The Nightmare Murders

Prologue

June 7, 1992

Twenty-Five Years Earlier

Nine-year-old Jackie Hall was camping with her family in one of the many state campgrounds in the woods of the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

Cursed with a tiny bladder, Jackie crawled out of her sleeping bag in the middle of the night, and with flashlight in hand, made her way quietly—so as not wake the bears that the boys in the campground had told her about—to the outhouse-style ladies room.

Still half asleep, she took the wrong fork on the path back to her tent and ended up veering away from the family's campsite without knowing it. She walked nearly thirty yards beyond where the tent should have been before she realized that she must have missed it somehow. Retracing her steps—but not far enough—she then took another wrong fork and headed even farther from her campsite.

Fully awake by then, and realizing that she was lost, young Jackie began to panic. Though she was less than a hundred and fifty feet from the civilization of the campground, in the gloom of the woods she couldn't see a single tent, so she might as well have been smack in the middle of the Amazon jungle.

She knew she couldn't scream for help or she'd wake every bear out there. And according to the boys, they not only had acute hearing but could also smell fear half a mile away, so she couldn't very well just sit down and cry, either—as much as she wanted to. So, she kept walking.

With a death-grip on her flashlight, she was following the path that she thought had brought her there, but there was so much about it that looked unfamiliar, that she made a number of wrong turns, and before long she was headed in a direct line away from the campground and deeper into the woods.

Watching carefully where she was stepping—and watching for bear tracks—she failed to notice a low-hanging branch, and it raked across the side of her face. Sure that she was being mauled by a bear, she shrieked and spun around to club the beast with her flashlight.

Hitting the branch, the light was wrenched from her hands and tumbled through the air while she desperately grabbed at it. She touched it with one hand, then the other, but was not able to get a grip on it. Finally, it landed with a thud, and instantly its light went out.

With wide-eyed horror, Jackie stared down at the silver cylinder lying on the ground, and said meekly, "Oh, no. Please, no!"

She reached down and carefully lifted the light. She hopefully slid the switch back and forth, but nothing happened. Staring at the cracked glass lens, her eyes filled and she began to cry. She had never been so scared in her life. Unfortunately, the night wasn't over, yet; it was going to get worse.

She wasn't sure how long she just stood there clutching the light and crying, but when she finally began to think about where she was, she knew it had been too long. Whatever bears she woke up with her shriek would surely have picked up on the salty smell of her tears by now, and would be moving in for the kill!

Forcing herself to calm down and wiping her eyes on her pajamas, she then stood stock still and listened. She could hear rustling coming from the woods in every direction. Was it just the wind or was it the bears closing in? Slowly, she turned left then right peering into the dense woods.

There was a nearly full moon that night, but it was hidden by clouds more often than it shown. When it did come out, its light made its way through the tall trees in only jagged patches that sharpened the shadows that danced eerily as the wind rustled the trees. When it was swallowed by the clouds, the woods were as black as the forbidding far-corner of her grandmother's cellar.

Jackie knew she had to move to keep away from the bears, but without the flashlight, the path—such as it was—was nearly impossible to follow. Before long she was off the path and wandering more or less in circles, but always farther from the campground.

After hours of wandering, Jackie gave up and collapsed at the base of a giant pine tree. She was frightened beyond all hope; cold, scratched, and bruised; her pajamas were torn; one of her slippers was missing; and she was both physically and emotionally exhausted. She laid down on the pine needles and began to cry, quite certain that she was going to die out there alone in the woods.

She didn't, of course; a local police officer—one of the hundred or more people looking for her that morning—found her just before dawn. Though the ending to her ordeal was happy, and she even ended up in law enforcement because of her rescuing hero, Jackie Hall—34 years old, police detective, self-defense instructor, and marksman with both pistols and rifles—was still deathly afraid of the woods at night.

Chapter One

Sunday, June 3, 2017

Rowley, MA

3:35 a.m.

Holly McCray knew she was dreaming, of course, but that didn't make the nightmare any less terrifying. In fact, if anything, she felt more frightened than she normally did just before waking from one of her all-too-common nightmares.

In her dream, she was trying to run, but as usual, her legs and arms wouldn't move. Somehow, though, this dream was different. She didn't feel that typical and frustrating paralysis that normally accompanied her attempts to escape in her nightmares. She felt that her arms and legs could move, but that they were being held. It was as if she was tied to something.

As Holly struggled to move her legs, something struck her cheek. It was a light slap. More surprising than painful. Was it real or was it part of the dream? From a distance, like from the bottom of a well, she began to hear a voice.

Wake up. C'mon, sweetheart, wake up.

It was a man's voice. Her father! Oh, thank God! He was trying to wake her up—rescue her from another one of her bizarre nightmares—what he called her weirdoes.

Though the dream-haze remained heavy, she managed to open her eyes. Or at least she thought she did. Was she still dreaming? The ceiling of her bedroom was gone and so was the roof of the house! She was looking up into a clear star-lit sky with a bright moon.

Wake me up, daddy, she said, not knowing if the words were really coming out or if they were just in her head. Please wake me up! I don't like this … I'm scared …

Another slap on the cheek. A real slap, this time—a painful slap—and she was sure she was awake now! But still she couldn't move—and still she saw the stars in the sky.

Wake up, sweetheart, the voice said again, the night is slipping away from us here.

That wasn't her father's voice! She recognized the voice—but from where? Then a face appeared in front of her, looking intently at her eyes.

You awake now? the man asked. Can you feel this? As he spoke, he brutally pinched one of her nipples.

Holly shrieked at the pain and the shock, and every bit of haziness left her mind. She was instantly and fully awake—and she began to realize that her nightmare was real!

She looked down and saw, in sickening horror, that she was completely naked and tied to a chaise lounge that was almost fully reclined. Her arms were tied to the arms of the chaise at the elbows and wrists, and her legs were wrapped around the sides of the metal frame with her ankles tied together underneath, lewdly spreading her legs. She was about to be raped!

Suddenly, she connected the voice and the face. He was at the dance club! He had bought her a beer. He must have put something in it. That date-rape drug! Fuck!

Please don't do this, Holly began to beg. Please don't. I'll pay you anything you want. My … my father has money; he'll give you anything. Please, please don't do this. I promise I won't even tell the police, just please let me go, please!

Oh, I was right about you! the man said in a happy tone. You're a pleader, not a screamer. I'm so happy for that!

For the first time, the man moved around in front of her to where she could see all of him. He was naked head to foot, and he was in a full state of arousal.

"Please, please don't do this!" she begged as she started to cry.

But the man just smiled as he knelt on the end of the lounge chair, and reached down to touch her inner thigh.

She clamped her eyes tightly shut, tried vainly to pull her legs together, and continued to beg through crying sobs, Oh, please, please no …

But the man didn't fondle her legs or her privates as she was expecting. Instead, he took a fold of skin on her inner thigh and gripped it between his finger and thumb. Not quite a pinch, but a tight squeeze. Then he said, Little stick, and he poked a needle into the fold of skin.

She was anticipating him doing something quite different between her legs, of course, but his technique with the syringe was so smooth that she might have missed the fact that she had been injected with something if she hadn't been watching. He then did the same thing to the other leg, even repeating the same two words.

What the hell was he doing? What was he injecting her with? Why?

The man stood up and when she felt his weight leave the chaise, she opened her eyes, thanking God that he had changed his mind for whatever reason. Thank you! she said. "I promise I won't tell anyone about this … ever."

Oh, I know you won't, he said in a tone that made her blood run cold. We'll just wait a minute for that to take effect, then we'll get down to business. With that, he walked away behind her, where she couldn't see him.

Desperate, she drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and at the very top of her lungs, she shouted, HELP! Another big breath and she shouted, RAPE!

She hadn't even closed her mouth from yelling rape when she was startled by the man's voice right next to her ear.

There's no need to shout, he said in a patient tone. "There's also no use to shout. Believe me, no one can hear you … only me. Then, as he walked around in front of her—still naked and still very aroused—he said, And if it makes you feel any better, I have no interest in having sex with you."

That sentence made no sense at all to her. Here she was, naked and tied to a chair with her legs tied wide apart, and this man was walking around naked with a full erection. Why would he tell her such an obvious lie? Was he just screwing with her for some perverse reason? Still, she wanted so desperately to believe him that her mind reached out to grasp any straw she could imagine. Maybe … maybe he was just going to take some bondage photos of her for some sick fetish.

What … what are you going to do then? she asked looking at his hands to see if he was carrying a camera. Are you going to take pictures or something?

Her question caused him to pause for a moment. Pictures. Surprisingly, he hadn't thought of taking pictures before. Then he replied, No, sweetheart, no pictures. We don't even have a camera with us.

We? Us? He wasn't alone? Was he just getting her ready for somebody else to rape? Was this some sick cult thing? Her mind went reeling. A gang rape by a bunch of bikers? Some perverted initiation right of a street gang? She began to cry again. Please, please don't rape me, she sobbed.

I told you, he said as he knelt back on the end of the chaise and leaned toward her exposed privates, once again, "I don't want to have intercourse with you. I haven't the slightest interest in your vagina."

Wide-eyed with fear and disbelief, she craned her neck to look down at what he was doing between her legs. Blinking to see through her tears, she saw that he was wearing rubber gloves—surgical gloves. He put his left hand on her right inner thigh and stretched a section of skin taut between his thumb and fingers. Oddly, she could see him doing it, but she couldn't feel him doing it. He then moved his right hand in toward the stretched area. He was holding something. A knife? A scalpel! Jesus Christ! He was going to cut her!

She tried to twist her leg away from the blade, but he leaned heavily on her leg and pinned it tight. He looked up into her fear-stricken eyes and a look of pleasure spread across his face. Then he went serious again. Don't struggle! he commanded. The anesthetic is very local; I don't want to hurt you.

And he didn't. He pushed the sharp blade almost an inch deep into her anesthetized flesh, and she didn't feel a thing.

The anesthetic wasn't for her comfort, of course. The way he had her bound to the chair, he could hardly be worried about that. It was to keep her from passing out from the pain. She was no good to him at all if she was unconscious.

His incision neatly exposed the great saphenous vein within the muscle tissue of her leg. He then made a smooth slice through the vascular wall and her blood began to pump out of the incision in time with her rapid heartbeat. He had considered cutting the femoral artery to get its much greater blood flow, but the femoral was too deep within the leg to get to neatly without retractors. And besides, the lower blood flow from the great saphenous would make things last longer.

What … what are you doing?! Holly cried, now wishing that this was a nightmare.

The man ignored her question but turned to look into her terrified eyes once again. He stared for a long moment; his lips curling into a cold, frightening—satisfied—little grin.

He then turned and made an identical incision into her left thigh, again leaning on her leg to keep her from struggling.

Done, and with her blood flowing plentifully from the two incisions he stood up and looked at his work. The blood ran freely down her thighs soaking the plastic webbing of the cheap chaise lounge and collected under her naked buttocks before dripping into the long grass.

She stared down at her blood-covered groin in utter incomprehension. What … why … why did you cut me? she asked not able to take her eyes off of the surreal squirts of blood pumping from the cuts in her legs—cuts that she couldn't even feel.

He looked down at her, grinning. The panic that followed the realization that she was in far worse trouble than just being raped shown clearly on her face. He liked that—he liked it a lot!

Why are you doing this to me? she pleaded.

He didn't bother to answer. She couldn't possibly understand how the fright in her eyes made him feel. Only one other person understood that—understood him.

He rolled the blood-covered gloves off and put them into a heavy plastic bag along with the scalpel. From the little medical kit that was on the ground near his feet, he removed a condom. He tore the foil package in half, dropped the foil back into the kit, and carefully rolled the pre-lubricated condom onto his erection. Looking down at her face he began to masturbate.

She began to cry again—and to plead. Please don't do this … please … please don't kill me, she sobbed looking at the blood pumping from her legs. I don't want to die. Oh God, please no, please make it stop!

Unfortunately for Holly, her pleading, her begging for her life only made it better for him. That's why he liked women. The one man that he'd killed had been so defiant, so belligerent even while he knew he was dying, that he had finally just slit his damned throat to shut him up. And he never did reach orgasm that time. Bastard!

But he would reach it this time—and too quickly if he wasn't careful. He had to slow down … make it last. He calculated that a girl this size, bleeding from incisions far from the head, should take ten to fifteen minutes to lose consciousness. Irreversible death—brain death—would follow about ten minutes after that, but by then he would be on the highway and heading for home. Once they were unconscious there was really no thrill any longer—he couldn't see the fear.

As she watched herself bleeding to death, she begged and pleaded and cried. Then, as if a fog lifted, she realized that he wasn't even looking at her bleeding wounds as he masturbated—he was looking at her face! He was getting pleasure from her torment, her pleading. Almost more than the fact that he was trying to kill her, that comprehension made her angry as hell. "You sick piece of shit!" she screamed at him.

Unexpectedly, the physical exertion of yelling after the huge blood loss she'd experienced caused her to go lightheaded, almost to the point of passing out.

Don't you faint on me! the man commanded her. I'm not ready yet, damn you! Then, in a more pacifying tone, he said, You just be quiet, okay, and everything will be all right. Then he began to pick up the pace of his masturbation.

Just be quiet, my ass! Holly thought. In a last great act of defiance, she took in as big of a breath as she could, and with all the energy that she could summon, she bore down, tensed every muscle in her body, and let out a long, loud scream.

What little blood was getting to her brain was momentarily diverted to her muscular system, and as she screamed into the night, she slid into a black swirling void of unconsciousness. As she fell spinning into what felt like a long dark tunnel she heard him cry out as if from a great distance, "No! You bitch!"

She tried to shout, "Fuck you!" in reply, but nothing came out.

Desperately, he threw his head back and closed his eyes while feverishly pumping his erection. He had to concentrate on that image of her face, that look in her eyes as she realized she was going to die. If he looked at her now—at her limp, placid body—he would lose the feeling that was just building.

Concentrate! Concentrate! Okay, that's it. Okay, here we go … here we go! He held his breath as his orgasm burst forth into the condom, then finally let out a grunting, Yes … yes … oh yeah … as his body spasmed through its sexual release.

He stood there for several moments, panting and just trying to keep his balance.

That felt good! It was not as good as it should have been, though. She nearly screwed the whole thing up right at the end. He looked at the motionless form in front of him, the blood still trickling in pulses from the incisions he'd made. Bitch, he said, again.

He leaned down and picked up the plastic bag containing his gloves and scalpel. He added the used condom to the bag and sealed it. He then picked up the medical kit and walked to his van. A minute later, wearing a jumpsuit that he would later throw away along with the plastic bag and the woman's clothes, he was driving his van down the overgrown dirt road headed for Rt. 133, then I-95, and home.

Chapter Two

Sunday, June 3, 2017

Interstate Route I-95, northeast MA

7:45 p.m.

Trooper Dave Price, of the Massachusetts State Police, drove north on I-95, headed toward the Newburyport end of Plum Island. Off duty, he was on his way home from Boston's Logan Airport after completing a week's training at the FBI academy in Quantico, Virginia. Not generally a fan of flying, Dave actually enjoyed this flight, because he was seated next to two very attractive and very sociable young women.

As he drove and replayed the flirtatious conversations in his head—he'd been at the top of his form—he slipped a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and looked at it with a smile. It had been torn from the corner of a magazine page and on it were scribbled the two women's first names and phone numbers.

Lost in thought about whether he could get both women out to his little beachfront cottage at the same time, Dave didn't even notice the Mustang coming up behind him. When it flashed by on his right it actually startled him. He looked down at his speedometer; he was traveling at seventy; five over the speed limit. The Mustang had to be going over a hundred! He just barely had the chance to read its license plate.

He had to fight hard against the urge to push his gas pedal to the floor, and take off after the guy, but in his personal vehicle, and off duty, it was illegal for him to initiate a pursuit. He failed, however, to resist the urge to accelerate to eighty … ish.

In a loud voice, he said to the car, Cellphone. Dial. 9-1-1.

Several seconds later a female voice answered over the car's speakers, 9-1-1; what is your emergency?

This is Trooper Dave Price with the MSP. I am northbound on I-95, approaching the Topsfield town line. I just had a 2019 Mustang, go past me traveling around a hundred miles an hour. Vehicle is red; license number Edward-six-four-niner-two-seven. Request any possible state or local units up ahead to intercept.

Roger your request, Dave, the State Police operator replied. I'll get that call out immediately. Stay on the line if you can.

Thirty long seconds went by before she came back on the line. He could still see the Mustang's tail lights, and the guy was passing vehicles on the left and the right and going from one edge of the highway to the other.

I have one MSP cruiser southbound approaching your location, the operator reported. He's going to cross the median and attempt an intercept. Also, one Rowley PD cruiser has responded that they are en route on 133. Your guy will probably be past there before he arrives, though. I've advised Air Wing, also, but they don't have a bird in the area.

10-4, Dave said simply, as he zipped between two cars. Is this Hilda? he asked, recognizing the slight German accent.

At your service, she confirmed. Having run the license number while she was dispatching the call, she said, Subject vehicle was reported car-jacked in Revere about an hour ago, Dave. The perpetrator threatened the driver with a knife.

Charming, Dave replied.

Thankfully, the traffic was light, but the Mustang still spent a lot of time swerving around other vehicles that were nearly standing still relative to its speed.

Jeez, this guy is all over the road! Dave said as he watched the Mustang slalom around two cars and a pick-up. It's going to be a miracle if he doesn't clip somebody and start a pileup.

The words had no sooner left Dave's mouth than the Mustang tried to go around a truck traveling in the center lane. The car passed on the right at the same time that the truck driver decided to change lanes, and started to move to the right.

The truck clipped the rear quarter of the Mustang as the car sped by, and nudged it enough to break the rear tires loose from their grip on the pavement.

The car swerved around sideways to the left as the tires lost traction. When the driver panicked and spun his steering wheel hard to the right and hit the brakes, the car started a slow spin. Smoke was coming from all four tires as it rotated in circles while skidding along the pavement at nearly 100 MPH.

The car was traveling sideways when its rear tires left the pavement and dug into the grass and dirt on the shoulder of the road. The car suddenly whipped around clockwise onto the shoulder, and Dave was amazed that it didn't flip over as it spun three full times, plowing up the grass, and mowing down the small bushes that lined the road.

Narrating what was happening in front of him to Hilda, Dave caught up with the car just as it came to a stop and was enveloped by a cloud of dirt and smoke. He stopped on the highway beside it and hit his emergency flasher button.

He picked up his cell phone, pressed the speaker-phone button, and pushed it into his shirt pocket. The size of his newly-issued phone made it a snug fit.

Can you still hear me, Hilda? he asked. I've got the phone in my pocket. My earbud is packed in my carry-on.

A little muffled, but clear enough, Dave.

He opened the console between the seats, lifted a false-bottom, and retrieved a pair of handcuffs, and his backup weapon—a short-barreled .38 revolver in a clip-on holster.

As he pushed open his door, he reported to Hilda, Okay, I'm approaching subject vehicle on foot. Request any available backup. He dropped the cuffs into his pocket, clipped the holster onto his belt, and drew the gun as he walked.

Roger that request, Dave, Hilda answered. Be careful. Remember, he has a knife.

Shit! He's out of the car on the other side and running for the woods, Dave reported. I'm in pursuit.

Hilda then heard him shouting, Police! Stop where you are! This is the police!

To neither Dave's nor Hilda's surprise, the suspect ignored the command and kept on running. Dave shoved his weapon back into its holster as he set off after him. As Dave ran, he reported, Suspect is a Caucasian male; about 6-2 or 6-3. 190 to 200 pounds; medium-length dark hair with blond highlights. Wearing jeans and no shirt. There was a short pause as Dave leaped a bush, then he added, … and he runs like a frigging rabbit!

The man was wired on speed and pumped with adrenaline as he darted through the woods, crashing blindly through brush, and leaping over fallen trees. Price, though, was in excellent physical shape, and with the advantage of being able to think clearly and select his path, he gained on the perpetrator little by little.

Price's break came when the man vaulted a moss-encrusted tree, but tripped over a vine on landing. The fall put Price within sprinting distance as the two entered a small grassy clearing.

Dave cut loose with everything he had and in twenty powerful strides, he was close enough to lunge at the man just as he leaped to clear a bush on the far side of the clearing. He was able to catch the man's ankle just enough to throw off his balance and cause him to stumble and fall as he landed.

As the man scrambled halfway to his feet Dave dove over the bush and landed on top of him with all of his weight. The man's face plowed through the low underbrush, and the wind was knocked out of him as his solar plexus came down hard on a protruding stump.

Dave scrambled to his knees, and while straddling the man's back, he pulled the guy's arms around behind him and snapped on the handcuffs.

Panting, Dave said, You're under arrest for felony endangerment with a motor vehicle. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law … When Price finished reciting the man's Miranda rights he asked, Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?

His only reply was a slight wheezing sound as the man tried desperately to get a breath. Price rolled him over then pulled him into a sitting position. Don't struggle, Price advised, recognizing that he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him. And don't exhale. Just relax if you want to start breathing again.

While he waited for the man to catch his breath—at which time he'd go through his Miranda rights, again—Dave stood and looked around to see if there was an easier way back to the highway.

At one side of the clearing that they had just run through, he saw an opening in the trees framing an old road. Then his eyes picked up on something unusual a short distance from the opening.

It wouldn't be odd to see old tires, a couch, or even a discarded refrigerator dumped out here, but this looked like a woman—a nude woman—lying on a chaise lounge sunning herself. Always appreciative of the female form—especially a naked one—Dave knew that there was something very wrong with this picture, though.

To find someone out here in a clearing in the woods sunning themselves would have been odd by itself, but the sun was nearly below the tree line, now, and the warmth of the June New England day was fading quickly.

If she had come out here to find the privacy to work on an all-over tan, she would certainly have been alerted that she was no longer alone by Dave and the Mustang driver crashing through the woods, and by Dave's shouting. She should have bolted for her car—wherever that was—or, at very least, have covered up.

Could she possibly be in that deep of a sleep, Dave wondered. Passed out from drinking, maybe? Something told him that that wasn't the case.

Dave turned back to the man who was, at last, getting some air into his lungs. Taking him by the arms he lifted him to his feet and said, Do us both a favor, okay; don't try to run. I'll Taser you before you get ten feet anyway, and then I'll have to fill out more paperwork. So just be smart, okay? In actuality, Dave didn't have a Taser with him—but his suspect wouldn't know that.

Holding him from behind by the handcuffs, Dave steered the man through the thinnest of the brush toward the clearing. Once in the clear, Dave stopped and stared intently at the lounging woman, trying to make out detail in the quickly fading light. The man had yet to notice her when Dave shouted, "Hey! You on the chair! This is the police; are you all right?"

The man jumped at Dave's shout. Shit man! I ain't deaf! he said, thinking Dave was yelling at him for some reason.

Dave ignored him, keeping a close eye on the woman for any movement—any sign of life.

The man looked where Dave was staring and let out a surprised, "No shit!" upon noticing the naked woman.

Marching the man in front of him, Dave said, Just walk and don't talk, okay?

Dave slid his phone from his shirt pocket and saw that the glass screen was shattered. He guessed that it must have happened when he body-slammed his suspect. He was surprised to see that behind all the cracks, the display still worked, and it showed that his 911 call was still connected.

You there, Hilda? he asked into the phone. No reply. But he couldn't tell if that was because she couldn't hear him or because he couldn't hear her. He opted for the hopeful chance that Hilda could still hear him.

My phone is busted, Hilda, so I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm going to keep talking just in case you can. Suspect is in custody, he narrated, but I'm still going to need a unit that can transport him. Then he added, And I think you'd better get a call out to Newbury barracks and to Rowley PD. I'm looking at a naked female lying on a lounge chair and she's not moving or responding to calls—and I don't think she's just napping out here.

Dave had guessed correctly about his phone; Hilda had heard everything that had transpired, becoming confused and a bit concerned when he stopped responding to her dialogue to him. As she listened to him talking to the suspect, though, she surmised that his phone was probably malfunctioning.

While listening to and recording Dave's monologue, Hilda opened a second line to relay Dave's request to the State Police detective division, and then she called the Rowley police and informed them, as well.

In her headphones, Hilda heard Dave repeat his call to the woman. You on the lounge chair; this is the police; please identify yourself.

No response. As Dave and his prisoner approached the woman from her right side, Dave noticed how her legs were wrapped around the sides of the metal frame, and it sent a chill down his spine. This was no sunbather; Dave was pretty sure he was looking at the victim of a rape and homicide.

If that was so, then he was encroaching on a crime scene and bringing a prisoner along with him. Not exactly stellar police work. On the other hand, she could still be alive—just unconscious. The only way to know for sure would be to get right up there and feel for a pulse.

Dave wished that he had an extra set of cuffs or even some rope to tie his prisoner's legs together, so he could set him down in the grass for a minute, and go check the woman. He thought about taking him back to the edge of the woods and cuffing his hands around a tree. In the few seconds that Dave debated what to do, his prisoner made a decision unnecessary.

Hooking the toe of his boot under a foot-long piece of branch in the grass, the man kicked out and lofted the branch through the air, while at the same time hollering, Hey! You alive over there or what?

All Dave could do was yank the man off balance and shout, You stupid … as he watched the branch arc through the air.

The branch banged loudly into the metal frame of the lounge chair, but the woman did not move. Instantly, however, hundreds of flies took flight from the woman's crotch area forming a dense swarm that was swelled by dozens more exiting her open mouth and eyes.

The sight caused the man to begin retching as he choked out an, "Oh, fuck …" Having a phobia about insects, to begin with, the sight of a bunch of flies coming out of someone's mouth turned his stomach instantly.

Dave quickly spun the man around and pushed him as far away from the crime zone as he could. The man dropped to his knees and began puking in the grass.

Taking advantage of his prisoner's temporary incapacitation, Dave made his way quickly to the side of the woman and took hold of her wrist. She was cold—not a good sign. He felt for several seconds, but he felt no pulse.

While he felt for a pulse he shooed the flies away and looked at her blood-encrusted inner thighs. He could see a stab wound in each leg, and judging by the blood on her legs, the chair, and in the grass on the ground, he felt pretty sure that those wounds were her cause of death.

Satisfied—unfortunately—that the woman was indeed dead, Dave held up his phone, and framing the shots through the cracked screen, took several pictures of the body, and close-ups of the face, which he then sent to Hilda.

He then began to recite pertinent facts to her—assuming that she could hear him—so she could start a search in the missing persons database.

Deceased is a Caucasian female, 5-7 or 5-8, about 120 pounds, age probably late teens to mid-twenties. Light complexion—appears more pale from loss of blood—with a fair amount of freckles on her face. Hair is short and dark; kind of an auburn color. He shooed the persistent flies away from her eyes, and said, Eye color appears to be green, but it's a bit had to tell in this light. She has small ears and a medium-size sharp nose. Sort of looks Irish, if you know what I mean.

Stepping away from the body and back toward his prisoner, Dave went from describing the victim to describing the scene. She's lying on a reclined metal and plastic-web lounge chair with her legs draped over the sides, suggesting a possible sexual assault. I don't see any clothing in the immediate area, though, and there's no obvious sign of a struggle.

Through the woods, Dave could hear the sirens of two approaching police cars out on the interstate. He correctly guessed that one would be the marked State Police unit that was responding to his initial call for assistance, and the other would probably be the Rowley cruiser that Hilda had mentioned during the highway chase. He helped his prisoner to his feet, and said, C'mon tough guy—let's see if we can't get you a ride over to Newbury.

Chapter Three

Sunday, June 3, 2017

Rowley, MA

8:10 p.m.

Jackie was just leaving the Agawam Diner when her cell phone buzzed. The display showed it was the station—again. This Acting Chief stuff was getting old very quickly.

The first call this evening came just as her clam plate arrived at her table. It was dispatch informing her that patrolman Kelly was responding to a State Police call for assistance in a pursuit out on I-95.

Jackie wasn't sure why the swing-shift dispatch officer, Janet, felt that she needed to have that bit of mundane information, right then, when she knew that Jackie had just left