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Chapter 41

Bonnie Mathies awoke with a start, pulled from her fitful slumber by a strange sound. She raised her head and tried to find the source but the blackness of the cellar was absolute. She waited, listening for the sound again, but all she heard was her own raspy breathing.

Must have been the dream...

Finally, she lowered her head and tried to curl into a tighter ball, shivering in the cold and dampness of what she feared would be her final resting place.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the jumbled images that had haunted her sleep. Her father, standing across a wide chasm in the earth, calling her name, searching...her own efforts to catch his attention, all of which were in vain...a bridge that, whenever she tried to cross, disintegrated as soon as she set foot on the first plank...dark figures, almost indistinguishable from the landscape, moving to and fro, chuckling mirthlessly at her frenzied attempts to reach her father..

Suddenly she heard the noise again: a soft scuffling sound, stealthy but deliberate.

Rats...

Bonnie was terrified of rats, a fear she had harbored ever since she was a child. She had been only 7 years old when, curious about her father’s work, she has listened to him discussing a case, hiding in the shadows of his study.

“Yep, looks like a natural death. Heart attack while he was taking the garbage to the dumpster, probably right after his shop closed the night before. Laid out in the alley all night and no one noticed. Poor old guy. The wounds? No, the coroner said the rats found him before we did...”

After her father had left she had seen the file on his desk and, with childish innocence, had opened it. The first image she saw was a head shot of the old man and every detail was burned into her mind in that split second: a dark ragged hole where one eye had been; the other eye, minus its’ lid, staring vacantly; skin stripped away from the nose, cheeks, and chin, revealing the well chewed fat and muscle; white teeth glaring through a large hole in the cheek, and on the one patch of pale skin that remained, small, perfectly clear bloody 4-toed footprints...

The sound came again, closer, and Bonnie tensed, ready to fight off the vile creatures. Suddenly she felt something brush her cheek. A weak scream tore through her parched throat. She flailed her arms at the unseen visitor, crying out in panic, her voice barely more than a croaking whisper.

“No! NO! Go away! Leave me alone!”

She tired quickly, soon reduced to ragged breaths and a few feeble movements. After a moment of silence she heard a dry chuckle. She froze, barely daring to breathe.

“What’s the matter, dear Bonnie? Ghosts of darkness past?”

Bonnie recognized that hateful voice. Anger quickly replaced her panic and she gritted her teeth, unwilling to give a response.

“‘From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties, and all things that go bump in the night, good Lord deliver us.’”The mocking tone brought another surge of anger.

“Go to Hell,” she muttered. Her statement produced another chuckle.

“Oh, no doubt I shall. If such a place existed, that is. Me, I think we make our own Hell. Or others make it for us. Isn’t that right, dear Bonnie?”

“What do you want?”

“You’ve already given me what I want. I needed a little something for your father, as a motivator.” Bonnie heard a click and a whirring sound, followed by another click. The sound of her own desperate cries echoed back to her, raising the hair on the back of her neck. Another click followed and the sounds stopped. The killer laughed.

“A little gift for the Sheriff, to encourage him to do what he’s told.”

“What...?”

“He’s supposed to be looking for you, concentrating all of his effort into finding you. He’s enlisted a little help, and he actually picked up on the ‘history lesson’, it seems. I suppose he is a little brighter than I thought... Anyway, it appears that the search for you does not have his full attention and his cop instinct has overridden his parental concern. This is just a little something to bring him in line so I can finish my tasks in relative peace.”

“Tasks? Murders...who?”

“Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you a little present as well.” Bonnie felt something fall across her shoulders and gasped, trying to bat it away.

“Pity you can’t see, as I’m sure you’d recognize it. A well worn stadium blanket, maroon and gold. Our school colors, with a nice embroidered ‘J’ in the corner. Do you remember it, Bonnie?”

A “J”...Jenkins? Oh my God...

“Chris...has a blanket like that...Becca made it. Why...did he give it to you?”

“Oh, hardly. I helped myself. Saw it and thought of you, although, I don’t think it’s all that much use as a blanket now. So threadbare. But for you, it might delay the inevitable just a bit. Chris certainly won’t be needing it anymore...” Bonnie felt a surge of fury so strong she forgot her own fear.

“You fucking b—!”

“Now, now, dear Bonnie, what would your father say about such language? Given your condition, though, I guess allowances can be made. You probably won’t have to worry about it much longer I expect. Neither will your father. After all, there’s only so much a human body can take.”

“What...have you done to him?”

“Directly? Nothing. Stress, however, is a more efficient killer than I could hope to be. Imagine what losing a child can do to such a...devotedparent.”

“He’s looking for me...he’ll find me...someone will find me...” Bonnie whispered with much more conviction than she felt.

“Ah, ever the optimist. Or perhaps just plain foolish.” Bonnie heard the creaking of the stairs and a scrape of wood against wood as the door to the cellar opened. She saw the killer silhouetted against the fading light from a setting sun.

“I must be going now, so much to do. Have a nice life, dear Bonnie. What’s left of it.”

The cellar door banged shut and once again Bonnie was left in total darkness.



Amelia Harding sat back in the stiff plastic chair and rubbed her eyes. Seven hours of staring at the microfiche screen could give anyone a headache, she mused, even if they’re used to it, and I am woefully out of practice.

Coming back to this place had dredged up memories, some more fond than others. She had spent many hours here, researching papers, reading journals, doing homework between classes, all part of her drive to succeed, to get out and to have a better life than her ancestors. All for nothing. Thirty-five, and where am I now? Apparently up a certain fragrantly named creek, sans paddle. She soon realized this line of thought was really not helping and felt slightly disgusted with herself for the brief pity party. It could be worse. It can always be worse.

She looked over at Quinn, bent forward and staring at his own reader.

I wonder if he’s found anything yet.

Her own search had turned up precisely zip. She had checked the editions of the newspaper for the 10 years preceding the murders, working backwards from the June 7, 1993, the day after the crime. The mention of the murder itself was brief with almost no details. Evidence of Darrow’s influence, no doubt. She had had scanned article after article, legal notices, obituaries, community bulletins, and nowhere had she found Eastman and Zoller mentioned in the same article, or in articles that might have even the slightest connection. She had only found a few mentions of someone from the Zoller family: the childrens’ birth announcements and a community notice for when Maxwell Zoller had received a commendation from the Blue Rock municipal police department for “15 years of dedicated and exemplary service” as a dispatcher. Blue Rock was 50 miles west of Pine Mountain and after checking a map Amelia decided it was unlikely the families could have crossed paths by chance.

After searching the last record on the microfiche film Amelia gathered up her brief notes and headed towards the desk to return it. She stopped by Quinn’s desk on the way back.

“Find anything interesting?”

Quinn had been checking the newspapers for the years after the murders, up to when the editions had gone online, as well as 10-15 years prior.

“Not particularly. I’ve been looking at property transfers. I was wondering if...well...someone may had something to gain. The Eastmans bought their place 14 years prior to the murders. Bank repo, it looks like. The previous owner was someone named Frederick Caldwell. No other mention of him that I can find after that. I can find any record that their place was sold after the murders, though. I guess Glinn still owns it by default. I wonder why he didn’t sell it?”

“Probably no one local would buy it. They’d all be scared of ‘haints’.”

Quinn turned and gave her a questioning look.

“Well, would you want to buy a place where...?”

“Oh. Good point.”

“Besides, it’s not exactly located in a hot real estate market. It’s probably a white elephant that he’s stuck with.”

“I wonder...”

Amelia gave him her best “Don’t start that sh*t again” look. Quinn smiled wearily and turned back to the screen.

“Anything else?”

“I read everything there was in the paper about the murders. Hardly anything at all, really. There was more about the search after she...disappeared.” He caught Amelia’s piecing gaze and decided to tone down what he was going to say. “It seems like it was pretty thorough. No one stood out as being out of place in the search. No mention of the Zollers anywhere, except the property transfer record when they sold their place in Blue Rock and moved ten years ago.” He sighed. “Another dead end.”

“It almost seems like...never mind.”

“What?”

“Like the families were chosen becauseit’s impossible to connect them. This seems all too convenient.”

“Yeah, but why were they chosen in the first place? We’re still going in circles here, Amelia.”

“Amelia? Amelia Harding?” A soft, feminine voice spoke from behind them. They turned to see a short, middle aged woman with thick glasses staring at them, a curious expression on her face. She smiled and held out her hand.

“It is you. So good to see you again! Last time you were here you were just getting ready to graduate and heading off to law school. How have you been?”

Amelia shifted uncomfortably and stole a sideways glance at Quinn before replying.

“Ms. Reinman. It’s good to see you, too.”

“I remember how much you loved this part of the library. Back for a visit? Or are you doing research for a case? You are practicing law now, correct?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Ms. Reinman gave Amelia a puzzled look, and when no further explanation was offered she turned to Quinn.

“And who is your friend?”

“Charlie Quinn,” he said, and rose to shake her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

She blushed slightly and tittered, holding his hand for a moment longer than necessary. Amelia felt a slight twinge of anger.

What? You’re notjealous, are you? Chill, Amelia.

“Where are you working now?” Ms. Reinman asked, still looking at Quinn with a slightly sappy expression.

“Winstead, Ohio,” said Quinn.

“Oh! I’ve heard of that place. That’s where they’ve had all those horrible murders.”

“Yes, a couple of weeks ago.”

“And the most recent ones, just yesterday. How horrible, another whole family. Well, I guess it must keep you two very busy, but why are you...? Mr. Quinn, Amelia, are you all right?”

Amelia felt the color drain from her face as she turned to Quinn. He had gone ghastly white as well.

“A...another family? When?” she asked.

“Well, yesterday. It was in the news today. A burglary, they said. I thought it was strange, so much crime in such a small town. Murders, burglary, kidnapping—.”

“Kidnapping?” Quinn had finally found his voice. “Who—?”

“The sheriff’s daughter, if you can believe it. How horrible it must be for him! I hope he finds her before... Hey! Where are you going?” Quinn had abruptly turned and rushed out. Amelia stared after him for a second, then reached down and turned of the microfiche, pulled out the film and handed it to the startled Ms. Reinman. “I’m sorry, but we really have to go,” she said, grabbing their notes and sprinting towards the exit.



Julia Manning was having a rather bizarre day. It had started out normal enough: answering phones, making and (to her father’s obvious chagrin) canceling reservations, sending the cleaning crew to the vacant cabins, and preparing advertising packets for mailing out to the state visitor centers and travel agencies. It was a boring job, but, as her father often reminded her, she didn’t have very many other prospects. Sometimes the routine was almost comforting, she had to admit, but today her routine had been disrupted. First, by the arrival of a strange young man, a courier of some sort, who had a package for Dr. Prescott. The young man looked nothing like the clean cut delivery people she saw on a daily basis, but he was very conscientious. He wanted to make absolutely certain that the package made it to its’ intended recipient and even gave her a number to call when she had passed the package on to Prescott.

Later that morning her father had given her the task of calling all the council members to arrange a meeting for that night. Such short notice was practically unheard of but her father was insistent. Something had to be done, he declared. The crime situation was absolutely out of control, and what did that mean for the town of Winstead? Lost confidence, lost business, lost tempers and (Julia added to the list in her mind) lost chances for the good-old-boys club to brag about how well they were doing to their city friends.

Shortly after lunch, when business had slowed and her father had finally stepped out for a bit, she had turned on the radio and heard the news about Bonnie. She was so shook up that she couldn’t concentrate on her work and when her father returned and saw that she hadn’t finished, he started in on one of his famous tirades, belittling her abilities, her chosen college major, and her general lot in life. She had been close to tears when they were interrupted by Prescott, stopping by to collect his parcel, this time unaccompanied (thankfully) by his creepy student. Sensing a new opportunity to vent, her father had given Prescott an earful about the subject he had come to research. Prescott had listened quietly, asked a few questions, jotted a few notes, and left as soon as he could. Luckily for Julia, her father’s venting had calmed him down, and he proceeded to ignore her until he left an hour later.

Finally, it was time to close up. She was just about to leave when the phone rang.

“Hello, Winstead Lodge and Rentals, this is Julia, how may I...Yes? Oh hi! Yes, long time no see! How are you? Really? You are? That’s great! Tomorrow around 5? Sure, I’ll be home. Well, I’ll be heading home then, and I’ll be there shortly thereafter. Yes, it will be wonderful to see you too! OK, until tomorrow then. Bye now!”

Julia hung up the phone, feeling better than she had all day. That phone call was just what she needed after all the weirdness. A visitor was always welcome, but in such troubling times, seeing old friends again was truly a comfort.

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