioned, but his ego wouldn't keep him from it if he needs it."

Richard looked at the clock, surprised that he had been on the phone as long as he had.

"Agent Tanner, I can't tell you how much I appreciate you giving me your time like this."

"It's what I do, Carter," he said with a rueful laugh.  "About the only thing I've got a passion for according to my ex-wife."

He was silent for a moment.

"Sorry about your career, Carter.  Senter thinks you had a lot to offer the good guys."

"Thanks for telling me that.  I really admire her."

Blue Springs, June 6, 9:00 AM

Loose glass rattled in the door as one of the older deputies came in carrying a folded copy of the Springfield paper.  "Have you seen this, Shug?"

Richard could read the headline from across the room: Manhunt for Ozark Serial Killer.

The sheriff held the paper at arms length to avoid donning his glasses and began reading aloud:  "Hawthorn County authorities scoured an area of Mark Twain National Forest where the nude bodies of two unidentified young woman were found earlier in the week, looking for the serial killer they call ‘Huck Finn.'"

"Where did they get that?" he demanded.  "If any of my people got this started he's going to be looking for another job."

The room was dead silent.

"I hate cute crap like that," he continued.  "This is no game, and it sure isn't funny!  None of you says even one word to news people.  If we have anything to tell them, it comes straight from me---no one else!"

"Have you got that?" he asked glaring each of them in turn.

Quick nods.

"Make sure everybody know it."

Perhaps recalling the proverb about killing the messenger, the paper-bearing deputy beat left as soon as Shug was through talking.  In a few minutes only Richard remained.

"Sheriff," he said tentatively when they were alone.

"Please don't tell me you're responsible for this," said Shively sourly.

"No, I wouldn't do that.  I was just going to suggest---ask, I mean, if you had considered asking for help from the feds.  A profile might help."

"We can use all the help we can scrounge up," he allowed.  "I just hate the paper work.  Tell you what.  It was your idea.  Write up the request, and I'll sign it.  Whatever comes of it, you'll work coordinate it and handle the communications."

Richard nodded, wondering what Shug would say when he discovered that he had already contacted Tanner.

"Well get on it," said the sheriff.  "I'm not sure about the jurisdiction.  If the murders happened in Twain, it might be a federal case although it's in my county.  Then there's the highway patrol if it's a multi-county thing, so there's no telling how many other counties might be involved, maybe some of them in Arkansas.  Carter, sometimes federalism's too complicated for old country boy like me."

Richard smiled at the self-deprecating term Shug usually reserved for campaigning.

"After you formally contact the Investigative Support Unit, see what you can get from VICAP, and then keep in touch with your friend, Agent Tanner."

Richard's mouth dropped open. 

Shug smiled wryly.  "What?  You thought he wouldn't contact me?"

"I didn't mean to go out of channels," Richard began.

"Sure you did.  Clear things with me from now on."

Blue Creek, June 7, 2:00 AM

The picture of how he had found the body burned in his mind.  Despite the deterioration, there was no doubt as to how she had been posed.

She fit your fantasy just like the Riepe girl.  Only this time you actually took her with you.  Did you go back to visit her?

He reached for the Marked Tree file, running over the scene in his mind one more time.  He pulled out the history and victimology profile of the young girl who had been the focus of Paget's mayhem that night.  Then he read the autopsy.  Despite the dry words common to such documents, the horror communicated more clearly than the photos.  Each wound was minutely described, attesting to the horrific time span of her torture.  Her wounds seemed on the surface to be much less severe than those of the beating victims, but the deliberate prolongation and gradual escalation of her torment made it clear that she had suffered the most.

Richard tried to push aside the nausea and gain some objectivity. 

Why do you have to do this to them?

Katrina Riepe's high school yearbook picture sat next to autopsy photos and lab reports.  It didn't belong there any more than Katrina Riepe belonged where she was now.  He picked it up.  Her adolescent features held the promise of a mature beauty never to be realized.  With a sigh he put the photo down and went to refill his cup.  When he came back, her eyes seemed to seek his.  Her self-conscious smile touched his heart.  She had been just a child.

How could you look at her and still . . .  He stopped in mid-thought.

"Not despite her innocence, but because of it?" he muttered aloud.

"Who are you talking to?"

Jill stood framed in the kitchen doorway, clutching her robe about her.  He gathered the materials closed the folder.

"To the murderer I guess," he said.

"Is that better than talking to me?"

"Am I still in trouble for forgetting your birthday?" he asked irritably.

"Maybe I just never thought I would lose you to a criminal.  It seems you prefer to spend all your time with him now."

"You know it's not that.  Can't you understand that we've got to find this guy before he does it again."

"Of course you do," she said wearily.  "It's just that . . . you're so different now.  Even with Mic---when our own lives were in danger, we still had time for each other.  We still talked, Richard."

"I thought you didn't want to discuss the case."

"I don't.  I want to discuss us."

"What about us?  We're doing just fine.  We're going to have a baby, and everything is just . . . just great.  You ought to be happy that I'm not moping around any more."

"No.  As long as you have your obsession you are just fine."

"It's my job, Jill.  And it's important."

She sat next to him and touched his arm.

"Of course.  But what happens when it is over, Richard?  What happens when you catch him and your life becomes . . . less intense?  Will your family be interesting enough for you then?"

"You knew what I wanted before you married me, Jill," he said irritably.  "You can't expect me be something else now?"

"Before we were married you wanted me.  You wanted me more than anything else in the world.  Or was I wrong about that?"

How could he answer that?  Richard felt she was being petulant.  It was unrealistic for him to worry as much about her as about catching a killer.

"I know you need reassurance, but tell me how not to bring my work home."

"If you can't come home without it, then it will become your whole life," she said sadly.  "There won't be room in for me or our child.  Richard, you need balance.  We need balance.  Your child will need a father, not a . . . not a hero."

He was angry now, but didn't say anything.

"I'm just not sure that the sort of life you want is one that I can live with," she continued.  "Or one that I want our child to live with."

He was shaking his head in denial.

"You can't just disagree, Richard.  Tell me how you can be a husband and a father and still spend your days and nights like this."

"It won't be this way all the time.  Surely you know that.  Cases like this---"

"I know they are rare out here, but when an interesting one happens, you will always be the way you are now.  And when there is no case to obsess on, you will be self-absorbed and depressed."

"I don't want to fight, Jill."

"Neither do I."

"Then what do you want other than my . . .my capitulation?"

"I want my husband back.  And now I'm going back to our bed.  Are you coming?"

He suddenly realized that it was an ultimatum.

"I'll be in as soon as I put this stuff away," he said, hastily gathering the folders strewn across the table and stuffing them into his brief case.

Jill didn't make a sound as he undressed in the dark.  He slipped into bed and pulled her close, foolishly believing he had set things aright by his capitulation.  She yielded momentarily, giving him a perfunctory hug before turning away.  In a few minutes her even breathing told him that she was asleep. 

An hour later he still lay beside her fully awake, angry with her for first forcing him to bed and then turning her back on him.  It never occurred to Richard that he had turned his back first.  And then he did it again, turning his attention back to the case.

By dawn, he had convinced himself the Paget had indeed committed all the murders and was staying somewhere close by.  He decided to call Tanner again in the morning.

Blue Creek, June 7, 9:10 AM

"Behaviorally, what you're saying makes a certain amount of sense," said Tanner.  "If your first victim up there was a prostitute, and if it is Paget we're talking about here, then it's possible that he killed her for the same reason he killed the woman in Fayetteville."

"Because he thought of her as worthless."

"All women are worthless to him.  He has this simmering resentment toward them just waiting to explode.  If he were unable to perform---which is quite likely, he'd blame a hooker for it, and the worse thing she could do would be to sympathize.   That would infuriate a guy like him."

"So she would be the focus of a sort of generalized explosive rage, whereas the Riepe girl would be the focus of a fantasy built up to satisfy that rage?"

"You got it.  Now it's an interesting connection you're trying to make between your second Jane Doe---which is actually your first vic, as if things weren't confusing enough---and the Riepe girl."

"You think it's a stretch because the MO's are different."

"MO's are overrated," said Tanner.  "The Riepe girl was a target of opportunity, something too good for our man to pass up.  She was perfect for the script.  Sounds horrible, and I'm not trying to be flippant.  You've just got to think like these guys if you're going to track them down and make the right connections.  Writing a script is exactly what he was doing, and he saw her as perfect for the role of his fantasy victim."

"Our second one fit that role too?"

"Let's consider that for a moment.  From the autopsy report you faxed, I'd say your perp conned her into letting him isolate her because there's no evidence of blunt trauma, and no knife wounds---though given the degree of decomp, stabbing can't be ruled out, and neither can soft trauma that didn't show up in broken facial bones.  The only definite we have is that she was strangled at some point."

"So he could have taken a lot of time with her, just like Marked Tree," said Richard.

"Likely, but we don't know that.  She was probably killed somewhere besides the dumpsite.  That he both transported the body and posed it makes it almost certain that he spent considerable time with her at the murder scene."

"Paget wrapped up the Riepe's girl's body.  That suggests he was tempted to take the body with him," Richard reminded him.

"Suggestive but not probative.  Keep an open mind, Carter.  You can't look for Paget to the exclusion of other suspects."

"I'm not."

"Get real.  It's the way you're thinking.  Frankly, I still don't think there's much of a chance it's him."

"Are you sure you're keeping an open mind?"

"Would it set your mind at ease to know that we're still sifting through his past looking for friends and acquaintances that either came from that area or have moved there?  I admit it's not real high on our urgency list, but we aren't ignoring the possibility.  So far on that score we haven't found anything.  Would you like me to tick off the other reasons your killer probably isn't him?"

"Because he isn't familiar with the area and might not be comfortable riding around with corpses to dump when he doesn't know where good isolated dumpsites could be found?"

"Essentially."

"You haven't been to Hawthorn County.  Logging trails and Civilian Conservation Corps roads from the New Deal era run off into unpopulated areas of the Mark Twain Forest from almost every state and county road.  A complete stranger to the area could easily pick up on the fact that if there were no mail boxes at the junction with the highway, then there would be no houses on the road."

"Granted, but where could he be staying?"

"There are lots of abandoned houses, vacation cabins, and old trailers in the county.  He could be staying at any of a number of them."

"Could a stranger suddenly show up in that hill country and move into an abandoned house or trailer without raising some eyebrows?"

"Probably not," Richard admitted.  "But he could at a vacation cabin.  Local folks wouldn't think twice about that.  They'd just figure the owner sold it and the new owner was using it as a summer residence."

"Good thinking, except Paget is no fool.  He wouldn't want to be there if the real owners suddenly showed up."

"Maybe they did.  Maybe that's where he got his transportation.  Maybe that's who one or both of his victims were."

"Vacationers disappearing without friends or relatives inquiring about them," mused Tanner.  "What do you think the chances of that are?"

"High enough that I wouldn't discount it.  Maybe they were women who were lovers and went away without telling anyone because they didn't want it known back home."

"You're really starting to stretch," said Tanner.

"I was just pointing out that there are a lot of possibilities we probably haven't thought of."

Arguing served no purpose other than to clarify his thinking, so Richard decided to ask about something else that had been bothering him.

"Let's put aside the who for a moment, Agent Tanner.  I've got a why for you.  If our victims come from elsewhere---which I think these probably do---then why would he bring them here to dispose of them?"

"Two possibilities:  either he's trying to mislead us into thinking he's really staying there when he's not, or he's a local dumping them near his home."

"The first one I can understand if he has enough time, but the second idea---why would he go to the trouble of seeking his victims elsewhere and then dispose of them in a way that would literally draw an arrow to where he lives?  I know that's arguing against my own theory."

"Because no matter how intelligent he is, he's controlled by his fantasy.  He has to take them with him because killing them was the most satisfying thing he's ever done and he wants to prolong the experience.  By the way, your killer revisits his dumpsites.  You can bank on it."

"That's sick."

"Of course, but thinking like that doesn't help.  You want to catch him, learn to think like him---try to understand the appeal of it all for him."

"You can do that?"  Richard asked.

"Well somebody has to, don't they?  Oh, and, Carter, when you find the next dumpsite, don't remove the body.  Stake it out."

"I hope it doesn't come to that---another one I mean."

"Me too," said Tanner.  "By the way, have you all put in a request for assistance to the Support Unit yet?"

"We did.  The profile's kind of generic.  I assume that's because we don't have much to go on yet---no real victimology.  Look, Mr. Tanner, I appreciate your time.  I know I should be contacting the St. Louis field office on this, but---"

"You can't let go of the idea that Paget's your man?"

"Right.  My wife thinks I'm obsessed with this thing."

"You are.  Occupational hazard.  Hard on the family.  You can take my word on that.  If you care anything about your wife you'd better find a way to have off time.  If you can't take your mind off the case, you'd better learn the art of multi-tasking."

Canaan Camp, June 7, 5:30 PM

Shane wondered why Raven had suggested the walk.  They had barely exchanged a half dozen words, but he was beginning to think that things might be okay.  They followed the road down from the barracks down to the grove at the Phillips' where they had shared lunch and talked that first time.

"I've been wanting to talk to you since the . . . since I freaked out on you," she began tentatively.

"I was out of line," he blurted, desperate to undo whatever it was that he had done.  "The last thing I wanted to do was . . . I just wanted to let you know that . . .  I won't . . . uh . . . I won't do that again until you're ready---I mean if you're ready."

She shook her head vehemently.  "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then . . . I don't understand."

"Let's just . . . I need to walk," she said.

Without waiting for him, she stepped off the road and continued out across the new-mown pasture toward the tree where they had seen the snake.  He followed, now thoroughly confused.  The aroma of dry fescue hung in the warm air.  She looked out toward the distant tree line.

"My mother was a . . . a prostitute," she said over her shoulder.  "When I was little she sold me . . . to her friends.  Whatever filth you can imagine, that's me.  I grew up thinking that the things they made me do was what I was supposed to do.  When I was a twelve Family Services took me away from her."

He was as shocked, but he couldn't judge her.  Although he would never find the courage to tell her or anyone else, he had been victimized too---not physically, but mentally.

"It doesn't matter to me what---" he began.

"Just listen, Shane!" she said sharply.  "This is for your own good.  You think there's an us, but there isn't.  There can't be.  Can't you see?  There's no future for us.  What happened the other day proves it."

"You were just a little kid when it all that happened.  That stuff is past."

"Is anything ever past?"

"It is for me.  What happened to you back then doesn't make any difference to me---honest, it doesn't."

She didn't think the full impact hadn't hit him yet.

"It's not what happened to me, Shane.  It's . . .  Look.  I'm damaged.  There's something wrong with me . . . something's broken, and I can't fix it.  I see it, but I can't do anything about it.  It's who I am."

"You're not what they tried to make you back then.  You're not.  What you are is what you are now.  You are this wonderful person who I . . . fell in love with.  And besides you've been redeemed."

"Shane, I'm so sorry.  I should never have let this happen.  I knew better."

"You may not love me," he persisted.  "But you like me.  I know you do."

"Of course I do.  But not the way you want me to.  I can't feel that way about any man---any person.  The way I behaved when you tried to kiss me---that's who I am, Shane.  I can't stand it when somebody touches me.  It takes me back to that place.  I don't ever want to go again."

"You know I'm not like any of those . . . of the others.  I could never hurt you.  Don't you know that?"

She shook her head.  "You don't understand.  You can't help me, and I can't do anything about it.  It's just the way it is."

"You can put it behind you---maybe not forget about it, but make it just a bad memory."

She had to make him understand.

"I've never liked anyone they way I like you, Shane, but I can't stand it when you touch me.  Can't you see how hopeless that is?"

"You have to give yourself time."

He didn't understand at all.  Forget it?  How could she forget what had become a reflex?  Intellectually, Raven knew all about phobic reactions.  She had studied and researched until she understood both the psychological and physiological mechanisms of the behavior.  Understanding made no difference.

"Even if I could get over it," she said.  "I don't think you could."

"Of course I can---and eventually it'll change."

From some juvenile corner of his mind, the thought flashed that other guys would laugh at him if they ever found out he had a girlfriend that literally wouldn't let him touch her.  The term damaged goods came to his mind, and he blushed in shame at having thought it.

"It won't change, Shane.  It can't change."

Afraid that anything he might say would be wrong, he said nothing.  Raven interpreted his silence to mean that he had finally accepted what she was saying.  Although it was the outcome she had determined to achieve, she felt miserable having achieved it.

It didn't take him long to change his mind, did it? she thought sadly.  Once he realized he wasn't going to be able to sleep with me, he gave up.  My looks.  That's all he was interested in after all.

"Just go," she said.

"I can't."

She was surprised to see tears forming in his eyes.

"No one has ever cared for me the way I thought you did, Raven.  I can't give that up."

She needed Shane as a friend, but ending the relationship as quickly as possible was the only sensible thing to do.  But she didn't want to be sensible, and that was unconscionably selfish.

"I can't give you what you want.  Not ever."

"This is not about sleeping with you."

Of course it was part of what it was about for him---a big part.

"You're already given me what I want," he continued.  "Just don't stop.  Listen if people become . . . physical---I mean how long does that last?  Fifteen minutes?  A half hour?  They have the rest of the day to be together without being physical.  So you tell me what's the most important."

"Grow up, Shane!  Make this easier on both of us and just go away."

Raven turned her back, not wanting to see him as he walked away and out of her life.  Long moments later she wiped her cheeks dry.  Cicadas chorused in the nearby trees.

"Well, now you're alone.  Just like you wanted," she said softly.

"You're sad," he said, marveling.

Startled that he was still there, she turned.

"The hopelessness makes you sad," he said.  "Well then that means you want to hope."

Raven pursed her lips stubbornly.  "Just stop."

"We both believe in miracles, Raven," he persisted.  "We believe in things we can't see, in things we have no proof of but still hope for.  If we didn't, we would never have come to Canaan Camp.  When I'm with you it's better than anything that's ever happened in my entire life.  I can't give up."

It was foolishness, but foolishness Raven wanted to believe.

"I know you don't . . . I mean, maybe all I'll ever be is just your friend, but I'll be the best friend you ever had.  And I'll never hurt you."

"And when it doesn't work out the way you hope?"

"I can handle it."

She looked at him grimly.  Then she sat down cross-legged on the grass and pointed to the ground across from her.

"Sit down and listen.  Don't say anything until I'm through.  Then we'll see how you feel."

Sparing neither herself nor him, Raven revealed things that she hadn't allowed herself to think about since she'd been taken from her mother.  She used words common enough in the world at large, but never heard in the camp as she detail how she had been used, and how she had learned to submit to the pedophiles that her mother sold her to.

"So you were defenseless.  You were a victim.  There's no shame in that."

"I stayed until I was nearly thirteen."

"You were a child.  You never knew anything else."

"I should have.  Everyone in the world knows in his heart that what I did was wrong."

"To be what you are now after all that, I think maybe you're the purest woman in the world.  I'd like you to have this," he said offering her the necklace Paget had given him.  "Wear it for me.  Please.  Not as a . . . token of friendship.  It's just . . . you deserve something beautiful."

It was a mistake, but she took the necklace.  Still not daring to look at him, she fastened the clasp behind her neck.  Shane wanted to believe that her acceptance of the jewelry was the first step of a complete recovery. 

As sure as there's a God in heaven, this has to work out, he said to himself.  There has to be a way.

The story, as bare of details as it was, thrilled him.  He was the "serial killer in the area."  Kids playing in the woods had found the whore.  He was glad that they found the worthless slut.  He wished he could kill her again for all the trouble she had caused.  Then some deputy had found Pale Babe.  Without even waiting for a third body, the newspaper was calling him a serial killer.  Compounding the journalist's lack of professionalism was the idiotic nickname.

They should pick a more respectable name.  Something like The Hill Country Killer," he muttered as he punched off the radio and got out of the car.

The thrill waned and apprehension took its place.  They'll know it's me if they find out Pale Babe came from Fayetteville.  He tried to shrug it off, but the fact that he had made a serious mistake wouldn't go away.  Some dumb ass deputy has to find her!  Why did I have to bring her back?  Pale Babe threw herself at me.  And if the whore had just done its job right, none of that would have happened.

The truth was that he couldn't resist bringing the coed's body back.  He had almost done the same thing with Sweet Thing from Marked Tree.  Things at the camp were looking up, but if they found out he was in the area he'd have to leave everything he'd worked so hard to set up.

There's no end to trouble!  Why does everything have to get so damned complicated?  Beuler's idiotic "arms sortie!"  The house was supposed to be empty, but Sweet Thing was there and it all went to hell.  Big surprise.  Women always screw things up.

Chewing on the injustice of it all, he went up the steps and into the house.

Beuler slips away clean while I have to hole up with a bunch of religious fanatics.  Now I got cops sniffing all over the place.

"Maybe I can do something about that," he said aloud as a vague plan began to form.

"Is someone here, Caleb?"  A bleary-eyed Joshua came from the bedroom and leaned heavily on the doorframe wheezing noisily.

"Nobody's here," he replied, no longer concerned that he had to ask the old man for permission.  "I have to take a trip, Father Joshua.  I'll be gone for a few days.  "I have a . . . a mission."  Brother Shane will take care of the house while I'm gone."

"Get John.  John is good at---"

"No!" Paget said sharply.  "Don't you remember about John?"  He softened his tone.  "Remember what he tried to do to you?"

The old man blinked several times, and then his eyes narrowed.  "John wants to take the Church from me," he muttered.

"Right.  But now that we've figured it out, me and Shane won't let him.  Brother Shane is devoted to you, Joshua.  You can trust him as much as me."

"Shane?  Yes, he's a good boy."

Paget needed the kid to come through, but he wasn't sure that the young man was up to it.  On the way up to the house, he tried to strengthen the bond between them.

"How's it going with your girl?  She like the necklace, didn't she?"

"She said it was beautiful."

"Glad I could help you out, especially after I almost screwed everything up.  Honest, Shane, I never realized what a . . . a real lady she was.  Sure hope you're not mad at me for that."

"No.  It's okay.  She can be kind of confusing sometimes."

Shane stopped suddenly.  Caleb had helped him out, but stuff between him and Raven was private.

"Thanks for everything," he said.

"Is she's wearing the necklace?"

"Yeah.  She put it on as soon as I gave it to her."

Paget imagined the girl fastening the clasp at her nape and letting the charm slide down into her cleavage.

"That's great," he said, clapping Shane on the shoulder.  "I'm happy for you."

When they got to the house he cautioned Shane to keep his voice low because Joshua was still asleep.  Later, he made sure that Shane had the schedule for giving Joshua his "medicine" down pat.

"How long do you plan to be gone?" asked Shane in concern.

"Not long," Paget said vaguely.  "Wish I didn't have to go, but it can't be helped.  The important thing is that the doctor wants him to rest.  So he doesn't need to worry about the details of the camp.  Brother John can handle the day-to-day stuff, but he insists on coming up and bothering Father Joshua.  You've got to keep him from doing that, understand?  I've just been telling him that Father Joshua is sleeping.  Shane, I'm trusting you to take good care of him, and not just with his food and his medicine.  You've got to make sure no one bothers him."

"What if Brother John insists on seeing him?"

"You can't let him."

He opened the bedroom door and motioned Shane over.

"See how frail he is?  That's why he needs to forget about the day-to-day stuff."

Shane looked in apprehension at the thin figure snoring lightly on the bed in the darkened room.

"Are you sure he's going to be okay?"

"The doc said that the infection is gone.  All he needs now is uninterrupted bed rest until he regains his strength."

"So all I need to do until you get back is make sure he takes his meds and eats his meals?"

"The most important thing is to keep people from bothering him," Paget emphasized again.  "Our biggest problem is John.  He means well, but can't seem to do anything without bothering the old---Father Joshua."

"What am I supposed to do if he comes up here?"

"Keep him away from Father Joshua.  You might have to be forceful."

Shane examined the bottle of pills, frowning at the lack of prescription or dosage information.  Paget noticed and improvised.

"The doctor's one of us.  He thought it best not to put Joshua's name on the bottle.  The enemies are everywhere, Brother Shane.  You wouldn't believe all the people who want to destroy Father Joshua and the Church.  It's the Devil behind it, of course," Paget added, thinking that it sounded right.

"Now this is a pretty strong sedative," he said, holding up the larger of the two bottles.  "That's one of the things that doesn't need to get out.  Besides me, you're the only one that knows it, so we keep it that way, understand?"

"Is he addicted?" asked Shane in alarm.

"No way," Paget said reassuringly.  "It isn't habit forming, but with all the pressure he's been under for so many years, he's gotten used to needing a little help to fall asleep---to get out from under all the . . . the burdens.  So give him one at six in the morning and then another at two in the afternoon."

Shane nodded, frowning at the medicine bottle.

"Oh, and he takes it with a glass wine."

"Okay, but why does he want to sleep through the day?  Won't that put him awake all night?"

Paget clenched his teeth.  He felt like bashing the kid's face in.

"The light," he said, trying to come up with a believable response.  "For the last few weeks he's been suffering these terrible headaches.  He's supersensitive to light."

Paget suddenly thought of another eventuality.

"Oh yeah.  When the headaches hit he talks funny sometimes.  He may not make sense because he can't concentrate on what he's saying . . . doesn't complete sentences . . . that sort of thing."

To Shane it sounded like some kind of brain damage.

"Are you sure he's going to be all right?" he asked in concern.

"He'll be fine.  The infection caused a high fever a few weeks ago and caused him to forget a few stretches of time, but that's all over now.  The doc says it will all come back to him as soon as he gets his strength back."

Seeing the uncertainty in the young man's eyes, he placed a brotherly hand on his shoulder.  "I'm trusting in you, Brother Shane.  "He's trusting in you."

It was taking longer to buck up the kid than he had anticipated, but Paget hid his irritation.

"There's one other thing I've got to lay on you, Shane.  Not everyone here has the faith that you and I have, so we can't let them know how sick he's been.  Understand?"

Shane looked again at the bed where the older man lay gap-mouthed and snoring softly.

"What if something happens before you get back?"

"As long as you give him his medication, he'll be fine."

"So give him the sedative at six and two---are you sure he's supposed to have wine with it?  I thought alcohol and---"

"Yes, with a glass of wine," Paget interrupted, trying to keep the frustration from his voice.  "It's strong medicine.  The doc said it could really irritate the stomach of someone as old as he is, so he cut back the dosage and recommended the wine . . . something about the sugar counteracting the stomach acid."

He warmed to his inspired explanation.  Bobby Lee could always think on his feet.

"Without the wine he could develop an ulcer."

Shane nodded.  "And Father Joshua specifically asked for me?"

"He did.  He's a great judge of character, and he's counting on you, Shane.  So don't leave him alone for a minute.  It will keep you from your girl, but you're going to have to make the sacrifice.  Remember.  No one bothers him."

"You can count on me, Brother Caleb," he said resolutely.

"I knew you'd be a good soldier, Shane."

 

Norwood, Missouri, June 8, 4:30 PM

Trooper Rusty Talbot ducked though the doorway into the old service bay.  His flashlight picked out women's clothing arranged on the oil-grimed floor as if laid out on a bed in preparation for getting dressed.  He played the light around the musty room expecting to see a bare leg or arm protruding from beneath the abandoned service station's debris.

"Tell me again why you stopped here," he said over his shoulder to the old fellow fidgeting behind him.

"Them underthings out on the door.  They was like a flag, you know.  When I looked in that there window I seen something laying on the floor.  I was afeared it was a person, so I pushed on the back door and, since it wasn't locked, I come in and found that there."

"Did you touch anything in here?"

"No, sir.  What do you think it's all about?"

"Maybe kids pulling a prank," said the trooper absently as he moved slowly into the room.  "Stay where you are and don't touch anything."

Bending down he shined the light onto the corner of a laminated card barely visible beneath the sleeve of the blouse.  Carefully he used a pen to lift the fabric enough to examine the object.  The smiling face was one of the most natural-looking driver's license photos he had seen.  The name on it was Jacqueline Benson.