The Dying Hour (11 page)

T
hat night, hundreds of miles away at an isolated exit off I-5 that led to a mist-shrouded mountain range, Gideon Cull sat in a lonely roadside diner studying a newspaper, thinking of his Samaritan work and his sins.

No matter how many people he’d helped make their peace with God—and there were many—his work was forever enlaced with his transgressions.

It was his cross to bear.

But now, as he’d feared since Karen Harding’s disappearance, a liability had surfaced, threatening to destroy all that he’d accomplished.

Cull stroked his white collar and weighed his problems. He’d underlined parts in one of Jason Wade’s articles in the
Mirror,
then said a silent prayer for Karen, as the light suddenly dimmed over his table.

“We meet again, old friend.”

Cull looked up from his newspaper, saw a white collar, and met familiar eyes.

“Ezra.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“A long time. You’ve been busy ministering?”

“Very busy.” Ezra sighed as he sat. “You receiving my letters concerning His message? I’ve been sending them every two weeks, but your response has been, shall we say, erratic?”

“I read them but I too have been consumed by work,” Cull said.

“I understand, my brother, but what we’re both facing is a matter of urgency. Let’s come to the point of this meeting.
I know what you did, Gideon. And you know what I did.
”

Cull shut his eyes.

It was true.

“Our secrets are the chains that bind us,” Ezra said. “We did what we did and we do what we do,
for Him.
We’re two halves of the same man, God’s hammer—”

“—and God’s shield.” Cull finished the sentence. “Yes, Ezra, we are His instruments, but I’m troubled by the ramifications, the risk of detection. It leads me to think that perhaps we should leave things as they are.”

“No, that is an attempt by the enemy to bewitch you. Shun the darkness, Gideon. Look to the light. Our cause is just. Isn’t that what you’ve said?”

“Are you not as conflicted as I?”

“We are following His message. We have a sacred duty. We have no time to lose.” Ezra tapped the news story. “Look, you’ve recognized that forces are aligning against us. Do something.”

Cull had noted several points lower in Wade’s article: that detectives wanted to talk to Karen’s teachers; that police wanted to clarify inconsistencies given to them by Luke Terrell, her boyfriend, who lived in a campus community known for illicit drug use and Internet fraud schemes.

“We’re at war and we’re running out of time,” Ezra said. “Sooner or later it could all fall to ruin.”

The air tightened as if a weapon had been drawn.

“Just as before, this is a test of our faith. A test neither one of us can fail.” Ezra stared hard at Cull. “I have to go, old friend.”

Cull sat alone in the empty diner.

Ezra returned to the night.

They were indeed two halves of the same man shackled by the sins of their past. Everything each man had worked so hard to achieve was now hanging by a thread because one of them failed to grasp the enormity of the glory.

Because one of them was insane.

Action had to be taken.

Too much was at stake.

M
arysville was an hour’s drive north of Seattle, near the Snohomish River Delta, the Cascade Mountains, and the Puget Sound. A pretty community known as the Strawberry City.

For the Washington State Patrol, Marysville had another meaning. One of its crime labs was located there.

In the garage, Van Cronin, a criminalist with some fifteen years’ experience and a passion for T.S. Eliot, had been tasked to analyze Karen’s Toyota. He discovered that three fuses had loosened and likely led to the car performing erratically, producing false readings on the instrument panel, or shutting down on her.

Theoretically, it was quite possible that the car simply had a mechanical failure. However, it was also conceivable someone could have tampered with her electrical system to cause a breakdown, Cronin noted.

Ned Vecseno, a fingerprint specialist, processed the car’s interior, trunk and exterior, recovering as many usable latents as possible. Meanwhile, investigators, aided by Seattle police, developed for Vecseno a set of elimination prints. They included Karen’s and those friends who would likely have been in the car at one time or another. Vecseno compared them with a few unidentifiable partial prints he recovered.

He then submitted the unidentified latents to a couple of databases holding millions of known prints: AFIS, Automated Fingerprint Identification System; and WIN, the Western Identification Network. No hits emerged.

Blame it on the rain.

It was raining when the car stalled and the hood was touched, and it continued raining for hours afterward. The rain would have first formed an obstruction between the car’s surface and the skin, severely reducing chances of sufficient residue to be left and detected. If anything was deposited, the rain would have diluted it, or washed it away.

The lab still hadn’t processed everything from the scene. Casts, debris, etc. There was a lot yet to do on tire impressions. A lot of the material was in poor shape, but there might be enough to compare with that found at the Roxanne Palmer scene in Benton County.

Throughout the Marysville lab’s investigation, Vecseno moved between the car and his workstation where he sat next to Blair Brady, an expert on physical, chemical, and biological trace evidence.

She had collected and inventoried every item found in Karen’s car—sunglasses, CDs, tissue, maps, fastfood coupons, lip balm, lotion, and a receipt for a parking ticket. All of her belongings, every item in the trunk, her spare tire, the tools, gas can, and an old rag.

Then she vacuumed and scoured the interior, probing the seats, the ceiling, side panels, and carpets for microscopic traces of anything that might shed light on what had transpired. Brady found traces of ketchup, spilled coffee. A handbook of inspirational teachings, a pocket guide to Africa. Things she probably glanced at in traffic. As a picture of Karen Harding’s lifestyle began to come into focus, Brady looked for inconsistencies, aberrations, something that didn’t belong.

But nothing seemed out of place.

Brady went through Karen’s bag. A few pairs of underwear, fresh socks, dress slacks, two pressed tops, a vest, two T-shirts, a pair of sweatpants, toiletries. Some makeup. Not too much. Brady examined them all several times over. She passed items to Vecseno to check for suspect latents.

Then Karen Harding’s umbrella caught her eye. Sealed in a clear plastic evidence bag, it was mangled. The theory was it was twisted in the storm. Brady picked it up and studied it. What if she’d used it to strike someone? To defend herself. After tugging on surgical gloves, she removed the umbrella to have a closer look. The webbing was twisted, consistent with a strong wind, but the main post was straight. It would have shown signs of stress.

Thinking, Brady tapped the plastic handle in the palm of her hand. It felt strange. The weight seemed off just a titch. A hard plastic handle. Brady gave it a little turn. She blinked. It shifted. Tensing, she turned it again, only harder. She heard a crack. The handle was threaded to the receptacle at the post. She’d loosened it. She kept turning until she’d managed to work it off completely.

The handle was hard plastic but hollow. A clear plastic bag of white powder, about the capacity of a bath-size soap bar, had been shoved inside.
One guess what this is,
Brady thought, making notes in her file.
One guess what we have here from little Miss Save the World.
She cleared her workstation and reached for her kit.

The analysis came through, putting it at some 14 to 15 percent purity.

Cocaine.

Brady shook her head. Then reached for her phone to call Detective Hank Stralla.

T
hunder drummed in Karen Harding’s ears, growing louder until she realized it was not a storm.

It was her heart.

Pounding with fear, images twisting and curling through her waking mind.

Remembering the face of the woman who had fallen on the RV floor next to her, the panic in her eyes before the reverend took her outside. He hadn’t taken her far. Karen flinched as the woman’s screams began piercing the night. Bloodcurdling shrieking, pleading for mercy. Karen couldn’t bear it.
Make it stop, please make it stop!

Karen had seen nothing. But had heard everything. Whatever he had inflicted upon her was beyond comprehension. The torment went on forever before blessed silence.

Dead silence.

Then the reverend returned to the RV.

Alone.

Walking slowly, as if exhausted, to the back. The floor thudded as he dropped an object, metal and heavy, on the floor. Karen pressed her face to the crack, seeing his hacksaw. Her scalp tingled. The blade was bloodied, flecked with tiny bits of bone, hair, and visceral matter.

Oh no. No. No. No.

Frozen with fear, she closed her eyes tight. She didn’t move. She didn’t even know the woman’s name, but her terrified face was seared into her memory.

Why was this happening?

The reverend got behind the wheel and they drove and drove, for hours, maybe days, the woman’s cries echoing in Karen’s ears. Karen prayed for her. Then she shut down. Went numb. The trauma of what had transpired pressed down on her.

Surely the same fate awaited her.

But was it possible that her death was near? As time and miles rolled by, she felt death coil around her, waited for it to begin constricting and crushing her. Then she heard the RV door open.

Her senses snapped alert.

People were entering.

A grunt, a sigh, a brief commotion as if someone had fallen.

Heavy steps neared her. The mattress above her squeaked again.

Oh no.
Karen swallowed.

This wasn’t happening.

Her breathing quickened. Her pulse picked up. She forced her mind to grapple with a barrage of emotions, battling herself to find her resolve.
Don’t give up. Think. Do something.
There was moaning, the mattress creaked.

He has another woman.

Karen hammered the fact into her brain. They had to escape. Like the rabbit fleeing the wolf, Karen had to find the bramble. Had to summon her strength, her will to survive. No matter the cost. Her body trembled with adrenaline.

Think,
she told herself, as she heard the RV ignition start the engine.

You have to plan, scrutinize everything you know, it’s your only hope.
All right. They were driving again. Karen knew the motions, the sounds, fragments of the reverend’s routine.

The woman above continued moaning as Karen concentrated.

By the movement, the speed, the sounds of traffic, the hum of the RV’s wheels, the rumble of its motor, Karen could tell when they were driving in a town or city, or when they were on the highway or a twisting back road.

Now, it was stop and go. They had to be in a city.

He was listening to the radio. Judging by the distant sound of KK, or KL, something, which had “the latest in Eugene’s news, weather, and sports,” she guessed it was Eugene, Oregon.

She couldn’t hear any details.

They were making their way outside the city. Speeding up. It felt like they were on the Interstate.

Since her abduction, she had drifted in and out of sleep so much, she had no concept of time. Or where they had traveled. She suspected he had been drugging her food.

He fed her irregularly. As if she were something less than human.

She remembered the first time, keys had jingled and a small door about the size of a hardcover book opened near her head. Light flooded in, forcing her to squint. His large powerful hands unfastened her gag. He thrust something inside at her face, letting her smell it. Cooked hamburger, pickle, onion, mustard, a bun. His hand shoved it into her mouth. Karen chewed fast, almost choking from hunger. Then a soda. Sucking on the straw, spilling it. He replaced her gag, then locked her back up in the darkness.

He unlocked another small door by her legs, slid in a bedpan and tissue. In her confined space, with her hands and legs bound, it was difficult to use. He rarely came to empty it. Leaving her to endure her own waste. In the beginning she wept at the degradation. She felt soiled, filthy, unclean, until eventually she no longer noticed.

He slept in the front of the RV where he had converted a bench seat to a bed. He read, studied documents, maps, newspapers, and he drove.

They drove endlessly.

At times the RV would stop and remain absolutely still for what seemed like hours. The air grew cool and she sensed he had driven into an enclosed garage or a storage space to park overnight.

Hiding.

At other times when they were mobile, she would struggle to guess if they were at a gas station, highway rest stop, or campground. Praying that maybe someone was near, a police officer, a tourist, a trucker, a savior, she ached to push away her loosened gag and scream for help.

But she was afraid. Afraid that her cries might alert him and remove all hope of her ever escaping. He would discover her loosened bindings, take steps to secure them, or punish her.

Or kill her.

She couldn’t see beyond her corner of hell. She had to wait until she was confident he was far from her, confident she could kick herself free and run. Like the rabbit.

She would only have one chance.

The ropes around her wrists were snug, but she had managed to loosen them more over time. He never checked them. He never spoke to her. Once, when he’d opened the food door, she tried talking to him, pleading when he removed her gag.

“Please, sir. Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone anything. Please.”

He shoved a snack food cake into her mouth, waiting until she finished it, then replaced her gag and slammed the small door and locked it.

Now he had another woman.

The woman above Karen shifted on the mattress.

Karen pressed her face to the crack, but couldn’t see anything above. The hacksaw on the floor was gone. Had there even been one? Had there even been another woman? Maybe her mind was deceiving her?

God help me.

Her thoughts shifted.

The RV was slowing.

How long had they been driving since she’d heard the new woman? Karen didn’t know. The mattress above her creaked.

The RV was almost crawling now. Cars, doors slamming. The smell of gas. The clank of fuel nozzles and gas pumps. The reverend stepped out to gas the RV. Karen heard muffled voices, heard the fuel hose nozzle being inserted into the tank, the hum of the pump, and the flow of gas. She pushed her gag from her mouth, swallowed, then whispered as loud as she could.

“Hello, on the bed. Can you hear me?”

The woman shifted her body and groaned.

“Don’t be afraid,” Karen said. “He’s locked me down here under you. In the storage space.”

Another shuffle and muffled groan.

“My name is Karen Harding. Listen to me. We have no time. Knock once gently for yes, twice for no. Can you hear me?”

A knock sounded and Karen’s spirits soared.

“Are you hurt badly?”

Knock. Knock.

“Are you gagged and tied?”

Knock.

“Do you know him?”

Knock. Knock.

“Can you run if I can get us free?”

Knock.

“I think I can loosen my ropes and kick myself from this space. We’ll wait for the right time. Keep calm, okay?”

Knock.

The RV shifted.

The reverend stepped back inside and they resumed traveling on the interstate. Again, time passed by unmeasured. Karen drifted in and out of sleep. While she was awake she felt and heard no movement from above as she continued working on straining her rope.

Soon she would be able to slide her hands free.