First Night of Summer (11 page)

He squared himself at the front of the living room and tugged on the heavy gun belt riding below his belly. “Folks, it’s real simple. Anna asked me to give a lesson on safety, and regardless of where you are or what you’re doing, these rules apply.” He cleared his throat. “Rule number one. If it looks funny, report it. If you see or hear something and the thought crosses your mind, ‘I wonder if I should mention this to somebody?’ do it. We’re not so busy at the station that we can’t handle the calls. In fact, we want them. Citizens are our best sources for crime prevention. In town alone, we have several thousand citizens and only a few police officers. And by things, I mean suspicious vehicles, persons, or something out of place. Just call it in, and we’ll check it out. Then you won’t have to wonder anymore.”

He looked around to see if there were any questions. No one raised a hand. “Now more specifically, I believe Anna’s letter explained the current situation next door with Isaac and Sarah.” He drew a long breath and pulled his lips in tightly, figuring on how best to proceed. “When the intruder broke into their home, it was the middle of the night. The abduction in Kansas—admittedly done by the same man—happened in the late afternoon. A little girl was taken in broad daylight. According to the letter he sent, there are implications that he may come back this way. That threat could be empty, or it could be true. It might be never, but it might also be tomorrow, next week, or next year. Please know I don’t tell you this to suggest that he will, but to make you aware of the possibility. Reaching out like that is a serious action. Hopefully, he will be caught sooner rather than later. In the meantime, we need to keep a watch out, and it’s up to you to help make this neighborhood safe.”

Isaac held Sarah’s hand. This was what a small town is all about, and despite the uncomfortable topic, he knew it was the best thing that could happen, especially for Josie.

“You all know the ins and outs around here. You know each other’s cars, vehicles that visit frequently and park on the street, and who walks around the streets. If someone you don’t know or have never seen is prowling around, give us a call. If they belong, they won’t mind a few questions from us. If you see a company car or any company vehicle that is unusual or has an unfamiliar logo, give us a call.”

Isaac was impressed with the way Charlie presented the material. He didn’t see this side of him often. It was direct and straightforward. Through his chubby appearance and good-ol-boy façade, there was a professional. By the looks on the guests’ faces, they too were surprised. They didn’t know him like Isaac, but opinions were opinions. Charlie was not a washed-up city cop who couldn’t hack it. He simply wanted a different lifestyle, and that was why he returned to the scenic mountain village.

When it was over, Josie came down from playing with Jason. Her facial expression was one of pure exasperation. That was how everyone felt after an hour with the energetic little boy.

Outside on the lawn, the day was bright. It was the first time in a while that Isaac felt productive. Like any road to recovery, though, two steps forward eventually means one step back.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A
double vision of wavy blonde hair, fair, smooth complexions, and deep green eyes seductively stared at Ricky in his daydream. He smiled, and his cheek twitched. The world was perfect, the best he could imagine.

“Caroline … Josie,” he whispered. A false anticipation of events heightened his demented, mental stimulation.

He was in Shepherdstown, West Virginia, waiting for nine-year-old Lindsay Watson to finish her music lesson. When she was through—just like every other Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—she walked to the corner, turned off the main street, and made the one block trek home. She lived less than two hundred yards behind the historic row of main street offices where she took violin lessons.

The streets in Shepherdstown are classic, old-town style and have no end to their charm. Since the late 1700s, business fronts have lined the sidewalks where pedestrians and cyclists move about. The atmosphere is friendly, college liberal, and eclectic. An artsy, quaint atmosphere is ideal for all walks of life, and Ricky relished the unsuspecting nature of the citizens.

On that warm, July afternoon, Lindsay stepped outside, violin case in hand, and walked to the corner. She turned right and stayed on the sidewalk between the street and the two-hundred-year-old brick wall. The building opposite her side of the street was the same, a two-story, windowless wall where shopkeepers once lived above their stores. Beyond the shadowy stretch, commercial zoning turned to residential, and she could see her next-door neighbor’s backyard. The white van parked by the curb did not look out of place, no different than dozens of other delivery vehicles in and out of the alley.

The violin case swung at her side, and she skipped merrily along. But as she approached the passenger side, a man in a wheelchair fumbled with the sliding door.

“Hi,” Ricky said. He wore jeans, a North Face T-shirt, and a ball cap with the local college logo.

“Hi,” she politely responded and continued down the sidewalk.

The street angled slightly uphill toward the neighborhood. After ten more paces, she would cross the entrance to the alley and officially enter her little village of old, refurbished houses.

Ricky fumbled with the latch and made a clumsy show. “Excuse me,” he called to her. “Would you help me out? I can’t get the door open.”

Lindsay stared, unsuspectingly for the moment, and sized up the situation.

“I’m sorry to bother you, sweetheart,” he went on. “But when I try to open it …” He reached with his hand and let the wheelchair roll backward. “My chair won’t stay still. Whoa!” He smiled and acted helpless. “If you could just pull the handle, I have a lift that helps me in.” He flashed his pearly whites and played on his handicap to draw out her tenderness.

Her parents taught her to be wary of strangers and especially to never get into vehicles with them. They also taught her to be kind and courteous and to assist the less fortunate. She didn’t think anyone in a wheelchair would hurt her.

“Yes, sir.” She came closer. There was so much life in her movement, so much innocent joy. Good manners kept her from staring, and she reached for the handle.

“Thank you so much! You’re an angel.” False gratitude emanated from every pore of his being. His eyes averted to one end of the street and then the other. So far, he had not broken any laws, even if someone were watching. But all was clear, and he tensed, a compressed spring energized for release. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

She swept the handle up and had no more said “There you go” when Ricky peeled the door open with one hand, wrapped his other hand over her mouth, jumped into the back, and slid it shut. The action happened so fast that she never had time to scream. He placed a moist handkerchief over her face as she kicked, swung, and squirmed to get away. The chemical took effect within seconds.

He put her on the bed, bent through the little door into the cab, and glanced at the mirrors. The street remained empty.
You’re mine now
.

Chapter Twenty-Three

D
eep into the country, no stops planned until they were faraway, the van rolled on. In the seconds, minutes, and hours after a kidnapping, distance was Ricky’s best friend. But travel was the toughest part. Once he touched a child, placed his hands on her flesh and she was in his possession, the wait was near unbearable. Only self-preservation pushed him on.

Lindsay was in the back, knocked out from a second dose of chloroform. She would have a splitting headache when she woke, but he didn’t care about that. Her comfort was not a concern.

She reminded him of his childhood neighbor, the younger of the two sisters he used to peep on. Their appearances were undeniably similar, and he recalled the original feel of obsession awoken within him all those years ago. The girl’s young, female form dominated his thoughts. He wanted to be with her, around her, to touch her.

* * *

On a few occasions, he and his parents went over for dinner. This was his favorite. He was in the same house, close to the girls and able to brush against them while they played. The sisters included Ricky in their games with an elaborate Barbie collection. Even then, he realized the importance of appearance. If anyone watched, he played nicely with the dolls. He dressed Ken in masculine clothes, careful to go with the flow. But when no one was looking, things changed.

He stripped the Barbies and examined them methodically. He ran his fingers over them—much the same as he did Lindsay Watson’s newspaper photo—and sniffed their spore. It was real to him, more than a wild imagination. His heart raced as sweat glands clammed his skin.

He dreamed of doing obscene and vulgar things with the dolls. Sex was an unexplained mystery, but the compromising positions pleased his mind. At first, it was enough to excite him. Eventually, however, one doll always became violent toward the other, one dominant and one submissive.

* * *

Now, traveling down the dark road with cargo far more precious than a Barbie, Ricky recalled the unmentionable things he did to those poor pieces of plastic. The progression of his actions was plain to see: dolls, peeping, and, finally, finding a way to actually caress real human flesh. He wondered if things would have escalated to their current status had he ever been caught.

Could I have gotten therapy? Was I … curable?

But like cancer, no cure existed, and he knew it. This cancer wasn’t in his body. It was in his mind, a deep-rooted, mutating growth, out of control, undetected, and unchallenged. Satisfaction was the only real treatment, and only temporary at best. A drink of poison could merely quench the thirst.

“Turn left in five hundred feet.”

A female, computerized voice emanated from the portable GPS and pulled him from thought. He was close. They were close.

Chapter Twenty-Four

E
verything felt fuzzy. Lindsay thought her eyes were open, but it made no difference. Wherever she lay, darkness was complete. Something bit her ankle. Then she felt the same bite on her other ankle. Neither leg would move. She tried to sit up, reach down, and scratch. Suddenly, grogginess faded, and her senses sharpened.
I’m tied up
.

“Hello?” she shouted. A gag stifled the call into a guttural, throaty noise. She hadn’t noticed it before.

Now panic gripped her, and she writhed. Her gusto faded with the sting of rope fibers. The road vibrated beneath her. She could feel it and hear it, the hum of tires on pavement. A bump, the sway of a turn, and its pull on her body were decipherable. She tried to think and remember how she had gotten there. Pain prevented a clear picture. Her head, ankles, and wrist hurt badly. She squirmed again and rebelled against the impossible restraints.
I have to get loose. I have to get help
.

Her teeth clenched down on the gag, defiant. She fought to exhaustion. It seemed hopeless, but the road noise had stopped.

Then someone spoke. “Hi, there. Do you remember me?”

A man was with her now. The only light came through a small crack of an open door behind him. It wasn’t much, dusky and barely enough to see him hunched over.
Who is he?

“It’s okay. You can nod your head if you don’t want to talk.” He latched the door and flicked a toggle. A yellowish glow illuminated everything.

Memory hit her like a slap to the face. The man with the wheelchair was no longer in a wheelchair.
I’m in the van
. A lump in her throat grew, and her tummy bounced with a sob. She knew this was bad.

He moved steadily and deliberately. She watched him like a hawk while he took things off the shelves, set up camera equipment, and wrote in a book. She should have been glad he left her alone, but even at nine years old, it was plain to see he had something big in mind.

The only naked male she had ever seen was in a museum. Hardly any of the stone statues had clothes. But those men weren’t real. This one was. When the bad man took everything off, she didn’t know what to think. It was certainly different from the statues.
Wrong somehow
.

He boasted like a little kid with a show-and-tell trinket. He bragged, struck different poses, flexed his muscles, and came closer. On the side of the bed, his naked hip pressed against her ribs as he sat down. She wanted to scoot away, but the tight ropes and tiny space left nowhere to go.

He placed his hands on her chest, worked them up and down in circles, and closed his eyes.

Tears of anger, fear, and embarrassment welled up in Lindsay, and she screamed at him. “Stop it,” she commanded. “Stop it right now.” Her face was livid and strong, but the muted orders were indecipherable.

“A spunky one, I see.” He open-hand smacked her on the cheek, enough to aggravate but not hurt. “I like spice. That’s something girls your age are in short supply of.”

Lindsay’s body had started to mature earlier than most. He looked down at her. A devious smile played across his lips. She kicked to get loose.

“Whoa! Now we’re talking.”

Her resistance excited him. He was finished being gentle and immediately ripped off her shirt. The fabric held tightly enough to bruise her skin before pulling away. Silvery and cold, his hunting knife sliced until she was down to skin.

Crystal tears of torment ran down her cheeks, and she crooned in agony. She tried to get enough air through her runny nose and tears to fight the feeling of suffocation. She coughed and sputtered, struggling to gain a rhythm. Her heart and mind were strong, resilient to the stress. Unfortunately, it warded off shock, and she felt everything.

His hands prodded and molested, and she retracted at his vile touch.

He bent down to her ear. Gently, with his blue eyes in a penetrating stare, he smoothly said, “Sugar, do you like red?”

Lindsay couldn’t gain a full breath. Mucus ran down her throat, and she retched. A cough would clear her windpipe, but the gag was in the way. Asphyxiation was now scarier than the man was.