Of Blood and Blackwater

OF

BLOOD

AND

BLACKWATER

A NOVEL BY

2006

T. C. HEFFERNAN

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

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www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: 08001974150

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2010 T. C. Heffernan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/2/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4259-3445-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-0654-1 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Cover Artwork by Kellee Heisel

Interior Artwork by Haylee Heisel

The author thanks these two talented artists for their important contributions to this novel.

FOR LAURA

Without your unyielding support and patience with this, sometimes obsessive venture, it could never have come to this.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

No story makes it to print without the help of many people. This story is no different. I could not publish this novel without thanking those who took the time to read early versions of the manuscript and to offer words of support and advice. These kind readers are also valued friends: Kellee Heisel, Amanda Stephens, Sally Gilchrist, Beth Peyton, Robin Haden, Joan Martin and Andrew Buroker.

The quest for literary agent representation comes with considerable frustration and does nothing to promote confidence. Two readers therefore deserve special notice. To Carrie Baker and Carolyn McCune; your enthusiasm for the manuscript came to me when I sorely needed confidence to continue believing in my story.

To Chuck Palahniuk, your sage advice proved invaluable. I cannot adequately thank you.

To Chris Martin, your friendship, room and board and a very important introduction played critical roles, thanks.

To Natalie Collins and Heidi Neuman. You lifted my game to a new level.

To Cheryl Rivers, the other half of my two person critique group. I can’t overestimate the value of a talented writer who generously offers her knowledge, impressions and encouragement. I expect to see your first novel on the shelves sometime soon.

To Christine, for planting the seed of confidence that ultimately grew into this story. I hope you are watching.

Last, but most assuredly not least I must thank Laura, my loving wife for all that she has done to make this novel possible. There are too many things to recount here, except for her unconditional support for my dreams.

Contents

PROLOGUE

MONDAY - MARCH 11TH

ONE

SATURDAY - MARCH 30TH

TWO

SATURDAY MARCH 30TH

THREE

SATURDAY MARCH 30TH

FOUR

SATURDAY MARCH 30TH

FIVE

Tuesday - April 2nd

SIX

TUESDAY APRIL 2ND

SEVEN

TUESDAY APRIL 2ND

EIGHT

WEDNESDAY - APRIL 3RD

NINE

THURSDAY – APRIL 4TH

TEN

FRIDAY - APRIL 5TH

ELEVEN

SATURDAY - APRIL 6TH

TWELVE

SUNDAY - APRIL 7TH

THIRTEEN

MONDAY - APRIL 8TH

FOURTEEN

MONDAY APRIL 8TH

FIFTEEN

WEDNESDAY - APRIL 10TH

SIXTEEN

THURSDAY - APRIL 11TH

SEVENTEEN

THURSDAY APRIL 11TH

EIGHTEEN

THURSDAY APRIL 11TH

NINETEEN

THURSDAY APRIL 11TH

TWENTY

THURSDAY APRIL 11TH

TWENTY-ONE

FRIDAY - APRIL 12TH

TWENTY-TWO

FRIDAY APRIL 12TH

TWENTY-THREE

FRIDAY APRIL 12TH

TWENTY-FOUR

SATURDAY – APRIL 13TH

TWENTY-FIVE

Tuesday - April 16th

TWENTY-SIX

WEDNESDAY - APRIL 17TH

TWENTY-SEVEN

WEDNESDAY APRIL 17TH

TWENTY-EIGHT

WEDNESDAY APRIL 17TH

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

FRIDAY -APRIL 19TH

THIRTY-ONE

FRIDAY APRIL 19TH

THIRTY-TWO

FRIDAY APRIL 19TH

THIRTY-THREE

FRIDAY APRIL 19TH

THIRTY-FOUR

SATURDAY - APRIL 20TH

THIRTY-FIVE

SUNDAY EARLY A.M. APRIL 21ST

THIRTY-SIX

SUNDAY APRIL 21ST

THIRTY-SEVEN

SUNDAY APRIL 21ST

THIRTY-EIGHT

MONDAY – APRIL 22ND

THIRTY-NINE

MONDAY - APRIL 22ND

FORTY

TUESDAY - APRIL 23RD

FORTY-ONE

WEDNESDAY – APRIL 24TH

FORTY-TWO

THURSDAY – APRIL 25TH

FORTY-THREE

THURSDAY APRIL 25TH – 7:28 P.M.

FORTY-FOUR

FRIDAY - APRIL 26TH – 4:18 A.M.

FORTY-FIVE

FRIDAY APRIL 26TH

FORTY-SIX

FRIDAY APRIL 26TH

FORTY-SEVEN

FRIDAY APRIL 26TH

FORTY-EIGHT

FRIDAY APRIL 26TH 11:40 P.M.

FORTY-NINE

SATURDAY - APRIL 27TH

FIFTY

SATURDAY APRIL 27TH

FIFTY-ONE

SATURDAY APRIL 27TH

FIFTY-TWO

SATURDAY APRIL 27TH

FIFTY-THREE

SATURDAY APRIL 27TH

FIFTY-FOUR

SATURDAY APRIL 27TH

FIFTY-FIVE

Sunday - April 28th

FIFTY-SIX

SUNDAY –TUESDAY- APRIL 28TH - 30TH

FIFTY-SEVEN

MONDAY - APRIL 29TH

FIFTY-EIGHT

TUESDAY – APRIL 30TH

FIFTY-NINE

THURSDAY – MAY 2ND

SIXTY

THURSDAY MAY 2ND

SIXTY-ONE

FRIDAY – MAY 3RD

SIXTY-TWO

FRIDAY MAY 3RD

SIXTY-THREE

SATURDAY – MAY 4TH

SIXTY-FOUR

SATURDAY MAY 4TH

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

MONDAY - MARCH 11TH

He crouched among a large patch of tall ferns, nearly invisible in a green and black Gore-Tex jacket. Soft rain, more mist than downpour, dribbled through the towering pines, smothering all but the sharpest sounds. His position provided a view of a short section of the Wildwood Trail, a narrow swath of compacted dirt that bisected Forest Park, the massive forested expanse that stretches like a crooked finger into the heart of Portland. He had taken up this vigil over an hour before, and he sensed his impatience rising. But he would wait, for he had a hunger to satisfy. No sooner had this thought crossed his mind when he heard the soft, rhythmic pounding of a single pair of running shoes striking the damp trail at a measured pace. His heart rate quickened.

As she came into view, he grinned. There you are, he thought. He watched her complete the curve and start up the hill, her back now in clear view as she moved slowly away into the murk.

Sherry Coltrane’s training for the Arthritis Association marathon was going well, boosting her confidence that she would be able to finish the race. She had never viewed herself as an athlete, yet here she was, preparing for a full marathon and enjoying it! The long runs gave her time to think, to daydream. On this rainy late afternoon, her reverie focused on the upcoming trip to Ireland, the site of the Arthritis Association marathon. Her boyfriend, Mike, would be accompanying on her inaugural overseas trip. Sherry’s romantic side had pondered the likelihood that their Irish vacation might prove memorable for more than just a race, but she tried to temper her romantic expectations. Still the thought elicited a smile as she started up the longest hill on the route.

Oh shit! she bellowed, as a sharp pain erupted below her left shoulder blade. Reaching instinctively toward the source of her discomfort, she expected to feel the tiny stinger of a bee. Instead she found a long wooden shaft with a cottony end penetrating two layers of clothing and sunk deep into muscle. Despite a determined attempt to extract the imbedded dart, it remained firmly rooted. Sherry was still struggling to remove it when her left knee buckled. Bracing herself against a small tree, she remained upright on rubbery legs that felt less trustworthy with each passing second.

Movement in the woods below caught Sherry’s attention. She turned to see a man approaching from the forest. His advance brought a degree of momentary relief. But something in his manner erased any sense of comfort. A voice inside screamed, RUN!

Sherry turned to sprint up the steep trail, her legs as awkward as those of a newborn calf. Within seconds, strength failing, she collapsed like a house of cards. She tried to rise, but her legs would no longer support her. Each breath came with greater difficulty, as if her throat grew incrementally smaller with each respiration. She understood, at some level, that she had been drugged; yet, the instinct to flee overrode any rational thought. She fought to stay calm, to focus, but the fear was powerful, and like a riptide, pulled her toward the abyss.

Digging both elbows into the soft earth, Sherry dragged herself a few feet. A labored look confirmed her fears; the man was moving closer. She reached the valley side of the trail and rolled right, over the edge, letting gravity accomplish what her body could not. She tumbled like a rag doll down the slope before a tree painfully stopped her progress.

As each moment ticked by, the disconnection between her brain and body grew more profound. Sherry could still feel everything: the pressure of the tree against her aching shoulder, the bruise now forming on the outside of her right knee. Yet when it came to movement, she was very nearly paralyzed. She recalled nightmares like this, so she tried to wake herself, imagining bolting upright in bed, released from the terrifying images, safe. With concentrated effort she forced her eyes to close in search of a different reality. When her eyelids parted, nothing had changed, except that he was now much closer.

With one last burst of will, Sherry moved just enough to free herself from the tree, sending her plummeting toward the valley below, finally landing in a massive wound in the earth where the roots of a large felled tree were ripped from the ground. The depression that remained easily cradled her body, and for a few seconds at least, blocked her from her pursuer’s view. As terrifying as she found the man and his unknown motives, breathing had become Sherry’s most urgent concern. Her gasps brought her so little air that suffocation seemed imminent.

Her singular focus did not last long. The sound of small twigs breaking and of feet treading on wet pine needles announced his impending arrival. Her head faced in the opposite direction so she could not tell how close he might be. Not until his hot breath tickled the side of her neck.

Tears erupted as a surge of panic took hold. She tried to speak, to beg him. Someone standing very nearby might have heard please, uttered in a barely audible whisper. She tried to scream when he touched her but produced only a sobbing croak. With intense resolve, Sherry shifted her gaze, frantic to see someone who could help. Instead, she saw only the silent, deserted woods and the fine hoary drizzle that glided gently to the ground.

He stood silently over his prey for only seconds before he tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and headed deeper into the forest. A million hideous thoughts ricocheted within Sherry’s consciousness, but none approached the horror that lay ahead.

ONE

SATURDAY - MARCH 30TH

Hours before the morning sun crested the mountains east of Portland, Gareth McKenna awoke screaming. Frightened more by the sound of complete terror in his own voice than by any specific memory of his nightmare, he scrambled for the security of the bedside lamp, launching his clock radio from the nightstand in the process. The crash of the Sanyo against the hardwood floor, followed almost immediately by loud barking, brought him closer to full consciousness. Turning on the lamp, he instinctively averted his eyes, a moment too late to avoid the blinding sensory overload. He brought both hands protectively to his face, while his heart pounded as if he had just raced up one of the nearby hills.

As he waited for his eyes to adjust, Gareth’s mind suddenly filled with the image of trees towering over him and the awareness of moisture on his skin. He could clearly see the quarter moon framed in the sky by a gap in the trees overhead. The sound of insects, a thousand varieties, assaulted his ears. The heady air clung to his skin like a water coat, its pockets filled with the sweet scent of flowers and the oppressive smell of decay, all woven together into the unique aroma of the jungle. He was in the rain forest, lush with vegetation, burgeoning with life. The images, sounds, and fragrances were all more vivid than any memory he could conjure. He was back in the Amazon basin, a place he had not visited in more than three years. His time in the Amazon had been among the best of his life, but nothing about this felt good. Gareth sensed darkness beyond the night and an unnatural coldness in the midst of the jungle’s warmth. He also realized that the image had suddenly become silent. The jungle was never silent.

Shivers spread like an electrical wave washing over the damp surface of his skin. This brought him back to reality and the confines of his bedroom. As suddenly as the image had appeared to him, the unmistakable sense of the jungle had vanished. Cold chills again coursed through his body, and he responded with a reflexive shudder.

As he collected his thoughts and pondered his confusion, his two best friends, Sophie and Bradshaw, arrived, vocally challenging any intruder who dared violate their domain. Concerned about their leader’s welfare, both dogs vaulted onto the mattress to deliver a volley of licks to Gareth’s face and ears.

Okay, okay. I’m up. I’m up already.

The dogs’ enthusiasm at finding their friend in apparent good health temporarily broke the tension. He could always count on them to brighten his mood.

Peeling the sweat-soaked sheets from his legs, Gareth reluctantly acknowledged that the day had begun, though several hours earlier than planned. He gathered up a worn pair of crew socks, and a pair of jeans from the floor, sat on the bed, and pulled them on. He stood; meeting the new day with an ominous sense of disquiet and foreboding that he could neither ignore, nor explain.

Sophie, a black and silver Siberian husky, led the way as Gareth plodded across the floor and down the stairs, toward the kitchen and the prospect of a hot cup of coffee. Bradshaw, a 120-pound Great Pyrenees mix that Gareth rescued from the pound, bolted past him, knocking his still-sleepy master into the doorframe.

Thanks, Bradshaw, just what I needed.

The dog, oblivious to sarcasm, raced toward the front of the house in a vain attempt to overtake Sophie, who had already reached the front door. Gareth chuckled, Hey, Sophie, not even paperboys get up this early.

The newspaper usually arrived by six on Saturday morning, still almost two hours in the future. Gareth moved into the kitchen, tailed moments later by the dogs, obviously disappointed that they were not on their way to get the morning paper.

The house, a modern design of sharp angles with red cedar siding and abundant large windows affording views of the surrounding forest, sat on a shelf situated below a long ridgeline. A redwood deck lined three sides of the house, overlooking a jagged ravine. From the kitchen, a massive picture window faced eastward toward the rising sun. On clear days Gareth could see Mt. Hood, some 35 miles to the east, and Mt. Adams and Mt. St. Helens to the north. Of course viewing the sunrise or the mountains required visibility through the clouds, a rare occurrence in western Oregon during late March.

Being a Saturday, Gareth would normally have slept until at least seven. He had awoken, in much this same way, eight other times within the past six months, most recently just two weeks before. After each prior episode, he had tried to get back to sleep, without success. This time he experienced more than the fear from an unrecalled dream. This time he had undergone a kind of waking vision, something he found more than a little creepy.

That which at first seemed a symptom of nothing more ominous than a late night pizza, had grown to feel much more menacing. Gareth had absolutely no idea what, or who, so frightened his subconscious. He wondered whether the images and sensations reflected some part of a dream of which he had no other memory, or whether memories of his time in the jungle triggered his recent dreams. Neither explanation provided any comforting insight. The vision felt more real than reality itself, and he struggled to escape the memory.

Gareth poured the Kenyan coffee beans into the grind-n-brew coffee maker he received as a Christmas gift from his girlfriend, Karin Eriksen. He had not been a coffee drinker, much less a connoisseur, when he moved to Portland almost six years ago. Somehow he came to appreciate this morning ritual and later to depend on it, though he loathed to admit a caffeine addiction, no matter how socially acceptable.

Two hours and a pot of java later, Gareth headed toward the front door, sending the dogs into spasms of joy. The trip to collect the paper was their first adventure each morning, an opportunity to encounter all the smells of the new day. The verdant wooded yard rose sharply to the east of the long asphalt driveway and dropped even more drastically downward on the opposite side to the small, boulder-strewn Red Deer Creek. Near the bottom the stream curved, flowing under a small bridge at the base of the McKenna driveway. The current flowed swiftly, affirming the pitch of the creek-bed not otherwise evident.

Gareth always marveled at the enthusiasm with which the dogs approached everything, except for baths and trips to the vet. Sophie bounded into the creek, lapping up a drink before scampering back up to join Bradshaw. A gray squirrel, the dogs’ favorite but most frustrating quarry, scurried toward a tall fir beside the stream. Always alert for a good pursuit, Sophie gave chase with Bradshaw in his usual position, a few steps behind. Gareth watched from the bridge as the squirrel they were chasing reached the safety of the tree. It went up the trunk just high enough to be out of reach and chattered away as if laughing at the frustrated canines. Retrieving the paper from the mailbox, Gareth started back toward the house reading the front-page headline:

House Set to Vote on Tax Reduction Package.

Less than inspired, Gareth looked for more interesting fare, spotting an article below the fold.

Woman’s Body Identified as Missing Coed

Portland Police report the woman’s body discovered last Tuesday floating in the Columbia River has been identified through dental and medical records as Sherry Coltrane, 21, a senior nursing student at the University of Portland. A roommate reported her missing on March 11, 2002 after not returning from a run in Forest Park. Police provided few details other than confirming that the woman was murdered. According to Medical Examiner Aaron Shelby, the body was in the water for at least five days prior to being discovered by two fishermen. Being submerged in the river for such an extended period destroyed much of the trace evidence, according to Shelby.

While the police have refused to provide details of the investigation, unofficial police bureau sources said the body appeared mutilated, and confirmed reports that certain internal organs were missing from the body. There has also been speculation that the killing may be related to the December 2001 murder of Nikki McPherson, 26, whose body was discovered in Multnomah Channel, just above its confluence with the Willamette River.

McPherson worked as a physical therapist at the Columbia Sports Medicine Center in Beaverton. Police provided few details of that murder investigation and have refused to comment on questions relating the two killings. McPherson had been missing for 10 days before Portland resident Luther Grandy discovered her body while walking his dog near the Channel in the early morning hours of December 13, 2001.

One other young woman, Jill Sarano, 23, a marketing associate for Medline Systems of Portland, was reported missing on February 15, 2002. Police suspect foul play in that case as well, leading some to speculate that a serial killer may be preying on young women in the greater Portland area. Police spokesperson Donna Spyker refused to comment, but private sources within the bureau have confirmed that the police suspect the killings are related.

TWO

SATURDAY MARCH 30TH

Portland Homicide Detective Armando Army Padilla and his partner, Detective Frank Blaine, walked into a high profile but very private meeting feeling like they were entering a lion’s cage. Over the prior six months, young women in the Portland area had been disappearing with disturbing regularity and two had turned up dead. The press was already speculating about a serial killer, and the cops and the mayor’s office were feeling the pressure.

Around a long conference table sat a collection of the city’s top law enforcement brass, including the Chief of Police, Edward Scarza, and the recently elected District Attorney, Danielle Stephens. Army Padilla’s only ally on the panel was Lew Cantrell, a veteran state homicide detective and a solid friend. The meeting was ostensibly about briefing the city’s top officials on the status of the case.

As the lead detective in charge of the investigation, Army expected to take most of the heat for the lack of progress in solving the crimes, but it soon became clear that placing blame was only one item on the agenda. A battle was brewing and D.A. Stephens clearly had Scarza in her sights. A practiced flip sent her flaxen hair cascading over her left shoulder as she took the stage.

Does anyone in this room doubt that a brutal and sadistic serial killer is prowling our city? Anyone? Speak up if I’m missing something here. We have two corpses and five missing women, and your bureau has generated nothing. You’ve generated no leads, no forensic evidence, no clear suspects, nothing in six months of investigation! What does that tell you, Chief?

Scarza, a balding, middle-aged, former street cop with a scratchy voice reminiscent of Marlon Brando in The Godfather, responded, looking as if steam might start billowing from his ears any moment. "For Christ’s sake, Stephens, with so little physical evidence and no witnesses, how in the hell do you expect us to solve these cases? This psycho will make a mistake and when he does we will bring him down, but you can’t expect miracles."

How many other women are going to die while we wait for your bureau to turn something up? We can’t wait any longer. We need to bring in people with profiling expertise, and we need to do it now. It’s time to get the FBI on board. Admit it. You need their help.

What we don’t need is the Feds to come in here and take over this investigation. You seem to think that they have some kinda Goddamned magic ball. They don’t. They need evidence just like we do. You’re just looking for political cover.

Stephens took a deep breath and shifted her gaze to the ceiling, as if inviting some divine intervention, before rolling her eyes back toward Scarza. A moment of silence served only to thicken the tension. Finally she said, Nobody is talking about turning this case over to the FBI. But we need the expertise and experience they bring.

Lew Cantrell interrupted, Ed, I’ve gotta agree with the D.A. on this one. The Feds bring a lot to the table that you’re going to need. Invite them to be part of a task force. They’ll assign one or two agents, and you’ll get a profile. You can stay in control. Just use them as consultants and everybody wins.

Scarza found it much easier to agree with Cantrell, a tough, likable cop that he’d known for over 20 years, than Stephens, whom he viewed as a political hack more concerned with image than justice. She never failed to piss him off, and he suspected that she enjoyed it.

Army spoke up, Chief, I think Lew has a good point. A solid profile might narrow the list of suspects. This killer clearly targets a specific type of woman. All of these victims have been professional women or students. Those are not low risk targets. He’s careful and meticulous, but he will eventually make a mistake. I’m just not sure we can afford to wait. We don’t have the evidence to catch him right now, but a good profiler could work with the information we have. God knows we can use the help, Chief.

In the end, Scarza relented and the assembled panel agreed to recommend that the mayor request limited FBI assistance. The meeting broke up and Army and his partner took the stairs to the third floor.

They said nothing as they entered the Columbia River Killer Command Center, a cluttered, windowless conference room. Frank’s long, skinny frame collapsed into his chair, while Army leaned on the edge of a long worktable covered with police interview reports. His clear brown eyes stared expressionless into space. Only the staccato rhythm of his tapping foot, like some private Morse code, hinted at his agitation.

A large map of Greater Portland occupied the center of one wall. To the right of the map were photos of the two women whose bodies had been recovered. Autopsy close-ups graphically displayed the degradation and invasion they suffered before their deaths. Red pushpins on the large wall map opposite Frank marked the locations where the bodies had been discovered. Green pins showed the homes of the missing and the murdered. Blue pins denoted workplaces, and yellow, their last known locations. A chalkboard at the end of the room disclosed the list of confirmed and suspected victims.

Name Age Description

Carol Lynette Haynes – 19, 5-2 – 113 Short Brown / Brown eyes Last Seen: Milwaukie, OR - 9-28-01

Michele Lynn Parker – 22, 5-4 – 118 Long Blonde/ Brown eyes Last Seen: Portland, OR -10-26-01

Nikki Ann McPherson – 26, 5-7 – 128 Med Brown /Brown eyes

Last Seen: Beaverton, OR - 12-03-02

Jill Nicole Sarano – 23, 5-3 – 132 Med Blonde/ Blue eyes

Last Seen: Lake Oswego, OR - 2-14-02

Sherry Jo Coltrane – 21, 5-5 – 126 Short Blonde/ Green eyes

Last Seen: Portland, OR -3-11-02

After several minutes, the detectives moved to opposite sides of the worktable and started pouring over autopsy and interview reports, for what seemed like the hundredth time, looking for some clue they might have missed. They scanned the women’s profiles looking for common features, but so far nothing stood out other than the narrow age range and the fact that four of five were very active. Three disappeared while cycling or running alone. Three of the girls lived alone, and two had steady boyfriends. One was married. None of the victims apparently knew each other or had acquaintances in common. Those who attended church attended different churches, and none of the girls had ever worked together or for the same employer. Two had attended the University of Portland, but their attendance did not overlap. Likewise two had attended the same high school, but graduated seven years apart and had no apparent contact or knowledge of each other.

Jill Sarano was abducted while walking to her car from a downtown bar sometime after 1 a.m. That could indicate that the case was unrelated, but Army had a gut feeling the same person had abducted all five young women. He also believed that all five were dead.

Army tossed the Coltrane autopsy report aside. What are we missing here?

Frank shrugged, I’ve been over this information so many times I can’t see straight.

How’s he’s targeting these women. We’re missing some connection. We have to be.

Yeah, but damned if I can figure out what.

Frank pulled a brown file folder from a stack on his left containing color-coded folders for each victim. Each of the girls had at least one e-mail address. Three had work and home e-mail accounts. A summary presented a comparison of each of the women’s address books, bookmarks/favorites, online newsgroups, chat rooms and recovered e-mail messages, sent and received. The printout revealed several bookmarks in common including e-bay, amazon and barnesandnoble.com, but nothing appeared relevant to the investigation.

They had already reviewed checkbook registers, utility providers, clubs and volunteer organizations but were unable to establish any connections. Army had solved many homicides in his twenty-seven years as a cop, but he knew he would have to adjust his thinking to stop this killer. He hoped this case turned out better than his last serial murder case, which still haunted him eighteen years later.

Army stood and began pacing slowly, like a caged leopard, back and forth across the room. After a half dozen laps he sat on the corner of the desk. His gaze narrowed and he seemed to be staring at a bare spot on the wall. Frank had seen this look on his partners face before.

After a long period of silence, Army seemed to break free of his trance. How are we going to find this bastard?

I wish I knew. I think you’re going to have to break out your special mojo. Get in this guy’s head and ferret him out that way.

That’s a problem. I’m nowhere near getting in this guy’s head. Army dragged his fingertips down the side of his acne-scarred face and sighed. Maybe we need to start profiling him ourselves.

Frank shrugged, I’m game, but you know psychology isn’t my thing.

You’re better than you think. Go for it. Tell me something about him.

Frank ran his fingers over the top of this head and looked at the floor. Then finally, Okay, I’d say our perp is a white male because serial killers usually hunt their own kind.

Right. We also know the guy chooses risky victims, but he leaves almost no evidence behind. So he’s careful. He’s a planner, probably smart.

Frank’s shoulders and chin lifted in unison. Careful means he’s probably older. Maybe in his thirties or forties?

Exactly. Young guys are impetuous. They make a lot of mistakes. So we have a white male, thirty-something. He’s crazy, but not completely loony. Army stood and resumed his pacing with greater energy. He’s still in control of himself. Wanna bet he didn’t make it to thirty-something without getting some kind of police record? You don’t start out with this level of violence. He’s got a history. Ten to one it involved violence against a woman.

That’s a start, but we’re already looking at every sex offender in our system. No shortage of those. We need something more specific. We know he keeps them alive for a while. He has to have a place to keep ‘em. That means a house, not an apartment. He needs to control them. He needs to feel the power. Once they’re dead, they’re out of his control. I’ll bet the guy has felt powerless his whole life. Killing makes him feel strong, in control.

Fine, but how does it help us catch him? Frank asked.

Army paused then slowly shook his head. I don’t guess that it does. Profiling works, but you have to take it a lot farther than I can.

THREE

SATURDAY MARCH 30TH

After retrieving the newspaper and perusing the sports and front-page sections, Gareth fixed his self-proclaimed world famous banana-blueberry pancakes, sharing a few nuggets with Sophie and Bradshaw. Afterward, he retrieved a copy of the journal Ethnobotany from his briefcase and returned to the kitchen table. After reading the first few paragraphs six times without an ounce of comprehension, he stood and tossed the journal on the counter. Sophie also jumped to her feet and gazed up at Gareth, her tail wagging expectantly. He got the message.

We might as well take a walk, girl. I’m sure as hell not going to get any work done today.

At the mention of the word walk, both dogs raced to the front door. Gareth hooked their leashes and stepped outside. Beneath an overcast sky and without a trace of wind, they wandered the winding streets of the neighborhood. A half-mile from the house, they ran into an early-rising neighbor, Alex Carson, on his way to pick up the morning paper with his dog Maddie, a Golden Retriever mix. Maddie spotted the McKenna clan and rushed to greet them with tail wagging and a look of obvious glee on her face. Alex looked up as Maddie took off.

Morning, Gareth. You’re up a little early aren’t you?

Hi, Alex. Yeah, I woke up early and had a hard time getting back to sleep. Alex nodded as the three dogs had a free-for-all at his feet. Listen, I’m thinking about going down toward Bend today for some climbing. I need someone to let the dogs out and feed them this evening. I’ll be back tonight, but it could be late. Would Chelsea be interested in a little dog sitting? Alex’s 15-year-old daughter had looked after Sophie and Bradshaw on many occasions and was one of the few people, besides Karin, he trusted to care for his pals.

I’m sure she’d love to and I know she doesn’t have any conflicting plans this evening because we are all going to dinner together at eight. Carly’s brother and his wife are in town."

I’d really appreciate it. And of course I’ll make a little contribution to Chelsea’s summer reading fund, he said, referring to Chelsea’s voracious reading appetite and her weekly trips to Half Price Books.

She has a key and already knows the drill. I’ll tell her when she wakes up, Alex said, nodding.

Thanks, Alex. If anything comes up, have her call Karin. I’ll leave the number on the kitchen table.

Sounds good. Have a safe climb, Alex said as he walked back up his driveway.

Gareth and the dogs finished their walk without seeing any other neighbors, four-legged or otherwise. As he started assembling his gear and loading his pack, Sophie got excited, thinking she was to be included in the adventure. This in turn started Bradshaw barking. Before he knew it, Gareth had an entire canine orchestra. As he left the house and locked the door, he could see the disappointment in Sophie’s amber eyes and resolved to make it up to her.

Gareth reached the trailhead just after 10:30 a.m. with his disturbing wake-up call and its aftermath still weighing him down. He could not escape the feeling that his vision, or whatever it was, was somehow associated with the unrecalled nightmare that preceded it. But none of it made sense.

Dreams aren’t really supposed to make sense, he rationalized, but this brought no real comfort, especially when the only part he remembered happened while he was awake. The climb would force him to focus externally, and he hoped it would also break the flow of images and sensations recycling in his brain.

Gareth exited the white Land Rover, opened the back and loaded his lunch and two water bottles into the pack with his climbing gear. As he shouldered the pack, Gareth noticed an old Toyota Landcruiser nearby that had been blocked from his view as he entered the parking area. This could mean only one thing. His face brightened at the prospect of seeing his close friend.

Anxious now to get started, he began a slow run toward the rock wall. At first his body was sluggish, but after the first mile he started feeling better. Cresting a ridge, Gareth could see the cliff a half-mile or so ahead. The day had started out gray, much like his mood, but both had now turned sunny.

Solo climbing was dangerous, even for experienced climbers like Gareth. He was always extra careful when climbing alone, limiting himself to routes rated well below his capabilities. His objective this day was a familiar route that required concentration but was not terribly challenging.

As he approached the rock face, he spotted his buddy, Nick, nearing the end of his first pitch. He also recognized Nick’s climbing partner, Andrea Moore, a talented rock climber who lived and worked in Bend. She was belaying Nick on a relatively easy section of a much tougher route than Gareth planned to tackle.

Gareth yelled, Can you help me? I seem to be lost. I’m trying to find the nearest public bathroom.

Nick turned. Gareth could hear his enthused laugh even from where he stood, some 250 feet away. Come on up and I’ll draw you a map, Nick yelled.

Andrea recognized Gareth and let out a small, excited scream. G, come join us, she added.

Thanks, but I was just planning on the bunny hill today.

Nick yelled back, No way, man! Hold up, I’m coming down.

Andrea confirmed that she had Nick on belay, and he quickly climbed down the 20 feet to his last clip-in, then pushed away from the wall. Andrea slowly lowered Nick to the mounded rock at the base of the cliff where she stood. Gareth donned his climbing shoes and harness, and made the short walk to where Nick and Andrea stood.

The moment he reached them Nick grabbed him in a bear hug and Andrea planted a wet kiss on his lips.

Now that’s what I call a greeting, Gareth said with a wink.

Well, what do you expect? Neither of us has seen you in months, replied Nick.

I know. I’ve been busy in the lab and just haven’t been making the time to get outside.

Gareth had been close with Nick Chola for five years but had known the full blooded Yakima Indian long before he become known as one of the world’s best rock climbers. Despite this reputation, Nicky Chola remained as down-to-earth as the day Gareth met him.

After a few minutes of pleasantries, Nick goaded Gareth into attempting their chosen route, dubbed Creeping Peril. Gareth accepted only because he knew he would not have to lead.

Of course Nick had other ideas. You lead the first pitch, G, he said casually.

No way, Nicky, I’m not up to leading a 5.11 today.

Of course you are, man. You know it’s about testing yourself. You’ve led much tougher pitches than this. So what if it’s been a year or so? It’s like riding a bike. Besides, I’ll be on the other end of your rope. Once you reach the first protection, about 16 feet up, you’re gold, he argued.

Easier said than done, but Nick could always push the right buttons.

Gareth stretched for a full fifteen minutes before starting. He visualized the route and picked out his expected handholds and toeholds up to the first anchor. Satisfied with his approach, Gareth placed his toe on a slim shelf, about twice the width of a nickel and started climbing. He moved slowly up the rock face, testing and re-testing his holds before making each move. He clipped into the carabiner attached to the first anchor and paused a moment to rest his fingers. Despite the burn in his forearm muscles, his face radiated a kind of joy he found nowhere else. He was happy Nick talked him into leading. Nothing gets me focused like climbing.

With the exception of one small error, Gareth climbed better than he could have expected, given his recent hiatus. At the summit the three friends sat for twenty minutes resting and hydrating at the summit before descending.

When they reached their cars, Andrea suggested a late lunch at the Deschuttes Brewpub in nearby Bend. They made their way to their favorite gathering spot and sat on the deck overlooking the river.