Megan was at first stunned by this violation, and didn’t know what to do. Unable to scream, or move her legs, she felt like a helpless victim on the verge of being devoured by a hungry lion. Her brain locked up, and her thoughts became hopelessly jumbled. Images of family and friends flitted through her mind. But then – as if from the depths of her soul – an instinctual desire to survive and triumph suddenly took hold of her.

  With grim determination she thrashed, and kicked, and bucked her body up and down. Desperately, with every ounce of energy she still possessed, she savagely fought back against the attacker. In the ensuing struggle the hand came off of her mouth, and the sack on her head flew against a wall. Megan gulped for air. But as she did, the putrid scent of dirty laundry and sweat filled her nostrils and harassed her senses. She was repulsed and disgusted by the smell – but she continued to fight.

  Seconds dragged into minutes, and Megan grew increasingly tired – and desperate. In her mind, she cried out to God for help. But none was forthcoming. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a powerful fist came down from above and slammed like a sledge hammer against the head of Megan’s attacker. She was shocked by the brutality of the blow, and watched in utter amazement as the smelly wretch writhed in agony on the floor of the shed. In the darkness, there came a voice: “Get the hell out of here! And if you ever touch her again, I’m gonna break your scrawny neck.” Megan was ecstatic as her attacker got up from the floor, and scampered away through the door.

  Shortly, thereafter, the hulking form of a man loomed large over Megan. When he spoke, his words were soft and strangely muffled. “It’s ok, Miss,” he said. “He won’t hurt you anymore.” She was intrigued because his voice was one that she hadn’t heard before; earlier, she had thought there were only three kidnappers, but now it seemed there were actually four. Even more intriguing, however, the man did not appear to open his mouth when he spoke. Megan was confused. Who is this guy?, she thought. And what is the deal with his mouth?

  And then, as if in answer to her first question, the man introduced himself.

  “My name is Oscar. What’s your name?”

  FOR THE next half an hour, Megan poured her heart out to Oscar. She was practically in tears as she spoke, recklessly revealing information she should have kept to herself. She explained to him that she knew his identity, and that she had seen his photograph in the Turnbuckle yearbook only a few days prior. She further explained why she and Ben had been spying on Jason, and that they had only been trying to discover the truth behind the murder of Joey Jones. Oscar listened intently to everything she had to say. Occasionally, he nodded his head and coaxed her along with questions. When he asked a few questions about Josh, she willingly divulged additional information.

  After a while, Megan began to fear that maybe she had said too much. She didn’t know Oscar, and just because he had saved her from the smelly rapist, it didn’t mean she could trust him. And then a more sinister thought crossed her mind: What if the attempted rape – and Oscar’s subsequent intervention – was all part of a carefully orchestrated plan to extract information from her? A sinking feeling came over her. She felt nauseous as her thoughts ran riot: Did I just betray Ben? Have I put him, and Josh, and his friends, in danger? What have you done, Megan? Why weren’t you thinking? Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?

  Megan decided to say no more, and began to answer Oscar’s questions in an evasive manner. Sensing her reticence, he encouraged her to be strong and not worry; everything would turn out alright if she didn’t do anything stupid – like trying to escape. A few seconds later, he said goodbye and walked out the door.

  Once again, except for the critters making noises in the surrounding woods, the night was silent. Megan leaned back against the wall of the shed, and ruminated on all that had transpired. Exhausted, in mind and in body, she eventually fell asleep.

  Serenity Lane Apartments, #205

  30 September, 4:38 AM

  WHEN BEN had arrived back at his apartment, his nerves were frazzled. He recalled how the officer had instructed him to make a few phone calls to Megan’s family and friends, and then patiently wait for her to reappear. Ben had done exactly as he was told, but there had been no breakthrough; Megan was still missing. Now, several hours after having talked to the police, he tossed and turned in his bed as he relived the horrifying events of the previous evening.

  For two or three minutes, he stared upward at the spinning blades of the ceiling fan – and then made a fateful decision. Rather than wait around for three days doing nothing, while Megan suffered unimaginable trauma, he would drive out to Jason’s place to look for her. “If I leave while it’s still dark,” he said to himself, “I might be able to approach the mobile home without being seen. I might even be able to locate Megan – or, better yet, rescue her.” He got up from his bed, put on his clothes, and grabbed his binoculars.

  Jason’s Property, Stuart Co.

  30 September, 6:10 AM

  IT WAS the opening act of a beautiful morning, and nature was busy setting the stage. The lighting was perfect as the sun slowly peaked above the horizon, warming the cool air, and illuminating the landscape in a soft yellow glow. On the grass, hanging on the tips of every blade like tiny Christmas ornaments, droplets of dew glistened in the early morning light. Higher up – and also coated with dew – perfectly symmetrical spider webs hung from bushes and fence posts, adorning the landscape like masterfully-crafted sculptures in a Parisian art gallery. Here and there, soaking up the first rays of light, the little architects of these wonders could be seen patiently waiting for their first meal of the day. Water was everywhere; and as the air warmed, moist vapors – like smoke – rose from posts and railings in thin silvery ribbons. All around, celebratory choirs of birds welcomed the new day with glorious song. The world was coming alive, and Ben marveled at the beauty. But he was afraid.

  As he trudged along the periphery of Jason’s property, he grappled with self-doubt. Yes, he wanted to somehow look into the mobile home and various sheds to see whether or not Megan was being held captive. But then what? What would he do if he found her? Would he call the police, or try to rescue her on his own? What if she wasn’t even there or he didn’t see her? Where else should he look? Should he – or could he – simply go back to his apartment and wait? “Not likely,” he whispered aloud to himself. He decided to call Megan’s family again, later in the day, and also to call Detective Matson. In the meantime, he had a job to do.

  After five or ten minutes of walking through woods and pasture, Jason’s mobile home came into view. Ben lowered himself to the ground and slowly, methodically, inched his way towards the horse shed. He thought that the shed would afford him a reasonably good location from which to observe the home, and plan his next move. He glanced down and noticed that his clothes were completely soaked through with dew. Geez Luiz, he thought, the next time I decide to crawl around on the ground, I should probably do a little preparation beforehand – like bring an extra shirt. He ignored the wetness and continued to crawl.

  Upon arriving at the back of the shed, and seeing nothing of significance, Ben climbed up onto the gently sloping roof. He was happy that the horse was away, busily grazing in the nearby pasture. The last thing he needed right now was the sound of a thundering hooves. With minimal effort, he crawled to the highest point of the roof and lay down in the prone position. From the perspective of an observer in the mobile home, only Ben’s head projected above the crest; the rest of his body was hidden from view.

  He withdrew his binoculars and observed the mobile home. Most of the window blinds were raised about two-thirds of the way, and three of the sliding windows were open a slit. Except for the porch light, all the other lights were out. Inside, the only movement to be seen was the spinning ceiling fan in the dining room. So far, it didn’t appear as if anyone was awake. In fact, at first glance, Ben wasn’t able to determine if there were people inside the home. He guessed that there were because of the parked cars outside. But, he wasn’t sure.

  Ben grew tired – in spite of his cold, damp clothing – and by 7 AM he had fallen asleep. Suddenly, the sound of a car engine being cranked jolted him awake. Briefly forgetting where he was, he lifted his head in order to identify the source of the noise. As he did he caught a glimpse of a man behind the wheel of a car. The man was backing out of the parking lot, his head facing towards the rear of the car. As a result, Ben wasn’t able to get a good look at the man. He did notice, however, that the man was wearing a baseball cap. He suspected that this was the same guy he’d seen during his previous visit to Jason’s place. Ben reached for his binoculars and watched as the car disappeared down the long gravel road leading to SR55.

  Shortly thereafter, Ben diverted his gaze to the mobile home. In the kitchen, a light had been turned on, and a dark silhouette was visible moving about in the dining room. He watched the activity for several minutes, hoping against hope that he would see Megan. As he watched and waited, he realized that he was too far away to eavesdrop on conversations. A bold plan popped into his mind: Maybe, while they’re still waking-up, I can sneak a little closer to the house – under a window perhaps – and then I’ll be able to hear whatever is being said. He wished that he’d thought of this plan a little earlier, when everyone was definitely asleep. Oh well, he thought, that’s the breaks. You win some, you lose some. Carefully, he climbed down from the roof.

  As he crawled towards the backside of the house, Ben zeroed-in on a missing panel in the plastic skirting surrounding the foundation. The opening was six to twelve inches in height, five or six feet in length, and right next to the ground. Although it would be a squeeze – height wise – Ben was confident he could fit his body through the opening. Once he was under the house, he would then be able to hear everything that was said directly above him. It was the perfect hiding place – or so he thought.

  Stuart Co. Jail, Tank 3North B

  30 September, 7:22 AM

  SLOWLY, EDWARD got out of bed and walked over to the stainless steel sink. His eyes still burned, and whenever he touched his hands to his mouth, he could taste the lingering residue of pepper spray. He had already spent a considerable amount of time cleaning-up, washing his head and body, and the officers had even given him a new jail uniform to wear. But the spray continued to work its dreadful magic. Stink’n dogs, he thought. They think they own me. They think I’m not worthy of respect. I’ll show them!

  With his right thumb he pressed a button above the sink, and watched as a little spout of water shot up a few inches before arching back into the sink. The water, slightly brown, compelled him to wait a few seconds for it to change color. When it was finally clear, Edward gulped down a few mouthfuls of the warm liquid. In the sink, meanwhile, a distorted image of himself stared up at him.

  When he was done at the sink, Edward next sat down on the cold toilet. Here he remained seated, even after he had already completed his “business.” His mind was on fire and blazing with familiar thoughts: You’re guilty, Edward. You’re still guilty. If it wasn’t for you, none of this would have happened! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY! Demand respect, Edward. What’s that? Did you say something? Mom, is that you? Help me! What’s wrong with me? Turnbuckle High. Huh? With his hands he grasped the sides of his head, squeezing until it hurt, but the thoughts continued to run rampant in his tormented, starving mind.

  In an effort to break free from the madness, Edward abruptly stood up from the toilet. For ten to fifteen seconds he looked around the cell, slowly shifting his eyes from one object to another. His mind remained in a thick fog, his thoughts chugging along as he struggled to find meaning in his present circumstances. Eventually, his empty gaze settled on the contents of the toilet bowl.

  And then, for whatever reason, a strange thing happened...

  In a blur, Edward reached down with his right hand into the toilet. He felt like a grizzly bear, standing in the middle of a stream, grabbing salmon as they passed-by on their journey upriver. It was a feeling of empowerment, of meaning and purpose, and the ability to determine one’s own destiny. He held his prey in his claw-like hand, triumphantly raising it in the air as he considered his next move. Briefly, he thought about eating it. But then, at the very last second, he slammed the fish against the jagged rocks, bashing its brains out and creating a trail of blood along the bank of the river.

  Edward – the grizzly – heard a voice, perhaps belonging to a hunter or a fisherman: “Great! That’s just great! Hey, sergeant, we’ve got a Poopy-Picasso over here in cell eight. Our friend, Edward, has finally gone nuts and is smearing crap all over the wall. What do you want me to do with him?”

  County/City Building, Stuart Co.

  30 September, 8:06 AM

  ROBERT MATSON arrived at his office earlier than usual. He was dead-tired from being out so late the previous night, but he had a number of items on his agenda for the day. He had been hoping to get a good head start on things before someone interrupted him, but as he unlocked the door and proceeded to enter, his eyes were drawn to the answering-machine on his desk. The message-light was blinking non-stop, and begging to be noticed. “What the f***” he said to himself. He suspected that it was Ben Tyler who had called, either to say he’d located his girlfriend, or to plead with him to look into her supposed disappearance. He let out an audible sigh before sitting down at his desk. When he was finally comfortable in the chair, he pressed the “Play” button on the machine.

  Surprisingly, the message was from the Colorado State Forensics Lab located in Denver, about 130 miles due west from Turnbuckle. Robert listened closely as Dwight Wayne, a Latent Evidence Investigator, described the progress he was making on the “Lucky Boys” case. When the message was done playing, Robert hit the “Repeat” button and listened again...

  “Hello, Robert. This is Dwight Wayne, with the State Forensics Lab. I’ve got some things I need to go over with you regarding the “Lucky Boys” case. I think we might have something for you. We’ve been going through the video tapes you sent – the surveillance video from Turnbuckle Lanes bowling alley, and also the Savings and Loan – and we’ve come across something you’ll definitely want to see. I know Turnbuckle is quite a ways away, and you might not be able to make it out here today. In any event, give me a call at 555-6213 as soon as you can. Again, this is Dwight Wayne at the State Forensics Lab. 555-6213. Thanks. Talk to you later.”

  Robert jotted the number down on a piece of scrap paper. “Finally, some progress,” he said to himself. He leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and immersed himself in thought. After several minutes of staring blankly at the ceiling, he picked up the phone and called Fred. On the third ring, Fred answered the call.

  “Fred, speaking. Who’s this?”

  “Hey, Fred. It’s me, Robert. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure, yeah. What have you got?”

  “Listen, Fred, I just got a call from the forensics lab in Denver. Apparently, they’ve found something significant on the surveillance videos pertaining to the “Lucky Boys” case. I’m really swamped with meetings, today. Do you mind driving over there and seeing what they’ve got for us? I know it’s a bit of a drive...but, hey, you could look at the foliage. I hear the leaves are beginning to turn colors.” Robert was joking; he knew that Fred wasn’t the type of person who would drive around looking at leaves.

  “Ha, Ha. Good one. And maybe you could put on a dress and come along with me.”

  “Ha! Yeah, right! That would be the day,” Robert replied. He always enjoyed joking around with Fred and goading him with witty sarcasm. It was therapeutic, and helped relieve some of the stress associated with the serious nature of his job. He suspected that Fred had similar feelings. The two men bantered a little longer, until the conversation eventually died. Before hanging up, Robert asked Fred to give him a call as soon as he got back from Denver.

  Robert gathered a few things from his desk, tossed them into his briefcase, and headed out the door. This should be an interesting day, he thought. Absent mindedly, he locked the door behind him, and slowly trudged-off down the hallway. A minute or two later, after he was already out of earshot, his office phone again rang. This time, the message that was left was from Megan’s mother – and she was clearly distraught.

  Jason’s Property, Stuart Co.

  30 September, 8:42 AM

  ALREADY, BEN had been hiding under the mobile-home for more than an hour. His arms and legs ached, and he was becoming increasingly hungry and thirsty. Worse still, he felt like he must somehow urinate in the very near future, or risk an exploding bladder. He was also discouraged because he hadn’t heard anything of consequence which would justify his current misery. I can’t take this much longer, he thought. I should’ve brought a bottle of water, and some food. How much longer should I stay here? And when are these jokers going to get out of bed? He decided to stay where he was for at least another thirty minutes before abandoning the hideout. In the meantime, he planned to do something about his ever-expanding bladder.

  Suddenly, before he could unzip his pants, there was activity above Ben’s head. From the end of the mobile home, presumably from one of the bedrooms, someone could be heard walking towards the kitchen or dining room. The squeaky sound of the floorboards grew louder and louder with each step – and then abruptly stopped. Someone began talking; rather muffled, but definitely angry. Ben placed his left ear up against the underside of the flooring, and listened:

  “Do you plan on sleeping all day, you damn filthy rapist?”

  “I’m sorry, Oscar. I couldn’t help myself last night. It won’t happen again. I promise. Really! Please don’t tell Jason. Ok?”

 

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