*Please read previous chapter entries first (18+)
HELENA
I step out of my car with a yawn. It's early evening, but I slept half the day, catching up from two weeks of overworking since Hansel and Gretel were discovered. Interviews, research, writing, and narrating news commentary, and running an increasingly popular crime blog have been an around-the-clock gig due to the hype surrounding these murders.
Killers are common, but serial killers are rare. Most murder occurs between people who know each other—disputes over money, assets, drugs, turf, or crimes of passion. Serial killers are different. They hunt strangers for sport. Killing is their hobby.
But I’m not supposed to be thinking about work right now. I take a deep breath, clearing my mind.
Jen waves at me from the reserved table under the tree canopy with river views. She got the coveted corner seat near the beach trail. But big orange construction cones currently block the path on the other side. Nobody is down on the beach like usual due to the weekend festival.
Flannen’s is a popular restaurant on the Black River. It serves American-style food and offers various activities, such as beach volleyball and kayaking. A musician is setting up music on the outdoor stage.
She gleams when I walk up, giving me a mischievous wink and tilt of the head in Scott’s direction. I roll my eyes with a laugh. I know she would love to be responsible for meeting my future husband, but I have doubts. We all know that I’m a bit of a lost cause in the love department.
“I was worried you chickened out,” she teases. Her short, dark blonde hair is slightly curled, and she’s wearing faded skinny jeans, a floral blouse, and cork wedges on her feet. I think I’m wearing the exact same jeans but with black suede booties and a striped black and white fitted tee. Her fiancé, Derek, and his friend, Scott, are seated at the table, wearing collared polos.
“Perfect storm weather,” I say when Jen hugs me.
She looks up at the sky. It's muggy for springtime and breezy and hazy, with rolling grey clouds darkening in the distance.
“Yeah. Something is brewing out there," she nods.
She links arms with me, and nerves flutter in my gut as I’m introduced to Scott before sitting across from him at the rectangular table. Genuine, warm brown eyes balance his nervous smile. Unlike Dante, with his unruly black hair, Scott’s brown hair is perfectly trimmed into a classic corporate cut.
“Very good to meet you, Helena.”
“Likewise,” I flash my friendliest smile.
Derek holds out his menu, discussing which starters we should get, while Jen shifts her approving gaze between Scott and me. Does she have to be so obvious?
“I’m not picky,” I say to Derek. At least not in the food department. “Any of the above sounds yummy.”
“Agreed,” says Scott, eyes on me.
He asks me if I’ve been here before, and I smile and nod, wishing I were better at small talk.
He’s polite, charming, and even good-looking--lanky with broad shoulders. But somehow, he’s not my type. I know I’m stubborn; I should at least try and make an effort, and I do intend to. But...not for the right reasons. I only want to get on his good side to pick his brain. These types of connections are crucial to my job. Jen has no idea this is the only reason I’ve come, and I’d like to keep it that way. No rush. I have all night to obtain the desired information.
When the waitress comes, after taking our order, she informs us that the usually lit river path has been temporarily closed “on account of recent events.” Her tone is somber. We all know what she’s referring to. When she leaves the table, Jen raises her brows with a sigh.
“It’s all anybody's talking about lately,” she complains.
“Yep. Crazy stuff,” shrugs Derek with a shake of the head.
“Well, anyway. Let’s not get into it,” she adds.
But I couldn’t disagree more.
“The FBI is getting involved,” says Scott in a low voice, and my ears perk. I look at him, stunned.
“Really?”
He nods, glancing beyond our table. “Don’t repeat that.”
I lean in on my elbows. “Why should they get involved?”
“Well,” he sighs, “because of the location.”
My brows pinch. “These crimes have all occurred in Black Valley,” I say.
“Yes. But, not on federal forest land until recently.”
“Ah,” I nod. The Hansel and Gretel killings were close to the boundary of the federal park. If a murder occurs on federal land, it becomes a federal crime.
Jen sighs. “Shouldn’t have got her started, Scott.”
He raises an amused brow, looking at her for meaning.
“I’m a journalist,” I explain.
“Scott works in forensics,” adds Derek, and Jen’s face drops.
“Oh. I had no idea,” she frowns.
Poor Jen. There is no escaping where this conversation is going. Crime is not her favorite subject, especially when it hits so close to home. That and this date is supposed to be fun.
Fun is nice. But I’ll settle for interesting.
Scott cracks a grin. “There’re some ruffled feathers over it. The police around here aren’t used to working with feds.”
“How about you?” I ask.
“Oh, I’ve a different take. Having the chance to learn a bit from Qauntico’s BAU has been eye-opening.”
I cock my head. “Behavioral Analysis Unit?”
“The big dogs,” he nods.
“But no official suspect yet,” I pry, wondering if he knows more than the rest of us.
“Some leads, a few contradictory police sketches. But no, not yet, as far as I understand.”
The waitress comes, and the subject momentarily turns to food and drinks.
“Speaking of leads,” I say, and Jen clears her throat, pinching me under the table.
I pause, holding my tongue before guiltily sipping iced tea.
“Do ya’ll want to hit the festival after this?” she asks, “Or just hang out here?”
The waitress interrupts, and the question is left hanging as our main entrées--burgers, steak and fries, side salads--are placed on the table.
My phone vibrates, and I slide it from my purse in my lap, quickly checking it. It’s Dante.
I’m craving your pussy.
My eyes widen. Shit.
Not a good time, I reply.
Enjoy your meal, Helena.
What the? I look up, alarmed by my phone, scanning the deck and the beach. That bastard is spying on me again.
“Everything okay?” asks Jen.
“Yeah, sorry.”
I shove my phone back in my bag, ignoring it while I eat, bothered that Dante is watching me. I look over my shoulder, scanning the parking lot for his jeep. If he’s here, he’s hidden.
“You were saying,” says Scott, and I turn back to him.
“Oh. Several people I interviewed mentioned a guy camping back near the trailhead. Nobody knew who he was. They all described him as middle-aged or older, medium height, thin, with balding brown hair. Dirty clothes. Though he doesn't resemble the recent police sketch.” The controversy surrounding that sketch is that it made the killer look physically attractive. But the validity of the witness they got it from has been questioned.
“Also doesn’t fit BAU’s assessment of the killer’s likely profile,” he says.
“Do tell,” I smile, and he wipes his mouth with a napkin.
“Younger. Mid to late twenties, early thirties. Taller than average. Athletic build. Intelligent and likely has a professional day job. Knows his way around nature but stays near town. Lives a double life.”
“But maybe he isn’t as physically strong as they think. Maybe he isn’t operating alone but has help.”
He shakes his head.
“They are convinced he’s a lone wolf. The manner of his crimes is personal and highly detailed."
"Meticulous," I nod.
"Right. They're calling him a sado-psychopathic."
I tap my chin. “That makes sense. He would want complete control over his vision and process. So...the question is, which town is he living near?”
He nods. “That is the question, Helena.”
It takes willpower to hold my tongue and let the conversation meander to lighter topics, but I do it for Jen. Like a sister, I know she means well. Unlike me, she’s a highly balanced person. She works regular hours, not overtime. She has a life outside of work. She isn’t obsessive. She works to live and not the other way around.
But these contrasting traits make me good at my job, and it’s why, though I smile and go through the motions of socializing, enjoying a meal among friends on a balmy early summer evening, my mind drifts to the literal coming storm, and I’m back to plotting the figurative storm: where will his next kill be?
Maybe it’s because I know what independent sleuths are capable of when we put our minds together on an unsolved case. Last year, the community members of my blog ignited investigators to awaken a cold case. Turns out we were probably right that the string of unsolved Black River murders can be linked to our serial killer. He didn’t bother dressing the victims up, but other similarities suggest that our killer has evolved. Given enough time without getting caught, they tend to do that.
Jen waves her hand in front of my face. “Play a game of pool?”
“Hm? Oh, sure,” I smile apologetically, trying to clear my mind.
We get up from the table and head toward the door with our drinks. Scott touches his hand to my back as I enter the building, and I glance over my shoulders for any signs of Dante. God, is he here watching me? How the hell does he know I’m out to eat?
I scan the pool area. Where are you, Dante? Did he see Scott’s hand on my back? I bet he will he want to punish me for that minor physical interaction. My cheeks flush with embarrassment over how my body and mind have mixed feelings over that prospect.
At what point does a sexy game of cat and mouse become a nuisance or dangerous? I wish I knew the answer.
“I didn’t mean to bore you,” laughs Scott as we gather our pool sticks.
I shake my head, hoping my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. “No, not at all,” I smile. I look over at Jen who has moved to the next pool table and safely out of earshot.
“I was trying to be polite by dropping the subject,” I explain.
This gives us both the green light, and we easily slip into shop-talk over beers about the case while playing pool. Scott is refreshingly understanding. He has an easy way about him and is interesting, warming me to him.
“Some careers are like a marriage,” he says. “The work is never done.”
I tap the red ball before glancing up at him.
“Are you speaking from experience?” I ask, and he smiles guiltily.
“My ex-fiance says she couldn’t compete with my mistress. But there was never another woman. It’s just…crime never sleeps.”
He has a midwestern twang that I didn’t notice before.
“Exactly,” I say, and we exchange a knowing gaze. If nothing else, Scott is decent friend material.
“Where are you from, Scott?”
“Chicago. Graduated from Loyola along with Chad.”
“Impressive. How did you end up down here?”
“Took a job,” he shrugs, and I laugh. Why would a college grad relocate from a major city position to a river town in the Ozarks?
He swigs his beer. “It pays less,” he winks, reading my mind. “But I wanted out of Chicago. Tired of dealing with eight-lane highways, robberies, and shootings every other frickin’ day. The only thing to worry about down here is--”
“A local serial killer,” I shrug, and we laugh darkly as I try to ignore my phone buzzing in my cross-body purse. I know it’s Dante, and the thought sends unwanted heat through my core.
When will I give him up? Or rather, when will he let me?
DANTE
Settling on a Suguru Tanaka painting to add to my collection, I click “Buy Now” before glancing out my tinted window at the group exiting Flannen’s--just some family of four.
My eyes flick back to the screen, and I hover over the red painting from the backseat of my SUV.
Adding a custom office was a good decision when I was still contracting office buildings and traveling to job sites in Kansas City while juggling a new career in finance. After college, I spent many hours at this drop-down keyboard and monitor screen mounted into the back of the leather driver’s seat.
Fast-forward a couple of years, and now I only use the car office when I’m traveling, or...
Two more people exit the building, a man and a woman. Strangers to me.
I lower the cursor, skipping “Add to bag” for “Make an Offer.”
$28,000 is a bit overpriced. But offering less than 15% off will likely be rejected, so I enter $23,800.
I click back on the image, crack the window, and light a cigar, studying the piece I’m confident belongs to me. I ignore the “May also like” feature. I never settle for less than what I've claimed as mine. At such a high price point, I’m sure they’ll get back to me within 24 hours. They always do.
I study the stunning painting on the screen. It's different from my others. Though similarly swathed in red and black—always red-lit with black shadows--the subject isn’t a humanoid or an animated domestic object rendered ghoulishly organic, monstrously hideous. This one is a pyramidal building, temple-like, but so much more.
Revealing the overwhelming power of its true nature, it rises in a black sky, veined, sanguineous tentacles hanging beneath it like the pulled umbilical roots of an ancient tree giant. The massive, organic structure is of sky-scraper proportions, towering over the murky, dark landscape like a cosmic deity, one that can only inspire awe and terror. This tantalizing mix demands the gaze.
I hear her before I see her, laughing between Jennifer and two men; she looks relaxed, her eyes lit as if she’s been drinking as she steps into the parking lot. She’s fully engaged in conversation when she suddenly becomes distracted and scans the parking lot expectantly. She’s looking for me. But I’m not in my green Jeep, as expected.
My eyes smile with the satisfaction of knowing she knows I’m here.
She should be looking over her back. Without me, she’d be far too reckless and get herself killed prematurely. Life still has plans for her. I have plans for her.
My phone rings, and I watch Helena’s every move and facial expression as I speak with Jim Peters, the dogged thorn in my side.
“Sorry, we got disconnected, Dante.”
Because I hung up. “It’s fine, Jim. As I was saying, I’m not a financial crimes analyst.”
“I understand. But you are an excellent financial analyst who minored in criminology. Look. But we’re of a local mindset around here. We’d rather put money into our economy and not outsource to a remote out-of-towner. We could use your expertise on this case.”
“Do I count as a local?” I laugh edgily.
“Of course. We’ve got the feds stepping into this, and there’s pressure to get shit done faster on our side while we can.”
I puff my cigar, blowing out the window.
“Do you have a suspect, Jim?”
“Not yet. But we’ve got marked bills and casino chips found at the same motel where blood matched one of the murder victims. This thing crosses county lines. There could be a money laundering connection here.”
I stifle a yawn, pulling my car forward. Where is she headed now? I’ve got to get Jim off my ass so I can focus on business.
“Fine. Go ahead and send me what you’ve got. I’ll take a look.”
“Great, will do. Appreciate you, Dante.”
“Yeah. No problem,” I hang up with a huff. The old man is impressively tenacious; I'll give him that.
But this gig is a far cry from my market analysis, helping clients get richer. Pays less, too. That's how it goes. Work for the rich; you get rich. Work for the poor; you get poor. Ah, but I'm supposed to care that it's for a good cause. Serving my community, and that kind of bullshit. Probably, there's a career-hungry DA at the center of this "localism" who can't let this big opportunity slip from his fingertips. These murders are becoming famous, meaning big dollars for all involved. T.V. interviews alone can stuff their pockets.
For better or worse, these murders seem to be becoming the new economy around here, even bringing tourists, which is a fucking joke, a travesty laughing in the face of brutality. Perhaps this is the kind of spectacle the killer seeks. His work elevated on a world stage. Cheapened by fame but comfortably notorious.
I drop back far enough behind Helena’s car to go undetected—easier when she’s traveling with a convoy. Where the hell are they going? Not the festival.
Luckily for me, I am headed in the same direction so that I can keep tabs on her a little longer.
I become concerned when the white BMW carrying Jennifer and her fiancé turned off the highway, and the other black sedan, a Lexus ES, continues after Helena.
Is he following her home? Is he more than a friend? A potential lover?
An empty feeling spreads through me, cooling the heat in my veins. That feeling gnaws numbingly as I enter his plates into a reverse look-up app so I can investigate the history of his vehicle. I’ll do some digging. I’ll figure this guy out.
It’s not what I had planned for tonight. I’ll work begrudgingly as that empty feeling builds, the void inside sinking deeper, widening like a nasty urge that must be fulfilled.