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He laughed. “I didn’t die, Macy. I’ve shifted gears.”
“To what, reverse?”
“To a path that doesn’t always lead into darkness.”
As they approached the upcoming exit, he slowed and took the westward route along a four-lane road that quickly narrowed to two. They passed more fields dotted with farmhouses, cows, and lots of nothingness. It was too damn far from civilization.
Nevada and Macy had been running in opposite directions since they had met.
“This is Ms. Oswald’s house,” Nevada said.
“We didn’t pass any cameras or gas stations, so it’s easy to drive out here at night without being seen,” Macy said.
“Around the bend ahead, there’s a community with a handful of homes, so there’s some traffic coming and going along the road. The people who live there are working class. They’re up before the sun and generally home after it sets.”
The first victim was attacked in June of 2004. “Do you know who lived in that small community fifteen years ago?”
“No one under the age of seventy.”
“Just because a man looks like your sweet grandpa doesn’t mean he’s not our guy.”
“I ran background checks on them all. No one living in the small enclave has ever been arrested or had complaints filed against them.”
“Neither has our offender.” She drummed her finger on her thigh. “And what about family members who visited grandpa or technicians servicing the properties? There was enough traffic that someone noticed Ms. Oswald.”
“Agreed.” He parked in front of a one-story brick rancher. The grass was neatly cut, and a flower bed was filled with a thick collection of winter pansies, but there were no tall shrubs or bushes around the house. Beside the house was a small detached garage.
Nevada shut off the engine. His jaw tightened as he surveyed the area. “She was seventeen at the time of the attack and lived here with her mother. They couldn’t afford to leave, so they stayed. Susan remained after her mother’s death.”
“Where does she work?”
“At the hospital. She’s a nurse’s assistant.”
“She should be home from work now.”
“Only one way to find out.”
They walked up to the front door. He motioned her to the side before he knocked. The sound of deep-throated barking reverberated inside. The curtains to the right of the door fluttered.
“FBI Special Agent Macy Crow.” She held up her badge, sensing the person inside was watching closely. “I’m here to talk to Susan Oswald about an unsolved case.”
The dog’s barking was her only answer, and she was about to repeat her request when several locks on the inside clicked. The door opened to a short pale woman with thick dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She wore no makeup, a bulky sweatshirt, baggy jeans, and clogs. Her face was wide and her eyes a vivid green. She held tightly to a heavy red collar attached to a one-hundred-pound German shepherd. It was in no mood to make friends when its gaze locked on Macy.
“Are you Susan Oswald?” Macy shouted over the dog’s barks.
“Yes.” Susan made no effort to silence the dog, and when Nevada stepped into view, the dog barked louder and bared its teeth. “I’m Sheriff Mike Nevada. I’m working with Special Agent Crow on the rapes that occurred during the summer of 2004.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come by the sheriff’s office. Just got off work.”
“It’s not a problem.”
“I voted for you,” she said.
“I appreciate that, ma’am,” he said.
“You said you’d shake things up in that police department.”
“And I am,” Nevada said.
Susan rubbed her hand over the dog’s head, whispering words close to his ear that calmed him. “It’s been fifteen years since I spoke to Sheriff Greene about my case. Why are you interested? Did you catch the guy?”
“We haven’t caught the man yet,” Macy said. “We’re hoping talking to you and the other women will generate new leads.”
“You said there are three others like me?” Susan asked.
“Yes.” Macy didn’t mention the fourth girl had been murdered.
“What do you need from me?” Susan asked. “I told everything I knew to Sheriff Greene.”
“It helps me if I can see the location of the crime,” Macy said. “The scene can tell me a lot about the criminal.”
“What does my house tell you?” Susan asked.
“It’s one story,” Macy said. “That makes it easy to get in and out of. Two-story houses have more obstacles. Only one way up and down the main staircase. Were there shrubs planted around your house at the time of the crime?”
“Yes, big, tall ones. There were footprints in the mud outside my window.”
The dog appeared to be six or seven years old. “Did you have a dog at that time?”
“No. I got a rescue dog after Mom died. Then after him, I got Zeus here five years ago.”
“Why did you stay in the house?”
“Mom and I had nowhere else to live,” Susan said as she rubbed the dog’s head. “We had to stay, so I got smart. Triple locks on both doors, and all windows are nailed shut.”
“Do you mind if we look inside your house?” Macy asked.
Susan pulled Zeus back a few steps and nodded. “You can come inside. I’ll show you the room where it happened.”
“Thank you,” Macy said.
Zeus growled at them both as they passed, still not sure if they were friend or foe.
“Sorry about Zeus. He barks or growls at everything. I love that about him.”
Nevada slowly held out the back of his hand for Zeus to sniff for several seconds. Zeus settled onto his hind legs. “He’s beautiful.”
She rubbed the dog between the ears and eased her hold on his collar. “He’s a good boy.” With the dog beside her, Susan led them down a hallway. On the right was a narrow avocado-green bathroom with a single sink and toilet, both cluttered with soaps, shampoos, and conditioners. The next door led into a small bedroom furnished with a twin bed, several bookcases crammed with pictures of Susan and an older woman who appeared to be her mother, miniature Wizard of Oz figurines, and a white basket filled with red yarn and knitting needles. “This is where I sleep now. I never could bring myself to sleep in that room again.”
Susan opened the door at the end of the hallway, stepped back, and allowed Macy and Nevada to enter first. It had been relegated to a catchall storage room. There was a dismantled bed frame with no mattress, a walker, a wheelchair, and sealed brown cardboard boxes. The one window was on the opposite side of the room, and the thick shades were also drawn.
“According to the files, he came in through your bedroom window?” Macy asked.
Susan crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s right. It was June of 2004, and I was sleeping with the window open because it had been so warm that day.”
“Do you mind if I open the shades?” Macy asked. “I’d like to look out the window.”
Susan dropped her gaze. “Go ahead.”
Macy tugged the shade, and when she felt it release, she guided it upward. The window overlooked the bend in the road they’d taken as they’d driven to the house and a thicket of woods. This home was off the beaten path, leading her to wonder if this was a crime of opportunity. The assailant could have been driving around, seen the open window, and taken a chance.
The dog trotted past Macy, sniffing around what was most likely an unfamiliar room to him. “It was just you and your mother then?”
“Yes.”
“Would there have been a second car in the driveway?” Nevada asked.
“No. My mother didn’t dri
ve. She was forty-nine but suffered from MS. She slept through the whole thing.”
Macy studied the ground below the window, which was now neatly cut grass. Not a trace of the bushes once surrounding the house remained.
Susan shifted her stance, as if looking through the window had transported her back in time. “The room I sleep in now was Mom’s. For weeks after the attack, I slept on blankets by her bed. When she died the following year, I threw out my bed and mattress and began sleeping in her bed.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No. He was wearing a black mask with red trim around the eyes and mouth. The skin around his eyes and mouth was smudged with black shoe polish or something.”
“Did your attacker speak to you?” Macy asked.
“He grabbed my neck and said he’d kill my mother if I screamed.”
“Did he say anything else about your mother?”
“He made a comment about her wheelchair and how it takes a strong person to care for an ailing family member.”
The assailant’s comment suggested he knew her and this wasn’t just a random crime of opportunity. He could have been stalking her days or weeks before the attack, learning her patterns, habits, and weaknesses.
“How did he sound when he spoke to you?” Macy asked.
“Nervous at first. When he spoke, I told him to get out. I said I wouldn’t tell anyone. I said he was being foolish and that he needed to just go.”
“How did he react?”
“It made him mad. He said he wasn’t weak and he knew what he was doing. He was looking around the room searching for something. He grabbed my pantyhose from the floor. He used it to tie my hands to the headboard. He scooped one of my socks off the floor and shoved it in my mouth. I started crying and he stopped. He stood there studying me like some lab rat.”
“What happened next?” Macy asked.
“He climbed on top of me and raped me. It seemed like it took forever, but after he was finished, I looked at the clock for some reason. He’d only been on me for minutes.”
“Did he say anything else?” Macy asked.
“He pulled up his pants and looked as if he’d go, but then he climbed on top of me again and wrapped his hands around my neck. He didn’t move for several seconds, and then he readjusted his hands a few times.”
