The Blue Ridge Stalker

Tom had left the Ford down the way, its spark plugs finally exhausted and no mechanics for a dozen miles back through the foothills to Strossburg. No matter, he had worn his boots—almost as if he planned for this to happen. The puzzle he sought to solve emanated from the woods clinging to the slopes above; the valley behind held no mysteries.

There was a certain comfort in the familiar grit of the asphalt as Tom picked his way up past the foothills. The leather jacket proved sturdy against the wind swirling down as the sun emerged from the clouds, casting the twin peaks of the mountain pass as lances of shadow thrusting into the valley far below.

Back and forth the pockmarked road wound, carrying the lone traveler deeper into the pines and oaks. Above, the yellowing leaves contrasted with the evergreen needles, and where the overgrowth had withered in the nightly freezes, Tom could peer far into the labyrinth beyond.

The path twisted, and then Tom found it: the boulder rested atop a fallen trunk, a hulking mass above rotting remains. It remained much the same as he remembered it, except leaves had covered over the tread marks. The final scrap of yellow tape hung on a shrub several yards back from the road. And the bones no longer lay at the base of the boulder alongside that moldering trunk.

The remains had yielded almost nothing: no fingerprints, no hair fibers. Dental records were scoured, until at last a name revealed itself: Jayla Treese. All of Strossburg had rallied to search when she went missing, Tom included. Her name flickered through his mind again, then the facts of the case rolled over the blonde hair and laughter. Only the arrangement of the body gave any indication that she hadn’t gotten lost or caught in a storm; the bones showed no yellowing or signs of animal activity, despite the summer that had passed. Someone had left her here.

Tom’s boots turned from the scene of memories and rustling leaves. So many years ago, and yet this was the first time he had undertaken this pilgrimage. Time had erased any hope for answers for most, but Tom could not shake the sense that the same march of months and years had weighed on the one he had hunted. Burdens made men stumble. Made men sloppy.

Up the road, a thousand more yards, the mystery had thickened. As Tom approached the mountain creek, the bridge concealed the darkness of the gulch below. Vines cascaded from the concrete stained with the rust of its superstructure, providing familiar handholds for the detective as he slid between earth and rocks. Finally, he stood on the creek bed, dry after a blistering summer yet still covered in mud that sucked at his boots. On the other side, the spikes still stood in the ground, scars in the slope where the rappelling lines had run. Beside them, hidden in an alcove beside the bridge foundation, they had found the second woman.

Her body hadn’t rotted, leaving pale skin streaked by brown earth. Some of the officers had theorized that this was a different killer, owing to the contrast in decomposition, but Tom shook his head. The perpetrator had left her face-down in the mud like the skull of the first, and he spotted another similarity. Boot prints in the creek bed and the mud streaks across her skin pointed to one conclusion: she had been laid there.

The second body also offered identifying marks. Her face remained intact, as did her fingerprints. It only took one search of missing persons reports at the station to make a match. Valerie Kilmer, 31, a gas station attendant at the Chevron on Interstate 91, the valley’s main connection to the world beyond.

In spite of the new lead, answers still proved scarce for the police of Strossburg. The drastically different states of the two bodies continued to trouble Tom’s theory that the two were connected. Jayla had died months ago, Valerie had died no longer than a week before discovery. One night at his desk, his head far off in the shadowed woods where a killer stalked, the answer had washed over Tom. Both women had died at different times; they had been left at the same time.

Kilmer had opened a door Jayla’s bones could not, yet the autopsy only muddied the waters. Cause of death: Asphyxiation. No bruising, no burst blood vessels, no clues to suggest struggle or strangulation. How did a woman suffocate in the fresh air of the Blue Ridge?

Tom’s first action as lead investigator had been to send his team back onto State Route 23 to canvas every foot of road before and after the bodies. For a week, they found nothing but yellowing leaves and deer in the peak of mating season.

Then, deep in the night, while he sat at his desk pouring over the case files that never changed their details despite his constant reading, the call came in. A severed arm had been found a mile from Kilmer’s body on a stretch of road at the top of the pass.

The modus operandi had changed; that much was clear to all who arrived that night and the day after. Tom clawed his way out of the ravine, recalling every detail as he panted and rocks clattered down beneath him. Arms burning, he rested beside the road, its graying asphalt belying the dark legacy of these woods.

First, an arm, wedged between two rocks. The tendons between the shoulder joints had been severed with an expert hand—no jagged edges or signs of extra effort. Precise. Yet this had not been immediately observed by the reporting officer. Instead, his eyes had moved to the hand at the other end, broken and set until its index finger extended and the rest curled into a pale palm. Pointing the way.

Toward what, none would have believed, yet the kid who started driving forward must have suspected. He found a leg next, then the other leg, a torso: all in quarter mile lengths from the other. Ahead, the road curved and started to descend, but not before the left arm came into view, its hand contorted to point north toward the pass between the peaks. Only, its positioning was skewed, not a perfect marker. Yet the error was close enough to be forgotten in the horror of the final discovery it appeared to foreshadow.

Another mile passed, then a shout and the squealing of tires. Black hair and cracking gray lips stood in the cracking yellow median, frozen eyes staring up at the headlights atop a severed neck. The kid had given his official statement to responding officers, then resigned. Tom doubted the pale face ever strayed far from his mind when he closed his eyes at night.

Tom and his fellow detectives quickly identified the same patterns. The surgical precision of the limbs’ removal suggested a human hand—a skilled hand. The lack of animal activity and similar absence of decomposition suggested a recent homicide and an even more recent placement. As with the other two, the questions this body posed outweighed the facts.

How had the Stalker found the time to stage this grisly display amid the constant patrols of Tom’s team? What was the aim of such a grotesque scene? Tom suspected that the killer enjoyed spurning the police at every turn. The first body had been a taunt, the second an insult, the third a boast.

For two weeks, Jayla’s killer ruled the headlines, yet the reporters shuffled away as the bodies ceased and the funerals passed. Jayla lay in the morgue; no family remained to bury her. In his moments of darkest brooding, when the photos of the victims on the wall seemed to consume his vision, Tom told himself Jayla’s purgatory was the reason he persevered.

His team shrank away, until only he remained. Then the day came when Chief Harris had told Tom it was time to call it cold. Cold case. The very thought meant ultimate defeat to Tom, yet his superior insisted two years had yielded no further insights. Another day of pouring over files would yield nothing more.

Now Tom trekked further up the road that had consumed his career, his years, and his sleep. All this time, yet he had waited to return until today: the fifth anniversary of the third murder. If the date held significance for the detective, then it surely would hang on the mind of the perpetrator. Though Tom did not carry a badge anymore, he carried a revolver snug in the inner pocket of his jacket, ready to carry out the duty after so long.

His boots passed the rock that had held up the first arm pointing the way. Tom had realized the Stalker hadn’t staged the scene to only point toward the rest of the body; he had left it to point the way toward him. Tom continued down the stretch of graying asphalt, noting each of the spots that hid their dark nature beneath nature’s reclamation.

At last, he reached the nook where the second arm had illuminated a new path. The young officer had missed the message that the severed head could not deliver: dead end. Tom did not continue up the road. He turned into the forest.

Beyond the drying overgrowth, the forest widened into a legion of bare trunks supporting the canopy far above. The setting sun neared the peak, casting shadows long across the barren soil that Tom tread. Further he pushed, fighting to keep his orientation as the road vanished. The light choked away as the forest rose even higher, old growth that axes had never felled.

As the hair rose on the back of his neck, Tom realized he was following the two ruts of a vehicle track beneath the leaves. He was nearing the place. Five years, and now he approached on foot, alone and unflinching as the slumping walls revealed themselves amid the rising earth. In a crevice carved by rains flowing down from the peak, the cabin stood, its door swinging in the breeze that made the trees quiver above.

One hand twitched for the handle of the revolver, but Tom focused on his feet, muffling the crunch of the leaves beneath his boots as best he could. The ground beyond bore the brunt of a different boot, a print that Tom had seared into his skull. Questions swirled as as he nudged the crooked door open.

No man stood inside to answer them. Only a smoldering campfire, a soiled cot, and newspapers. Tom stepped back as he realized the walls held nothing but newspapers. "Suspect Sought in Connection with Route 23 Body." "Valerie Kilmer Discovered Dead in Mountain Pass." "Stalker Claims Third Victim." "A Year of Silence: Will the Stalker Strike Again?" The headlines wrapped the room, but all the print bled away to a single word above the cot, scrawled in red: Why? The question that had plagued Tom so long now stood before him, as if even the writer did not know the answer. His knees started to slide out beneath him. Then the shovel struck the back of his head.

When next Tom awoke, the room pounded and thrummed. He soon realized that this was only partly due to the back of his throbbing skull; the other half came from the diesel generator that popped and growled as its greasy belt turned the turbine. Noxious fumes assaulted his nose, yet when Tom tried to stand, his hands remained rooted to the damp floor. Several more attempts proved that he was tied to a stake in the hard-packed dirt.

Somehow, despite the confined walls of the shack and the roaring generator, Tom kept his breathing even. Four walls of logs offered no obvious exit save a single plywood door. Tom kicked it with his boot, but the sheet did not shift. Locked. Next his eyes strayed to the roof. The logs continued, packed with mud between their joints to prevent any light seeping in—or air seeping out. At Tom’s feet lay a mask that fed back to the exhaust vent on the generator. He imagined Kilmer writhing as the strap was slid over her nose and mouth. Until at last her eyes drooped and her lips sagged into the expression they had found buried in the mud.

The question scrawled on the wall of the cabin still hung over everything, thicker than the air that continued to fill with diesel fumes. Tom could recite the crimes. He now knew the setting. He knew the method. He had even started to grasp at the psyche. Yet he did not know the man. Most of all, he did not know the motive.

The answer to another mystery stood to be answered as the plywood door swung out. A rush of fresh air pushed aside the diesel fumes, allowing Tom a moment of clarity. One boot stepped through the opening, black leather caked in mud. A second followed, revealing camouflage running up a stocky body accented by five points of black. Tom noted his revolver in the man’s belt. Boots and gloves covered his extremities, yet the black mask drew Tom’s eyes. His foe did not show a single spot of skin. Nothing to suggest a human beneath the fabric.

The right glove formed a fist, and the room reeled around Tom as the Stalker moved at the edge of his recovering vision. Turning back, he found the rubber mask moving toward his face, the acrid smoke making him retch and draw away. The man leaned forward, wrenching the detective’s neck back. The gray eyes beneath the black held Tom’s gaze as the Stalker drew a knife. Mask and blade hovered in either hand. A choice.

Tom stared at the blade. The Stalker laid down the hose, sliding the serrated knife to his dominant hand. His arm drew back, then Tom kicked up with his feet, sending the man sailing backward. The gloved hand flailed into the wall in the confined shed, and the blade came free. Tom strained against the stake as he stretched his legs, then his left boot caught the handle. Cord and rope fell away against the serrated edge.

The Stalker struggled to his feet, clutching for the revolver, but Tom had already stood. Adrenaline coursed through him as he confronted his long-time foe, and it powered his arms. The black glove squeezed around the trigger the same moment the flat of Tom’s blade struck the barrel. The bullet skimmed the detective’s thigh, lodging instead in the log wall. More important, the revolver bounced across the dirt floor.

The gunshot thundered in the airtight space, yet through the flash and the noise Tom managed to ball his left fist. His punch connected with the jaw beneath the mask, but the Stalker stayed on his feet. Gloves wrapped around his right leg. Tom felt the raw strength pulling him down, yet the Stalker left his head undefended. The detective lashed out, his blows sailing into the temple. The Stalker’s grip loosed with each blow, until at last Tom kicked out with his boot, freeing himself and sending the man crashing into the generator.

The single lightbulb above their heads flickered out as its source shuddered and choked. Tom panted in the sudden silence, his hand relaxing around the knife. Then he heard boots moving against the dirt. The dim light leaking through the doorway showed the Stalker standing, despite all the punishment. A hand reached out to find Tom in the dark, and he swung out with the blade, sending blood scattering across his face and jacket. Yet the man kept coming.

Tom stumbled backward, his foot striking something atop the dirt. Keeping his knife outstretched, he reached with his other hand and found the revolver. Tom’s back struck the wall as the other black glove reared out of the dark. The detective pulled the trigger.

For a heart-pounding moment, the hand continued toward his throat. Then it plunged, and a knee struck the floor, the pant leg around it darkening. Tom watched, frozen, as the glove clasped at him, yet only finding the end of his jacket. Finally the spell broke, and he flipped the revolver around, pistol whipping the arm away.

Tom circled the Stalker, keeping the man in his sight as he fumbled to restart the generator. Without warning, it sparked up, moaning as the light returned. The camo-clad man remained kneeling on the floor without regard to the victor, forcing Tom to circle a second time. He paused, then ripped away the mask.

Blood dripped onto the dirt, and pale skin turned up to Tom beneath thinning flaxen hair and gray eyes, yet the detective did not look at a fellow man. He looked at a chasm that offered no sign of thought or feeling other than the clenched jaw and seething of a beaten fighter. Scars of scratches showed around his thin neck, yet nothing else suggested he could tell Tom what he had searched and fought to know. The shadow could no more tell Tom why Jayla and the others had died than he could tell Tom why he had lost their struggle.

There was no reason, Tom realized, no greater logic to reveal the picture they had all missed. This man had eluded them so long precisely because he had no code dictating his actions. He had killed when he felt it, then, when he no longer felt it, receded into the shadows. Three women had died, and all Tom would ever know was the hand and the face of the man who had done it. He found no regret in the gray eyes, and Tom felt none of his own as he raised the revolver. No reason to not pull the trigger.