SESSION NINE

I’m so depressed today, but I’m hoping talking to you will help. Other than Evan or Billy, you’re the only person I can talk to these days, at least about anything that’s really going on. I’ve been sitting around my house all morning waiting for our appointment. Time on my hands is not a good thing.

I can’t stop going to that Web site about John and looking at all the pictures of his victims and their families. Afterward I think about them, wondering what their lives were like, what they could’ve been. I fixate on little details, like the shell necklace one girl wore that was never recovered. I wonder if John has it. Her boyfriend, whom John shot in the back of the head, had just gotten a new dirt bike for graduation. The kid could fix anything, loved restoring old cars. His dad still has the one he’d been working on when he was murdered. The dad refuses to finish it and it sits in the garage, all the tools still around it where he left them. I cried and cried at that image, of a car up on blocks and a family that will never be put back together.

I think about the moment their families were told the news. Then I torture myself with thoughts of something horrible happening to Evan or Ally. I’m sure the pain would kill me. How do the parents of these victims get out of bed every morning? How do they keep on living?

Everywhere I go I see death—a side effect of reading nonstop about serial killers. But the thing that haunts me the most is how quickly it happened to these people. I don’t mean just John’s victims. I mean all the murdered people I’ve been reading about. They were just going about their lives, sleeping, driving, jogging, or maybe just stopping to help a stranger, then just like that their life was over. But sometimes it wasn’t, sometimes they lived for days. Some of the things these killers did … I can’t stop thinking about their victims’ last moments. How terrified they must have been, how much pain they endured.

I used to enjoy true crime shows. “It was a hot summer day in the Rockies when the young blond reporter decided to go for a jog.…” I liked the tingle of fear I’d get down my back and the way I’d sit on the edge of my seat during dramatic reenactments, clutching the pillow, my body tense. It was fascinating, this look into the dark side of human nature.

Evan’s always trying to get me to think more positively, or at least more rationally, which requires calming down first—always a challenge, and I’ve been working really hard on it. But when the car makes a weird noise I automatically think the brakes are going, when Ally gets a cold I think it’s pneumonia, and when Moose disappeared …

*   *   *

As soon as I got home from our last session I made the rounds of calls again—the pound, SPCA, all the vets in town—but still no sign of Moose. Billy came over to help, carrying a greasy bag of burgers and fries I practically inhaled. He said he had a feeling I hadn’t eaten all day and he was right. We drove around and put posters up at all the gas stations and stores in my area. My house is close to the base of Mount Benson, so we even drove up that way, stopping a few times to get out and call Moose.

It was nice to have company, especially when I started spiraling into fear-based rants about who might have Moose. Billy would just ask a question or give me a task that forced me to concentrate. At one point I started talking so fast I was almost hyperventilating and he said, “Whenever you feel yourself panicking, just breathe, regroup, and focus on your strategy. Trust me, it works.” Then he made me look at my list of places where I wanted to hang posters and tell him what I’d crossed off, interrupting if I rushed through any. It was frustrating as hell, but the tight band around my chest gradually began to loosen.

When Billy had to go back to the station, I kept driving around by myself for another hour. I was almost back at our house when I rounded a sharp bend and nearly ran into some ravens in the middle of the road, fighting over what looked like entrails. Then I spotted the trail of rust-colored blood leading to the ditch, where a raven stabbed at a small dark mound. After I pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, I walked toward the ravens. My eyes pricked with tears.

Please, God. Don’t let it be Moose.

The ravens flew up when I got closer and cawed as they perched on the power line. With my eyes riveted on the trail of blood, I took the last few steps on shaky legs and looked down into the ditch at the mangled corpse.

It was a raccoon.

When I got back in the Cherokee and started down the road, the ravens swooped back to their treasure. I shuddered as they stabbed at it again and again, sorry for the raccoon, relieved it wasn’t Moose.

*   *   *

I was almost home when my phone chirped with a text message from Billy to give him a call. My DNA results were back.

It wasn’t until after I’d walked in my house—it felt so empty without Moose’s snorts and grunts—poured myself a cup of coffee, and called Evan, that I had enough courage to phone Billy. I sat in my favorite chair in the living room, wrapped Ally’s Barbie quilt around me, and dialed Billy’s cell. Just my luck, Sandy answered.

“Thanks for calling back, Sara. Billy’s on the other line right now, but I can fill you in.”

“You have the results?”

“They came in an hour ago.” She was trying to keep her tone neutral, but it vibrated with excitement. “You’re definitely a match to the DNA we have on file.”

The Campsite Killer is my father. This is real. I waited for the emotion to hit, for the tears to come. But they didn’t. It felt like Sandy had simply told me my own phone number. I stared out the window at my cherry tree. It was all in bloom.

Sandy was still talking. “We weren’t able to collect biological samples from every scene, but when DNA testing came into effect we conclusively linked him to many of the victims.”

“How do you know he’s responsible for the other murders?”

“The MO is consistent.”

“What about women who are still missing?”

Her voice was forced patience. “The Campsite Killer is only triggered in the summer and he doesn’t try to hide the bodies, so he’s not considered a suspect in any other disappearances.”

“But isn’t it unusual that he only attacks in the summers? I know about cooling-off periods between kills, but his are—”

“It’s not unheard-of for a serial killer to have a long cooling-off period. Once their needs are met, they can often hold off for a while, reliving the crime over and over.”

“And that’s why they take souvenirs.”

“For some of them, yes. John probably uses the jewelry to keep himself connected to the victim. But we still don’t know what triggers him in the first place, or why his kills are so ritualized—which is why your conversations with him are that much more important.”

“I’m trying my best, Sandy. I didn’t know he’d see the Web site.”

“Of course, a perfectly understandable mistake.”

I gritted my teeth. “It wasn’t a mistake. I don’t want him knowing details of my family, of my life.”

“We don’t ever want you to do something you feel puts you at risk.” But I knew it wasn’t true. She wanted to catch John—more than anything. And she hated that she needed me to do it.

“He has to trust you, Sara.”

“So you’ve mentioned. A couple of times now. I should get going—I still have a missing dog to find.” I hung up before she could say anything else.

*   *   *

But I didn’t find Moose. And when Ally came home from school I finally broke the news that he was missing.

“You lied! You said he was at the vet’s!” Then she started hitting my legs and screaming “Why, why, why!” until she was hoarse. All I could do was hold her furious, trembling body away from mine until she’d worn herself out. Finally she just dropped to the floor and wept. It broke my heart when she wailed, “What if he doesn’t come home, Mommy?” I promised I was doing everything I could to find him, but she was inconsolable and sobbed in my arms while I fought to hold back my own tears. That night she crawled into my bed and we held each other close. I stayed awake for hours, staring at the clock.

*   *   *

The next morning Ally and I shared a solemn breakfast. When she said, for what felt like the hundredth time, “You have to find Moose, Mommy,” I told her I would. But as every day passed I was losing hope. I even tried to call John again, rehearsing ways to ask if he’d taken my dog, some threatening, some pleading, but still no answer.

After I took Ally to school, I did load after load of laundry and vacuumed the house top to bottom. The sight of Moose’s stuffie—its tail stiff with dry drool—just about broke my heart. Usually I wash it every week, but I couldn’t bring myself to erase any sign of him and instead simply set it in his dog basket.

I was just about to take a shower when the cordless rang in the kitchen. Hoping it was someone calling about Moose, I raced downstairs, but when I checked the call display it was just Billy.

“Got some good news for you, Sara.”

“You found Moose!” My heart was in my throat as I waited for his answer.

“I asked all the guys to keep a lookout for the little guy when they were on patrol. One of the officers pulled over some teens at the skate park and he was getting their vehicle information when he saw a French bulldog in the backseat. He checked his tag, and sure enough it was your dog.”

“Oh, thank God! How did they get him?”

“They said they found him running down the road and were going to return him soon, but the officer said the kid’s girlfriend was crying when she handed him over, so you might not have gotten him back.”

“Ally’s going to be so happy.”

“He’s at the station with me. I’ll bring him over ASAP.”

“That would be great. Thank you so much, Billy.”

“Hey, we always get our man—or dog.” We laughed.

I called Ally’s school and they said they’d let her know. Evan got the call next and he was thrilled. It took some serious self-control on my part not to make a snarky comment about the gate, but as usual he read my mind.

“I still think I shut the gate, but maybe I’m wrong.” I was just happy we had Moose, so I dropped it. When I told him Billy was bringing Moose over right away he said, “That’s nice of him.”

“Yeah, he’s been a huge help,” I said. “And not just with finding Moose. He’s also teaching me how to calm down and focus when I’m upset.”

Silence from the other end of the phone.

“Hello?”

“How exactly is he teaching you?”

“I don’t know, lots of ways. Like he gives me tasks so I have something to channel my energy into.”

“I tell you to do the same thing.”

Evan’s tone was starting to piss me off. “It’s different when he does it. He’s a cop, not my fiancé. You get annoyed.”

“I don’t get annoyed. I just think you get yourself freaked out over nothing sometimes.”

“And you make me feel like I’m just some crazy stress case.” I knew I should pull back, knew comparing him to Billy was going to backfire big time, but anger pushed the words out of my mouth. “Billy doesn’t make me feel like crap.”

“Well, I don’t like you hanging out with him.”

“He’s the cop handling my case!”

“So what’s he doing driving around looking for Moose, then?”

“I can’t believe you’re being like this—”

The doorbell rang.

Evan said, “Is someone there?”

“I told you Billy was bringing Moose over.”

“Then I guess you better let him in.” He hung up.

*   *   *

Moose was wriggling so much that Billy almost dropped him handing him over. Once Moose and I finished our joyous reunion, which involved a lot of grunting and snuffling on his part, I offered Billy a coffee.

“Sure, I’ll take a quick one.”

I poured us both a cup and we were heading toward the living room when he stopped at the door to the garage.

“Is this where your shop is?”

“Yeah, we keep talking about building one in the back, but I like being closer to the house.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure, but it’s a mess.” I opened the door.

I showed him some of my equipment, laughing when he turned on the sander and revved it up. A typical guy, he had to try all Evan’s power tools. After he shut the last one off, he walked over to the cherry lamp table and ran his hand across the surface.

“Is this what you’re working on?”

“Yup, I just stripped it yesterday.” I came over to stand near him and rested my hand on the table. “It’s still rough in spots.”

I looked up at the sound of heavy boot steps in the kitchen. The door swung open. We both jumped back. Billy’s arm pushed me behind him.

My dad’s large frame filled the doorway. His eyes focused on Billy, then at Billy’s hand protectively in front of me.

“Dad! You scared the bejesus out of me.” I held my hand over my heart. The tools must’ve drowned out the sound of his truck.

“I knocked. Door was open.” He stepped into the shop.

“This is Billy, Dad. One of my clients.”

Dad nodded his head in greeting but didn’t smile. He gave Billy the once-over, then turned to me.

“Lauren said Moose was missing, so I came to see if you needed help.”

“Thanks, Dad, but he was returned this morning.”

He grunted. “I see that.” His gaze focused back on Billy. “You’re with the RCMP?”

“Yeah, almost fifteen years now.”

“You know Ken Safford?”

“Not sure I do.…”

“What about Pete Jenkins?”

“Don’t think so. I just transferred over from the mainland, so I’m still trying to get to know everyone.” I was impressed with how smoothly Billy was able to lie.

“Well, I should get going,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee. Just e-mail me the new quote when you have it ready, Sara.”

“Okay. Want me to walk you out?”

“Nah, I’m good. Visit with your dad.”

Dad didn’t move, forcing Billy to step around him. Dad and I were left alone. I shivered in the cold garage.

“See the table I’m working on?” He glanced at it and nodded. “Did you want a cup of coffee?” Dad never sat around and drank coffee, but he surprised me.

“If it’s fresh.”

He was standing at the sliding glass door staring out into the backyard when I handed it to him. He nodded, then said, “You guys need some more wood?”

“I think we’re okay. It’s warming up.”

“Ask Evan next time he calls. If he needs some he can let me know.” Of course I should ask Evan—God forbid a woman would know anything.

He took a gulp of coffee. Still staring into the backyard he said, “Evan’s a good man.”

“That’s why I’m marrying him, Dad.”

He grunted and took another sip. “You better get your head screwed on straight, Sara, or you’re going to lose everything.”

Tears stung my eyes. “My head is screwed on straight. Is this because of what Melanie said about Billy? I told you, he’s just a client. Evan knows him, and—”

“I’ve got to get back to camp.” He turned around and set his cup on the counter. At the door he said, “It doesn’t look good, Sara—another man being here when Evan’s away.”

“It doesn’t look good? For who?” But he was walking to his truck. I followed him. “Dad, you can’t just come over and say stuff like that, then leave.”

As he climbed into his truck he said, “Tell Evan your gutters need to be cleaned, looks like the left one’s been overflowing.”

Before I could say anything else, he closed his door and started backing down the driveway. I stared after him until the sound of his diesel truck faded in the distance.

*   *   *

As I walked back into the kitchen my cell rang. I checked the call display. It was John. Was he still mad about my wedding date? What if he found out I lied about something else? Stop. Calm down. Just answer the phone or he’ll be really angry. I swallowed hard and took a few breaths.

“Hello?”

“You can’t lie to me again.”

“I wasn’t—” Don’t argue. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

We both paused. He said, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.” I fought the urge to cry.

“You don’t sound fine.” His voice was concerned.

I said, “It’s just work stuff.”

“What are you working on?”

“Just a lamp table right now.”

“What kind of wood is that made from?”

“This one’s cherry.”

“Cherry’s beautiful. Nice rich tones.”

Surprised at his insight I said, “Yeah, it really is.”

“What kind of tools do you use?”

“Mostly smaller tools, planes, sanding clamps, drills. But for work like this it’s usually done with brushes.” I eyed mine. “I have to get some new ones soon. They’re getting kind of ratty, but I want a new jack plane too.”

“Evan should get you what you need.”

“I can buy things myself. I just get distracted.”

“I saw his Web site—he’s one of the guides, so he’s away all the time. A husband should be there for you.” Great, one father thinks my fiancé is too good for me and the other one thinks he’s not good enough

“He makes it home often.” Except for the next couple of weeks, when he has back-to-back bookings.

“Is he home now?”

My eyes flicked to the door. Had I locked it when Dad left?

“He’s coming home soon.” I sprinted to the alarm and made sure it was set. “And my brother-in-law stops in all the time.” Greg had never stopped over once.

“But Evan leaves you alone and unprotected?”

I caught my breath. “Do I need protection?”

“Not anymore. I have to go, but I’ll call soon.”

*   *   *

When Evan called that night he apologized for getting pissed off earlier and said he was glad Billy was helping me. I knew he was just saying that so we could move on, but I was more than happy to go along with it. I didn’t tell him I’d just gotten off the phone with Billy, who told me John had called from somewhere between Prince George and Mackenzie. They still didn’t get there in time, but I was happy he was at least heading in the opposite direction of me.

Later, when I was lying in bed, I thought about my phone call with John, about how concerned he sounded when he thought I was upset. Then I realized I’d never heard that tone in my dad’s voice. Not once. If John wasn’t the Campsite Killer, I probably would’ve been happy I finally had a father. I didn’t know which thought was worse, but they both made me cry.

*   *   *

On Monday another package arrived—same delivery driver, same address. When I saw it was from Hansel and Gretel I called Billy right away. He was over in Vancouver with Sandy, meeting with the rest of the task force, and told me not to open it. It was still sitting on my counter when John called later that afternoon.

“Did you get my present?”

“I haven’t had a chance to open it.” The package was larger and heavier than the last one, but I still asked, “Is it jewelry again?”

His voice was excited. “Open it now.”

“Right now?”

“I wish I could see your face.”

That was the last thing I wanted. “Hang on, I’ll open it.”

With John still on the phone, I pulled on a pair of garden gloves from my shop, then took a knife to the seal, feeling guilty about not waiting for Billy.

John said, “Is it open yet?”

“I’m just taking the paper out.” He’d packed whatever it was carefully. I lifted the object out and unwound the bubble wrap.

It was a brand-new jack plane.

“It’s beautiful.” And it was. The handle was hardwood and stained dark chocolate, the steel blades gleamed. My fingers itched to try it out, but I only allowed myself to pick it up, to feel the weight of it, to imagine it gliding over wood, shavings falling to the floor, lifting off years of— Stop. Put it back in the box.

“You really like it? I could get you a different one—”

“It’s perfect. That was thoughtful.” I remembered how Dad would watch Lauren and Melanie on Christmas morning, how he’d smile when they opened their presents, how he’d leave the room to refill his coffee when it was my turn.

We were both silent.

“John, you seem like such a nice guy.…” When you’re not killing people or threatening me. I gathered myself for the next part. “I just don’t understand why you hurt those people.”

No answer. I strained to hear his breathing. Was he mad? I eased forward.

“You don’t have to tell me today. But I’d like it if you were honest with me.”

“I am honest.” His voice was cold.

“I know, of course. I just meant that if I understand you, it will help me understand myself. Sometimes…” I imagined Sandy and Billy listening. Tuned them out. “Sometimes I have terrible thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“I lose my temper a lot. I’m working on it, but it’s hard.” I paused, but he didn’t say anything, so I kept going. “I feel this darkness come over me and I say awful things, or do really stupid stuff. It’s better now that I’m older, but I don’t like that side of myself. When I was younger I even got into drugs and alcohol for a while, just trying to block it all out. And I did some things I really regret, so I started seeing a psychiatrist.”

“You still see one?” Would he think it was bad or would it encourage him to get help? As I continued to hesitate he said, “Sara?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you talk about me?”

The tone of his voice told me how to answer. “No, I wouldn’t do that unless you said it was okay.”

“It’s not.”

“No problem.” I tried to keep my voice casual. “So can you tell me anything about your parents? That’s one thing about growing up adopted—you never know your history.” Both sets of my grandparents are gone now, but I still remember Mom’s gruff German father and how her mom barely spoke English, just scurried around the kitchen like she was afraid to stop moving. Dad’s parents were blue-collar, his dad a carpenter and his mom a homemaker. They were nice to me, but too nice. They tried so hard to make me feel like part of the family, they made me feel different. My grandmother always watching me with concerned eyes, the extra hug and kiss at the door.

John said, “What do you want to know?”

“What was your dad like?”

“He was Scottish. When he spoke, you listened.” I pictured a large man with red hair yelling at John in a thick accent. “But I learned how to survive.”

“Survive?” He didn’t elaborate, so I said, “So what did he do for a living?”

“He worked in logging, a faller right up to the day he died. He was having a heart attack and still took down a hundred-and-fifty-foot Douglas fir.” He laughed and said, “He was a mean son of a bitch.” He laughed again and I wondered if it was something he did when he was uncomfortable.

“What about your mother? What’s she like?”

“She was a good woman. Things weren’t easy for her.”

“So they’ve both passed on, then?”

“Yes. What kind of movies do you like?” Thrown by the abrupt change of subject, I took a moment to answer.

“Movies … I like lots of different ones. They have to be fast-paced—I get bored easily.”

“Me too.” He was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “Enjoy the rest of your day, Sara. We’ll talk more soon.”

*   *   *

I phoned Billy immediately, but he wasn’t able to call back for ten minutes, which I spent pacing. He told me John was somewhere around Mackenzie now, which is northeast of Prince George. The area is all provincial parks and mountain ranges, so he’d disappeared again, but Billy said I handled the call perfectly and it seemed like John was really connecting with me. He didn’t give me a hard time about opening the package either, just said he understood John had put me on the spot and that they’d be over soon to pick it up. They think he probably shipped it from Prince George. Makes sense, it’s the largest city in the North, so there are more depots and less chance of him standing out. Then Billy reminded me to call them right away if John sent another one. Later Billy e-mailed me a cool quote:

Know the enemy,

Know yourself,

And victory

Is never in doubt,

Not in a hundred battles.

He must’ve been sitting right at his computer, because when I e-mailed him back, asking what the heck it meant, he responded in seconds. Means you did a great job today, kid. Now go to bed!

I laughed and sent him a quick You too! then turned off my computer. As I was heading to bed, the landline rang again. I thought it was Evan calling to say good night, but it was John.

“Hi, John. Everything okay?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice again before I shut down for the night.”

I cringed. But I said, “That’s nice.”

“I really enjoyed our talk today.”

“Me too. I liked it when you told me about your family.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well…” I hadn’t expected him to ask for details. “Other kids in school, my friends growing up, they all knew where they came from. But my past was just a black hole. It made me feel cut off from regular people, like I was different or weird. I guess finally hearing some stories made me feel normal.”

“It’s nice getting to know you.” He paused for a moment, then said, “When I was having my dinner, I thought about what you told me earlier.”

“Which part’s that?”

“About losing your temper … I get angry too.”

Here we go. “What kinds of things make you angry?”

“It’s hard to explain. You might not understand.”

“I’d like to try. I want to get to know you better too.” I meant it. Not just because he might reveal something that would help the cops catch him, I also wanted to know just how much we had in common.

He didn’t say anything right away, so I continued.

“The other day when you called, you sounded like you were in pain?”

“I’m okay. Did I tell you we had a ranch when I was kid?”

Frustrated that he’d changed the subject on me again, I took a breath and said, “No, but that must’ve been a great way to grow up. How much land did you have?” I said, hoping he’d mention where he was from.

“We had about ten acres at the base of a mountain.” His voice sounded excited. “Neighbors would bring sick animals to my mom all the time. She only used natural medicines, comfrey for coughs, things like that. She’d keep chicks and kittens in her shirt to keep them warm and she could almost bring them back from the dead.” He gave a happy laugh. “We had a lot of farm dogs when I was growing up, they were always having puppies. The smallest one, Angel, was mine. She was part husky and part wolf—I hand-reared her with a bottle. She went everywhere with me.…” His voice turned flat. “But she ran away. My mother said it was in her nature. I tried to find her but never could.”

“I’m … I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad I found you, Sara. Good night.”

I stayed awake for hours.

*   *   *

I hoped I’d feel better after talking to you. But I’m beginning to think nothing is going to do that. I’m also beginning to think they’re never going to catch John. The second call came from north of Mackenzie, near Chetwynd, which is in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. They thought they had something when a local rancher reported a truck on the side of the road, but it turned out to be just a couple of hunters. I marked a map with all the spots John had called from, each one taking him farther away from me physically but deeper into my mind, skewing my perceptions, like someone was turning me sideways and making everything look different, feel different.

I’m sure it makes sense to you that I’d be off-kilter, all things considered, but it feels deeper than that. More of a core upheaval. Like those volcanoes that have been brewing for years, then one day they just explode. I’m not saying I’m going to explode, although it’s possible, just that it feels like something big has burst inside. Maybe because for so many years I’ve used the fact that I had real parents out there somewhere in the world as a way of comforting myself over anything I didn’t like about my family.

It’s like thinking you were handed the wrong life and you just had to get to the right one and everything would be okay, then finding out that there isn’t a right one. Or the right one was actually the wrong one after all, or—never mind, you know what I mean. But then I think about my temper, my urges to lash out with tongue or fist, I think about Ally’s tantrums, the line we both cross sometimes when we lose control, and I wonder if we do belong in that other life, with that other family.

When I first told you I found my mother, I said it was like standing on cracking ice. This is like falling straight through into the freezing water. You struggle back to the surface, your lungs burning, everything focused on that patch of light above you. And you finally make it there, but the hole’s frozen over.