Killing Red (13 page)

Chapa waited in the parking lot and stayed on the phone with Erin until she was in her car with Mikey tucked safely in his seat. She headed north along a two-lane highway that would give her a fair chance of spotting another car if she was being followed. The plan was for Erin to spend a couple of days at a resort near the Wisconsin Dells, but as Chapa had suggested, she did not phone ahead to make reservations.

“Stay rural for a while, and if you see any cars that draw your attention go ahead and jump on the interstate when you get up by Elgin.”

This was yet another reason Chapa had been reluctant to get involved in a more permanent way with Erin, no matter how strong his feelings. Mothers needed stability, children even more so. They needed the sort of man who hopped on a train each morning and rode it to work. The sort of guy who wore a suit, maybe even a tie, and didn’t take either off until he returned home at the same time he got home yesterday. That wasn’t Chapa. And though a part of him wished he could settle into something that resembled a stable life, Chapa knew he never would. He had tried to explain that to Erin, and wondered if what was happening now would make it easier for her to understand.

The minutes passed slowly, and he imagined her car steadily moving away from danger. Once he was certain that all was as well as it could be with Erin and Mikey, Chapa called Andrews to let him know the latest, but only got his voice mail.

“Hey Joe, I know you won’t take my call when you’re on a case, but this is big. Call me.”

Erin’s directions would take him far from the suburbs, to twenty miles past nowhere. Chapa again considered driving straight to Louise Jones’ house and bringing Andrews up to speed in person. He thought about going home or over to Erin’s and waiting there for whoever might show up.

But that’s not the way he wanted to handle this threat to people he cared about. Chapa looked at his key chain, which had Nikki’s photo on it, dangling from the ignition. Rocking gently from side to side almost gave it a three-dimensional quality, and that made him feel a little less alone. He glanced one more time at the directions, clipped them to the inside of his visor, and drove out of the lot.

Chapa spent the first part of the drive talking to Erin, which made the time pass quickly. They lost the connection at one point, and the next time the spirited chorus of “Guantanamera” filled the Corolla, Erin and Mikey were calling from Wisconsin.

That provided Chapa with some much welcomed comfort, and he loosened the death grip he’d had on the wheel. But that slight ease of mind didn’t last. When the connection dropped again, Chapa knew he could be out of range for a while, and it gave him the opportunity to think about his own well-being.

Ten miles after he crossed into Ogle County, Chapa turned north on highway 14. Five miles later he passed through the town of Hunters Ridge, which was little more than a feed store surrounded by farms on lots that were so big the houses in the distance looked like Monopoly game pieces.

A brown pickup truck pulled out behind him as he passed a long gravel road. Chapa kept an eye on his rearview mirror, but the truck turned off onto a side road a couple of minutes later.

The directions next called for a turn onto an unnamed road.
Turn left at the dark green house, there’s a pretty little swing dangling from the tree in the front yard.
Chapa felt the muscles in his stomach tighten when the house emerged on the horizon. As he slowed down, looking for the road beyond it, he noticed the swing was swaying just a little, as though a child had recently been playing on it, though the yard was now empty.

He turned left and picked up his phone, hoping to get a call through to Andrews.
No Service.
From there the landscape opened up so much it made the previous fifteen miles seem crowded by comparison. Chapa had never been fond of wide open spaces, and he believed just as much trouble could find you in the country as in the city. The only difference was that out here the soil and wind conspired with an endless sky to do a better job of hiding it.

“This is where the chainsaw murderers come from,” he had once informed his wife when they were staying at a bed and breakfast somewhere in the wilderness of Minnesota, part of a getaway that was designed to help their marriage. “You realize if someone breaks into this place and chops up everybody it could be days before the bodies are found.”

It seemed darkly funny to him then. Not so much now. Chapa tightened his grip on the wheel again, and the hard and unforgiving rubber pressed against his already sore hands. He reached his next turn-off four miles and two farmhouses later.

Turning onto an unnamed road that was designated by a number, Chapa saw more of the same. A row of trees in the distance provided the only contrast in this otherwise featureless place where nature seemed to have run out of ideas.

Chapa now had a terrifying thought. What if he was being led out to the middle of nowhere so that someone could get to Erin and Mikey? Deep down he knew it probably didn’t make a lot of sense, but none of this did. His tires screamed in protest as Chapa abruptly pulled off the road, and stopped the car, kicking up a cloud of dirt and gravel in the process. He tried to call Erin.
No Service
. He rolled down the window and held the phone out, then slowly moved it around hoping it would find a signal that might’ve wandered far from home.
No Service
.

For a moment, Chapa wanted to turn the car around and head up to Wisconsin to be with them. He was sure he hadn’t been followed, and by now Erin and Mikey would be far away from anyone who wanted to hurt them. Then, in the distance, he saw the last landmark in the directions. It was a large red barn with an enormous smiling pumpkin painted on its backside. It was looking right at him from a couple hundred yards away.

Take the first right after the barn with a pumpkin on it. Drive a little more than two miles. The address is 802, it will be painted on a white post.

Chapa kept an eye on the pumpkin as he drove past it. A guy was standing by the barn. Out of place in his business suit, he stared as if Chapa’s was the first car he’d seen in some time. He was still staring as the barn faded in the distance behind a sheer of open and barren farmland.

The next chance to turn right came about half a mile later, onto a road that was narrower than the tight one he had just been on. He watched as his odometer clicked past the first mile. Everything that was anything kept its distance from this road.

The second mile came and went and civilization hadn’t gotten any chummier. A wild goose chase? Chapa was certain now that this was about getting him away from Erin and Mikey. Again, he thought about whether it was better to turn around and retrace his movements back to the interstate, or forge on until he hit a major road.

Then something unusual rose out of the countryside. From a distance it looked like an enormous shoebox. It was so out of place, surrounded by acres of flatness, that Chapa knew it must be his destination. As he got closer he saw it was an old trailer home, one that had seen better days, maybe back in the 70’s. It sat in the middle of a field, isolated from anything else except the white post by the road. The number 802 had been crudely painted in red.

Chapa brought the car to a stop just beyond the post. Reaching into the glove compartment, he dug out his recorder from under a pile of bills, junk mail, unpaid tickets, and fast food restaurant napkins, and slipped it into his inside coat pocket.

Studying the open landscape, Chapa looked around for any sign of movement before leaving the car, but couldn’t see any reason not to step out. He opened the door and got out quickly, fearing someone might sneak up on him if he took his time. Sneak up from where? A crooked old path ran from the road, past the post and in the direction of a farmhouse at least a half a mile away. Thick tire marks had gnawed into the soil near the path, which explained how the sixty-foot mobile home got to where it sat, about fifty yards from the road.

Keeping his distance, Chapa looked for any movement around the trailer, but everything was still, just as it was for miles around. That stillness was the only way that the trailer blended into its surroundings. The windows were covered by dark curtains, and its beige and chrome exterior was specked with rust that had taken up permanent residency in some of the cracks and extremities. It gave the impression of having been there for some time, though the tire marks that led up to it suggested otherwise.

The after-harvest smell of decay rose from the dormant soil, and it helped Chapa remember more of what he didn’t like about the country. He walked to the back of the Corolla, surveying his surroundings with every step, and opened the trunk. Chapa looked around again, and made certain he saw no movement before leaning in and throwing back the thick carpeting that lined the bottom.

Inside the space that held the spare tire he found the only weapon at his disposal, a small crowbar. It was wedged between the tire and the jack, but with a little bit of effort he managed to work it loose. It was cold, but it felt good in his hand.

Chapa was feeling confident that he could protect himself if need be, when the sound of laughter made him jump back away from the car. Crowbar in hand, he was ready to strike, and then saw a black bird sitting atop the white post. It looked at Chapa and called out again, mocking him, warning him, or maybe both.

The bird flew away when Chapa slammed the trunk shut. He imagined that if anyone was watching him they’d be laughing right now. He climbed back in and drove the car off the road and far enough up the ragged path to get it out of the way, then started for the trailer.

The ground was coarse and uneven, and his all-sport shoes were not suited for this terrain. He approached the trailer with caution, pausing a few times to look back at his car, or to make sure there was no movement in the area.

Chapa was no more than twenty feet from the trailer as he watched the black bird fly overhead and return to the post. It called out to him again as he walked up the badly dented metal steps.

Careful not to be too obvious, Chapa tried looking through the curtain that covered the small, dust-caked window at the top of the door, but all he saw was darkness.

He knocked on the scuffed and dented aluminum frame of the screen door, and was surprised by how the tinny sound echoed around him.

“Hello?”

No answer. He knocked again. A few more seconds slowly passed without a response and Chapa wondered if he was supposed to have gone to the farmhouse. It was so far away it seemed to belong to another part of the state altogether. He decided to walk around the trailer and maybe get a look inside of one of the other windows.

But as he started back down, careful to make sure his now dirty black shoes found what little solid footing the steps offered, Chapa noticed that the interior door was not shut tight. Gripping the crowbar in one hand, he turned the cold and crusty knob of the screen door with the other. It screeched open, and Chapa again tried to look inside without success. Holding the screen door open with his knee, he pressed the fingertips of his right hand against the beige door, and pushed.

The door slowly swung open, as though it were doing so on its own, giving Chapa his first glimpse of what lay beyond.

At first glance, the interior appeared to be as dark as the depths of a cave. But after a few seconds Chapa could see a shred of daylight slipping in though a narrow crack in the curtains from a side window. The sparse light revealed a collection of objects on a small table, and not much more.

Chapa stuck his arm inside the doorway and swung the crowbar back and forth, just in case someone was waiting for him. But it only sliced through the black air, making a dull
swoosh
sound. He gripped the weapon with both hands, and took a tentative step inside. A gust of wind raced up from the field and brushed against the back of Chapa’s neck. Startled, he jerked forward and into the trailer.

The screen door slammed loudly behind him, and he heard what sounded like a generator kick on somewhere outside the trailer, then an electric sizzle from above. Yellow and purple fluorescent lights suddenly swept away the darkness, and the trailer was awash with color. Clutching the crowbar as tightly as his adrenaline would allow, Chapa pivoted from side to side, ready for an attack that wasn’t coming.

Display cases and framed pictures covered the walls above several small tables with a variety of items on them. The one Chapa was standing in front of had a sign on it that read
WELCOME—PLEASE BEGIN AT THE REAR
.

The arrow pointed to Chapa’s left. The trailer had been gutted, and was not divided up into rooms the way most mobile homes are. It was basically a large rectangular box. A narrow door at the back probably led to the bathroom. To his right, at the far end, he saw a television set poking out between thick indigo curtains.

Electrical wires along the length of the ceiling led from small boxes to the front of the trailer and behind the curtains. Chapa guessed they were sensors, responsible for starting the generator and turning the lights on. He took a closer look, but couldn’t tell if cameras had been tucked into shadowed corners.

The stale smell of damp wood swam in thick air and seemed to cling to every surface. Chapa worried that it might attach itself to him. Someone had been smoking, but with all of the windows closed it could have been last week or last year.

Not wanting to turn away from those curtains, he shuffled toward the back of the trailer, stopping at the first display case. Above it a sign read:
THE MYTH OF AGE-PROGRESSION
. Chapa recognized the term as referring to the process by which a missing child’s photo is aged in order to help in identifying them years after they’ve vanished. Beneath the sign, the case was filled with computer-altered pictures that had been crudely cut out from the backs of ad fliers, next to what he assumed were actual photos of the same victims. Some were police photos of corpses, a few others had been defaced with the profane addition of satanic horns, or grotesque features.

His instincts were telling him to get the hell out of there. But something on the small table a few feet farther toward the back caught his eye. The collection of worn leather straps with buckles was laid out like a work of art, something that could be the subject of a still life. The sign above it read:
THE MASTER’S TOOLS
.

Chapa was beginning to understand what this place was. But why would anyone go to the trouble of creating a memorial to Grubb? Chapa followed the displays along that wall to the back of the trailer, scanning the chronology that began with photos of Grubb as an unhappy child, sitting by himself on a stoop, staring off into nothing. He reached the door near the back of the trailer. Chapa retracted his hand into the sleeve of his coat and using the cuff to grip the knob, he twisted. The door was locked.

“Annie, are you in there?” His voice muted but firm.

Silence. Only the call of a bird in the distance, and the constant hum from whatever was supplying power.

Chapa made certain he didn’t touch anything for fear of disturbing possible evidence and replacing one set of fingerprints with his own. He did not want to leave any part of himself in this place.

He was squatting down, more closely examining the unusually secure lock, when some movement at the far end of the trailer caught his eye and prodded him into attack position. Holding the crowbar in front of his body like a sword, he leaned against what he assumed was the bathroom door and waited.

Outside, the wind was pushing against the sides of the old structure. Primed for the fight, he watched as a breeze slipped in through the screen door and the curtains swayed in response. Then Chapa saw how one of the lights flickered spastically, the beginning of its death dance. Movement—just a trick of light and wind.

Chapa stepped away from the door and tried the knob once more without success. He would use the crowbar to bust it open, but first he needed to see what was hiding behind those curtains at the opposite end of the trailer.

Wanting to somehow document whatever happened to him next, Chapa reached into his coat. Refusing to take his eyes away from the rest of the trailer, he fumbled around for a moment until his fingers located the tape recorder. He wrapped his hand around it and pushed the record button, leaving the device in his pocket so he could keep his hands free.

Chapa continued moving toward the curtains at the front of the trailer, measuring each step, stopping to look through the door and make certain his car was still there. The light outside the trailer had changed somehow, as though daylight decided to give up the fight a little earlier than usual. His Toyota appeared to be part of another reality, like something on the outside of a snow globe.

Or maybe he had it backward. It could be that what most folks think of as normal society is just a ruse encased in a protective but fragile shell. The only thing separating them from a brutal reality. It was hard to believe that only a few minutes had passed since he’d entered this real world house of horrors.

He thought about running to his car and getting away from there. Getting to a landline and calling in the cops. But the thought passed just as quickly as it had arrived. Leaving that temptation behind, he continued to move toward the front of the trailer, splitting his time between the curtains and the displays on the wall.

The Grubb tribute ended with a collage of his victims’ photos stemming out from a larger one of Annie Sykes in the middle. Chapa noticed a second photo of Annie had been slipped into the corner. She was an adult in this one, a candid taken at a restaurant. A small sign beneath it read:
A creature so vile even the ground spit her out.

A series of manifestos followed, with titles like
MYTHS ABOUT VICTIMS
and
LEGAL HYPOCRISY
. Photos of other murderers, both as adults and when they were children painted a grotesque mosaic. The whole thing seemed to be an attempt to put Grubb into some murderous historical context.

The wall immediately to Chapa’s right was papered with drawings. Some were renderings of clowns, others of distorted faces, and some had no form at all. Poems and long, handwritten pages crowded with very small print had been carefully fitted into the gaps. The ranting of lunatics. Above it all a sign read:
MISUNDERSTOOD ARTISTS
.

Chapa was trying to read some of the writings when he bumped into a small bookcase full of photo albums. He opened one to a crime scene photo of a shattered young body. He flipped through it and found more of the same. He tossed the gruesome scrapbook on the floor.

Then he noticed a small beige plastic box sitting on the footstool in front of the television. It looked like something that had been rigged from parts purchased at a strip mall electronics store. The quarter-size red buttons on it were labeled
1
and
2
. Probably having something to do with the TV.

As Chapa moved closer to the curtains he decided to attack the one on the left first. He stabbed at it several times with the sharp end of the crowbar, then stepped back. The curtain put up no resistance, waited until he was finished, then eased back into place. He watched for movement behind the other curtain as well, but saw none.

Leaving nothing to chance, Chapa swatted hard at the other one, ignoring the fact that he was starting to feel a little silly beating the crap out of a cheap pair of drapes. He stopped when he struck something solid on the other side.

Slipping the pointed end through the slit between them, Chapa pulled back the curtain on the right with one swift jerk, revealing a plywood wall that stretched across to the other side. A hole, about two inches in diameter, had been drilled through the wall, about a foot off the floor. Cables ran from the television and disappeared into the hole.

Trying to avoid leaning against it any more than he had to, Chapa pressed his ear to what he guessed was a relatively thin piece of wood. He had no idea what he was expecting or hoping to hear, but it didn’t matter, he got nothing for his effort. Squatting down to floor level, he peered through the hole as much as he could, and poked around at the cables to create more space, but still couldn’t see anything.

That left the television and the locked room. Maybe one would hold a clue about the other. Chapa again tucked his hand up into the sleeve, then pressed down on the red button labeled
1
. The television switched on with an electronic
pop
and snow filled the screen. The unit was only a couple of feet off the floor, the footrest even lower, and he felt like a child as he sat down on the undersize furniture.

Chapa pressed the second button and the screen went black, though the TV was still turned on. The odd shapes of the tables and displays behind him reflected on the blank screen, creating an oddly artistic pattern. He was thinking about how crowded and cramped it looked when an image replaced the shadows.

A camera tilted down along a whitewashed brick wall while muffled sounds could be heard beyond it. A moment later it stopped and focused on the man in a jumpsuit, who was sitting in front of the wall. Then Kenny Lee Grubb looked into the camera and released a slow crooked smile.