Dead River (18 page)

The weather reports had predicted thunderstorms for the late evening. As some of the sleepy fog lifted from Dawn’s head, she realized that one of the tree branches was scraping the roof of the house. The wind continued blowing and the moon disappeared, masked by the dark clouds. Unconcerned, she lowered her head on the soft pillow and drifted back to sleep.

Dawn suddenly awoke again. This time the room was dark, and she was lying on her back. She couldn’t breathe. Someone was sitting on her pelvis. A large hand was over her mouth and nose. Another hand had her left arm pinned to the bed. The man’s immense weight held her in place despite her attempts to twist loose. She tried screaming, but the man pressed harder. She could smell latex. Panic swept throughout her body. Her heart jumped to her throat, beating like an air compressor. Oh God, it’s him!

As her eyes adjusted she could see the faint outline of the man’s head. It looked like he was wearing a ski mask. Now she realized her right arm was free and tried to scratch at the mask, but she wasn’t quick enough. The man threw his head back before she hit her mark. He jerked her left arm and tucked her wrist under his knee and applied pressure. Then he quickly switched the hand covering her mouth and nose, so fast she didn’t have time to scream. He grabbed her right arm and pinned it under his other knee. I can’t breathe! I’m going to die!

Dawn was completely immobile. The room started to spin. She tried screaming again, but only faint, muffled sounds escaped from under the man’s gloved hand. The moon came through the clouds once again, and Dawn could see the man’s head more clearly. There were two large white eyes staring at her. It was one of those ski masks with openings for eyes and mouth. He lowered his hand from her nose, and she began breathing rapidly.

“I had to see you, Dawn,” the man whispered. “Your sister was so good I decided I had to have you too. And I will have you, my dear.”

Dawn’s heart pounded. Muted screams came from under the gloved hand and mucus shot out from both her nostrils. I’m going to die! He’s going to kill me!

She tried thrusting her body to the side, but his weight easily held her in place.

Forceful gusts of wind again scraped branches against the roof. The man looked around the room. He quickly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small bottle. He unscrewed the lid with one hand and poured a liquid on the pillow next to Dawn’s head, emptying the entire contents. He shoved the bottle and lid back into his pocket.

Suddenly the man’s hand was replaced with the pillow. There was an instant odor, one that she’d never smelled before. As he applied pressure, she tried to scream. He’s killing me!

Dawn saw flashes of colored lights, and her body felt weak, like she was sinking into a vat of tar. Then blackness came.

 37

DR. JON LOFTON was a tenured professor at George Mason University, an internationally-renowned expert in ancient history, and a rebel. He would have had to commit a horrendous infraction of university policy to get fired. In the minds of some administrators, he had come close a few times. He had ten years until his planned retirement, and he wasn’t going to make it easy on the administration. Why should he? He never had before.

The provost despised him, and so did the dean. Even his peers considered him an egocentric ass. But he was good at what he did, so his department chair tolerated his antics. He was eloquent and articulate in the classroom, if a bit impetuous as a lecturer. When he wasn’t lecturing and writing, he played racquetball and practiced his life-long quest to out-swear all other mortals, from stevedores to room-temperature-IQ baseball players.

Twelve years had passed since Jon Lofton and his ex-wife, Jane, called it quits. After the highly contested and bitter divorce, he swore he’d never marry again. So far, so good. An irresistibly handsome, fit, and highly-intelligent man had no business being married. Nowadays it wasn’t worth the trouble. Besides, with the high-caliber women he could lure into bed, who needed marriage?

“Jon, this is Doug Goldman.”

“Jesus Christ, do you know what time it is?” Lofton raged.

“Remember, you never sleep”

“That’s true, but what makes you think I’m not busy. Maybe I’m in the middle of something, or someone.”

“You are truly incorrigible.”

“Fuck yes, I am!”

“Seriously, I need a favor.”

“Seriously, I’m fucking busy, goddamn it!”

“Have someone with you, eh?”

Lofton’s voice softened. “Actually I do, but she’s asleep. Go ahead.”

“I want you to check out something for me. I’m in Florida on a case—”

“Florida!”

“Yes, a teenage girl’s been murdered—”

“Now that’s something unusual for you, a murder case,” Lofton laughed.

“Listen, there is something unusual about this one. The killer left a peculiar calling card.”

“What?”

“Three letters, carved on the forehead of the victim.”

“And they are?”

“CXJ.”

There was silence on the line for several seconds. “Got any ideas?” Goldman finally asked.

“Wait a fucking minute. Let me think.”

Several more seconds lapsed and Goldman grew impatient. “Any thoughts?”

“None off the top of my head. Did this mungshit rape her too?”

“Yes. The medical examiner’s test results showed that she was also sodomized. He was pretty rough with her, vaginal bruises and tears. But he must have been wearing a wet-suit because there was nothing found on the girl. No semen, hairs, fibers, nothing.”

“Hmm. Where was the body found?”

“In a wooded area that was difficult to get to, near a small creek. She only had a top on. He apparently strangled her when she was face-down with her hands tied behind her back.”

“CXJ. What the shit? Anything else?”

“Yeah, sure, lots of details. He called the girl’s house and talked to the father and mother. He’s still calling. He made the girl write her own will—”

“What a schwanzlutscher. Jesus Christ, Doug, how do you do this?”

“What?”

“How do you deal with this shit every day?”

“No, what was that German word you used?”

“Schwanzlutscher? It means cocksucker.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“Hey, I should’ve been an etymologist.”

“Anyway, he also referred to himself as Gabriel.”

“Gabriel?”

“Yes.”

“As in the archangel Gabriel?”

“That’s my guess. And the last time the killer called the Rileys, he told the father his daughter was an angel in heaven now.”

There was a pause for several seconds.

“Are you there, Jon?”

“Yeah—I’m here. I have an idea. I’m going to check on something tomorrow morning. Call me at my office around noon.”

“On Sunday?”

“Hell yes. You have the number?”

“Sure do.”

 38

DAWN OPENED HER eyes and felt a warm breeze blowing through an open window. There was an offensive taste in her mouth and she felt nauseous. The queasiness in her stomach heightened. The room was spinning, but she managed to sit up. Her body felt heavy and her wrists ached. She planted her hand on the nightstand, attempting to stand up. But her hand slid on the slick surface, pushing the antique porcelain lamp, a gift from her grandmother, onto the floor. It hit the hard wood and shattered.

She finally managed to stand on wobbly legs, tasting blood on her lips. Staggering to the bathroom, she hovered over the toilet. The involuntary contractions in her stomach intensified, and finally she vomited.

She sat on the floor in front of the toilet, reaching for a hand towel. She wiped her mouth and began to cry. “You bastard, you goddamn bastard!”

Dawn heard footsteps and curled into a ball on the floor, her hands covering her head.

“Dawn!” Adam shouted. “What’s wrong?”

Dawn looked up at her father and saw two blurry images. “Daddy, he was here! He was in my bedroom!”

“Who?” Adam yelled.

“Sara Ann’s killer!”

Adam knelt beside his daughter’s shivering body and took her in his arms.

“Maybe you had a bad dream.”

“It wasn’t a dream! He was here!”

Adam jumped up. Dawn slowly pushed herself to her feet and saw the bedroom light go on. She leaned against the door jamb and watched her father inspect the room. Adam slowly opened the closet door and snapped on the light switch. Then he shut the open window and latched it, checking to ensure it was secure.

“Can you walk? Adam asked.

“He had me pinned on the bed, then he knocked me out with something. Some chemical.” Dawn rubbed her neck then her forehead. “Oh God, my head hurts.”

Dawn saw her father wince. “Did he do anything else? … Did he—”

“No, he didn’t rape me.”

Dawn looked over her father’s shoulder. Annie Roo stood in the hallway in her nightgown. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He was here, in Dawn’s bedroom,” Adam replied.

“Who.”

“The killer!” Adam screamed.

Annie Roo’s eye’s widened, and both hands covered her mouth in shock.

Adam took Dawn’s arm and glanced at Annie Roo. “Let’s go.”

Valerie and Peter Carillo rushed down the hallway as Adam and Annie Roo helped Dawn out of the bedroom. Each had one of Dawn’s arms, practically dragging her.

“What happened?” Valerie shrieked.

Adam nodded toward Annie Roo, who immediately dropped Dawn’s arm and went to her sister.

“Take her back to the bedroom,” Adam said to Annie Roo.

“What’s going on?” Carillo asked.

“That son-of-a-bitch was in Dawn’s bedroom,” Adam said. “He must have crawled through her window that was left open.”

The three sat in the living room, Adam and Dawn on the couch and Carillo at his make-shift office desk.

Carillo looked over at Adam, holding the phone receiver in his hand. “I’m calling Agent Goldman. I need to get someone from forensics over here. Don’t go back in Dawn’s bedroom until they’ve swept it.”

Thunder cracked, and lightning lit up the curtains in the living room. As Adam held Dawn in his arms and listened to one side of the conversation between Carillo and Agent Goldman, he wondered how much more Valerie could stand. She was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

Carillo hung the phone up and turned to Adam. “How do you think the intruder knew where Dawn’s bedroom is?”

“I have no idea.”

“You know, he could have been inside your house prior to tonight.”

“When could he have been in here?”

“I don’t know, but he knew where Dawn’s bedroom is.”

“What about the window? Does she normally leave it open?”

“Yes, she likes to get fresh air in her room at night.”

Carillo’s expression turned solemn. “Don’t do it again. You need to get an alarm system installed in the house. I told you before.”

“I know. I will.”

“The police will be watching the house around the clock, but you still need an alarm system.”

Carillo leaned forward in his metal folding chair. “Has there been anyone in the house recently, like a plumber or electrician?”

“Yes, we had the plumber out to replace the hot water heater in the garage. But that was about seven or eight months ago.”

“Do you have a lawn service?”

“No, I cut my own grass.” Adam paused for a moment. “Wait. We use an exterminator service. He’s usually here some time during the first week of the month. I believe he was here a couple of weeks ago.”

“Who lets him in the house?”

“I usually come home and let him in to spray. I work about a mile from here. But during the summer if Dawn or Sara Ann are home, one of them will let him in—”

“What is it?”

“Sara Ann let the man in this month. I remember now because I asked her if she’d be home.”

“What’s the name of the company?”

“Dunlop Pest Control.”

 39

AT ELEVEN-FIFTY Sunday morning, Goldman called his old friend Jon Lofton at George Mason University. After the fourth ring he was automatically connected to Lofton’s voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. Shit! He said he’d be there.

Dr. Jon Lofton could be obnoxious but always witty, gritty but sometimes charming, foul-mouthed but articulate, arrogant and haughty but always reliable. I’ll try him again.

“Dr. Lofton speaking. How may I help you this fine Sunday morning?”

“Cut the shit, Jon. Where the hell have you been?”

“Jesus Christ, Doug, what are you my fucking department chair? Nature was calling, old boy.”

“Yeah, okay. Did you come up with anything on the mystery letters?”