The Summerland (17 page)

As much as she hated to admit it, it was fascinating material, and she could clearly see her own situation mirrored in some of the writing. There was a phrase that almost described her circumstances, and she’d found it buried in the very literature he was using to reeducate her—Stockholm Syndrome.

She knew what he was doing to her, how he was changing her, shifting her personality through nothing more than the suggestion that there might be more to Samantha Henning than met the eye. It was bizarre, and made her wonder at his power over her. Unlike textbook Stockholm Syndrome, he’d used no force against her with the significant exceptions of first abducting her, then detaining her in this restricted environment. On those rare occasions that he did speak to her, there was never any threat, any coercion in their conversation. He spoke to her as a teacher might a student, or as friend to friend. It was unnerving primarily because she’d fallen into both roles so seamlessly, without any real thought of resistance past that first week.

She was shocked by the difference in herself between now and then. Six weeks ago the only thing on her mind had been going to ground, leaving Carlos and the feds scratching their heads in confusion. She had been running on animal instinct, pure and simple.

For the past five weeks, though, she’d been forced to actually use her mind, something she hadn’t bothered to really put to work in at least fifteen years. It surprised her that it felt good to use that powerful organ, made her feel stronger, smarter than the Samantha who’d driven away from that pier in San Marcos with a Gucci bag full of cash and no thought of where she’d be tomorrow.

Today she had a pretty good idea of where she’d be tomorrow and the day after that. He had a plan for her, that she was certain. She only hoped she’d be tough enough and smart enough to prevail on the day he finally appeared before her, and that he’d believe that SHE believed.

Chapter Seventeen

Bill was tired. Tired of his inability to make a break in this case, of the press’s insistence on keeping it alive as a news story, and of the fact the mayor and the town council were now holding the possibility of his reelection over his head like an executioner’s axe. At this point, he couldn’t care less if he was ever elected to public office again. No, wait. That was just frustration talking, and he knew it. He did a damned good job as Sheriff to this county, and it just pissed him off when his best attempts didn’t amount to diddly.

He stared at Drebin’s criminal profile for what seemed like the hundredth time, but it said the same thing. White male, thirty to forty-five years of age, but probably closer to forty-five. Highly functional, but distant to others. No particular anger or spite toward women. In his mind, the deaths he’d caused were necessary, explaining the victim’s clean death and their remote placement. He’d never meant for them to be found.

He let the report slip through his fingers, then picked up another sheaf of papers. Through Sergeant Doug Brewster’s tenacious investigation they’d identified three of the remaining four victims. Jane Doe Four had become Victoria Rogers, an employee of the concession that ran tourist operations in Yosemite. She’d been a maid at one of the hotels in the Park, and when she hadn’t shown up for work, no one had really thought that much of it. She’d apparently ridden the bus to Mariposa to do some shopping, intending to return later that afternoon. Her roommate had contacted the Park Rangers, who had done a cursory search, but evidently Vicky hadn’t had all that much in her room to begin with, so everyone involved figured she’d just flown the coop.

Victim number three had been identified as Honoria Martinez, a seventeen-year-old runaway from the nearby town of Planada. She and her boyfriend, Ernesto, had disappeared at the same time, so both of their families assumed they’d run off together. Bill had asked Drebin to run Ernesto’s name and social through their databanks and had confirmed a last known address in L.A. His contacts within L.A.P.D. found Ernesto, alive and well and single, and discovered that he and Honoria had fought the day before she disappeared. She had threatened to tell her father she was pregnant to get Ernesto to marry her. Ernesto didn’t figure it to be true, but her old man’s temper was legendary, so he’d fled, and Honoria disappeared the very next day. Given the circumstances of the current case and the fact that Ernesto had done eighteen months in county lock-up for breaking and entering right before Victim Number Two had disappeared, he was inclined to believe his story.

The identification of Victim Number Two was by far the most bizarre. After a search of missing person’s records in the local area turned up nothing, they took their most vital clue to her identity to a dental forensics specialist. She’d still had braces on her teeth. After examining her dental imprints and scrapings taken by the medical examiner, he’d nailed down her age, how long the braces had been on before her death and even identified the bonding agent used to keep the straighteners on her teeth. He’d then requested a search of the databases from the big dental supply companies in the west. Their results had turned up over 500 dentists in the western United States who used that particular bonding agent. After that it became dogged police work. Doug Brewster had finally tracked her down. Katie Thorton, twenty-two, of Santa Monica had been hitching all over the West, moving from national park to national park, working in some of them as a waitress. She never made it to Yosemite.

And so they were left with one. Their best efforts to identify her had failed and even the experts at the FBI had come up with nothing. Jane Doe Number One would probably remain just that, a Jane Doe. They’d determined from her placement and the decomposition of the materials around and under her that she’d been the first, and that she’d probably been laying there, naked to the sky and the sun and the elements for more than five years. Other than the fact that it now seemed that a corpse had been left approximately every year, they had nothing. The girls didn’t seem to be related in any way, except that their disappearances in themselves were unremarkable. No one had ever missed them. And that was the thing that bothered him most about Samantha Henning and made him cling to a gut-churning conclusion. Samantha Henning was indeed their killer’s next victim, and he had her right now.

This killer was an opportunist, and to this point, an extremely lucky one. Until Samantha, none of the girls had been missed, so he’d been able to continue his worship unabated. Not that the discovery of the women’s bodies had curtailed his activities any. They still had no idea who he was, what he did, or if he even lived in the area, for God’s sake. It wasn’t like Mariposa was an island unto itself, either. Oakhurst was just twenty minutes south and Merced forty-five minutes west. Both were decent-sized communities, and he knew plenty of people had bought their real estate cheap in Mariposa, then commuted to better paying jobs out of the county. What if he was one of those folks? They lived on the periphery of a lawman’s vision simply because they didn’t work in town. As long as they went about their business, they never drew attention.

Then again, what if he wasn’t a local? What if he was one of those part-time residents who flitted in for the summer, drank in the sun, then went back to their daily lives in September? It didn’t really feel right, but he had to consider it as a possibility.

In a minor miracle he associated with divine intervention, the press remained blissfully unaware of the occult aspects associated with the case. Apparently his ultimatum to the deputies and to the Goltree family had been heeded. Even the community gossips seemed determined to keep it a local matter.

Rocking back in his chair, he contemplated the dirty beige wall directly opposite him. There had been one bright spot this week. The Justice Department had come up with a trace on the bills in the duffel bag, and they thought they just might have their “Carlos.” He’d know for sure in about five hours, when Drebin called to let him know the initial results of their joint investigation.

In one of those typical cases of big government tying it’s own hands, it had taken five weeks to make the connection between the money and circumstances that Special Agent Frank Drebin had mentioned in his report and the fact that the Justice Department was looking for the same person and same amount of cash.

Well, he thought, tossing all cynicism aside for the moment, if all went well then at least he might have something positive to tell Arden.

Arden. He’d become increasingly frustrated with their telephone conversations. They’d become more polite and labored with each encounter, when he wanted exactly the opposite. He wanted to talk to the Arden Jones who’d been through basic training and lived in different cultures and loved her sister so much that she’d been ready to sacrifice her own life to find justice. Instead, he got Captain Jones, military attaché to the Hollywood set, and she got Sheriff Ashton, the tin-star who couldn’t manage to find his own ass with both hands.

And he missed her. A lot. That was the damndest part of all.

Sighing, he plopped his chair back down on four legs and waited for his next appointment. Josie’s final security clearance had come through about two weeks ago. He’d hesitated all of about five seconds before having her come into the office and join the investigation as an expert. She’d been looking through the evidence and actually visited the scene, trying to give them some sort of idea what kind of witchcraft their killer was practicing. Today was the day she’d promised to brief him on exactly what she thought was going on.

* * * *

Arden was finally doing it. She’d taken a day of leave from her job just to deal with it, both physically and emotionally. The clothes she’d been wearing that day had sat patiently in their baggie for over six weeks, just waiting to be thrown away. Both her shorts and tee shirt were too bloodstained to even think about cleaning, but for some reason she’d held on to them, almost as if they were a talisman of some sort.

She sat cross-legged on her queen-sized bed, contemplating the Ziploc baggie sitting like an ugly, malicious toad in the middle of her brilliant maroon and teal bedspread. Its contents beckoned her for a reason she couldn’t even begin to understand. With shaking hands she unzipped the clear plastic, pulling out the crusty tee shirt and shorts and setting them on the trash bag she’d spread in front of her. Almost as if guided, her hands drifted to the back pockets of the denim shorts, searching for something she hadn’t even remembered placing there.

The small white slip of paper rattled noisily in her hand as she unfolded it, a chill creeping down her back as she looked at the incomprehensible lines and whorls on the paper. For some inexplicable reason she knew it was imperative that the Sheriff see this piece of paper, and see it now. Climbing off the bed on legs that were unnaturally stiff with trepidation she headed for the door and the nearest fax machine, leaving the bloodied clothing sitting forgotten on her bed.

* * * *

Josie carefully cleared a spot on the Sheriff’s desk to place her written notes. Mentally, her thoughts were as scattered as his office. She had no idea how to begin to give him her analysis on the form of witchcraft the killer was practicing. It was a mystery even to her, and she’d dedicated her life to practicing the Craft. This guy was a piece of work.

To begin with, the Wiccan religion was steadfast in its belief of doing no harm—to anyone or anything. The Lady-killer, as the press had dubbed him in a stunning bout of originality, seemed to be using the physical practices of the Wiccan way of life, while completely ignoring their credo. Each of the sites had been a perfect ceremonial circle, down to the last detail. She’d racked her brain trying to come up with who it might be, but no one that she knew was capable of such atrocities. She’d even seriously considered her High Priest, a man she had entrusted her soul to, but still couldn’t make a connection between the mind doing this and one of her coven.

She knew that she hadn’t been the only one in her coven checked out by the police. She was more than relived that each one had come up clean, with the exception of a few drug charges. Those she’d expected. With that weight off her shoulders, she was ready to proceed.

Now she had to try to give the Sheriff a Cliff’s Notes version of a religion that stretched further back than Christianity. It should be interesting, to say the very least. She’d finally decided the best way to depict this killer was by describing a traditional ceremony, then explaining the deviations.

She took a deep breath, then launched into an almost didactic, professorial tone.

“
In traditional Wiccan fashion we prepare a circle using candles, flowers and whatever herbs are recognized as having particular potency during that phase of the season. During Litha these herbs are Frankincense, Lemon, Rose, Wisteria, Lavender. We cast the circle, placing the altar in the center of the circle, facing the Southern quarter. In casting the circle we make it sacred, sacrosanct land. In order for you to understand anything about Wicca, you must understand the power of the circle. It is the definition of our religion.

“
The altar can consist of almost anything, from a stump to a person, depending upon the worshipper and their beliefs. But the ceremony itself should always begin and end in the same way.

“
The two main altar candles are red. The four quarter candles are blue in the West, red in the South, gold in the East, and green in the North. All other secondary candles are red and gold. The ceremony follows, with the High Priestess and High Priest invoking the name of the Goddess to thank her for the abundance and beauty of the Earth. Spells are incanted and worshipful dances performed by the entire coven.”