Silent Night, page 10
Jenson's breath hitched, his mind racing with the implications of what he'd just heard. Had he been careful enough? The fear and anger coiled in his chest like a vise, threatening to choke him. In a sudden burst of rage, he grabbed the remote and turned off the television, then hurled the remote across the room.
"Damn it!" he said, his hands trembling as he wiped sweat from his brow.
The silence that followed was oppressive, suffocating him with a weight that felt unbearable. He stared at the now-dark screen, barely able to process the information that had been laid bare before him. His own potential mistakes, his possible carelessness – each piece of damning evidence he might have left behind – haunted him like specters.
"Get a grip, Jenson. You've done this before. You can do it again." This brought him little comfort, however.
His attention was drawn to the gun safe again, and a cold resolve settled over him like a shroud. His fingers trembled as he approached it.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath, "time to prepare for the worst."
He punched in the combination, and the heavy door swung open, revealing an assortment of firearms and ammunition stacked neatly inside. Various handguns, shotguns, and rifles glistened under the dim lighting of the shack. Jenson's hand reached for a semi-automatic rifle, his grip shaking as he lifted it from its resting place.
"Damn it, focus!" he growled at himself, fumbling with the magazine before managing to slide it into place.
With the rifle now loaded, Jenson hurried over to the window, his eyes scanning the dirt road that snaked through the trees beyond. He took a swig from his beer, the bitter liquid doing little to calm his frayed nerves. The paranoia that had taken root in his mind stretched out tendrils of doubt, whispering a litany of fears about the police closing in on him.
"Come on, you bastards," he muttered, gripping the rifle tighter. "Just try and find me."
Suddenly, something caught his eye—a flicker of movement between two trees. Jenson's heart leaped into his throat as he raised the rifle, steadying his aim and preparing to fire. But as he looked down the barrel, he realized it was just a deer, cautiously stepping out from behind the cover of the foliage.
He lowered the rifle and taking another gulp of beer. He tried to shake off the paranoia that had taken hold of him, but it clung like a stubborn stain.
"Everything's gonna be okay," he told himself, desperately seeking reassurance. "You've done this before. You're good at covering your tracks. They won't find you here."
But even as he tried to convince himself, the paranoia burrowed deeper into his mind, its tendrils coiling around his thoughts. He could almost see the bodies of Jennifer and Hadley floating in the murky waters of the Great Salt Lake, their lifeless eyes staring accusingly up at him. As he continued to peer out the window, his grip on the rifle never loosening, he wondered if he had left any damning evidence on them.
"Did they scratch me? Did I leave any fibers or hair?" he muttered under his breath, his fingers tapping anxiously against the stock of the rifle. The unanswered questions formed a knot in his stomach that only tightened with every passing moment.
He found himself recalling the moments after each murder, the weight of their lives snuffed out by his hands. The relief that had washed over him as he stood above their still forms. It was intoxicating, a power unlike anything else he had ever experienced. Like an addict craving his next high, Jenson longed to feel that control again, that sweet release from the fear that now threatened to consume him.
"Control," he whispered, the word hanging heavily in the air. "I was in control." He closed his eyes and let the memories play out in his mind, trying to recapture the feeling of invincibility that had followed each kill.
The images flickered through his consciousness like a twisted highlight reel: the shock and terror in their eyes, the way their bodies went limp when the last breath escaped their lips. Each memory fueled the fire inside him, stoking the embers of his desire for control.
The memories swirled around Jenson's mind, tantalizingly close but never quite tangible. He clenched his fists, frustration building as the details of those murders slipped further away from him. His attempts to recall the exact sensations – the weight of their bodies, the feel of their skin beneath his hands, their final breaths – only heightened his agitation.
"Damn it!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the window sill, causing the rifle to rattle. Pain shot through his hand, but it was a welcome distraction from his growing anxiety.
As he stood there, breathing heavily, a chilling realization crept into his thoughts: The relief he sought, that intoxicating sense of control, couldn't be found in these fading memories. The only way to regain it was to experience it anew. To kill again.
"Waiting here won't change anything," he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with determination. "I need to take back control. I need to feel it...one more time."
With purposeful strides, Jenson moved away from the window and set the rifle aside. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the hunt he was about to embark on. Every step toward the door felt like shedding another layer of fear, replaced with cold resolve.
"Let the police come if they dare," he whispered as he reached for the door handle. "They'll never catch me. They can't. Because I'm in control now—and I'm not going to give it up."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Is it really possible that Watchfield might go free, like he suggested?" Sheila asked, picking at a stray piece of lettuce on a table laden with the remnants of her and Natalie's dinner. The aroma of grilled chicken and sautéed vegetables still lingered in the air, but the recollection of Watchfield's words had robbed Sheila of whatever lingering appetite she'd previously had.
Natalie, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the restaurant's dim lighting, looked up from her plate and met her sister's gaze with an unwavering determination. She was no stranger to the darker side of humanity, having served as a sheriff in Coldwater for years. Her voice carried the weight of experience as she spoke.
"Sheila, the justice system isn't perfect," she admitted. "But there are plenty of good, hardworking people who are dedicated to making sure guys like Watchfield pay for their crimes." She paused, her eyes searching Sheila's face for reassurance. "With the evidence against him and his criminal record, I have no doubt he'll be locked away for a long time."
Sheila let out a slow breath, feeling the tension in her chest loosen ever so slightly. "I hope you're right, Nat," she said. "I just can't stand the thought of someone like him being out on the streets."
As she spoke, her fingers tapped rhythmically on the tabletop, a sign of her underlying anxiety. She couldn't help but feel responsible for bringing justice to the victims, even though this case fell far outside her usual realm of expertise. Watchfield might not be their murderer – the surveillance footage from his house had, after all, proven he couldn't have been at the Great Salt Lake at the time Jennifer's body was left there – but that only fueled Sheila's determination to bring the real killer to justice.
The restaurant, buzzing with the sounds of conversations and clattering dishes, was enveloped in a warm, golden glow from the overhead lights. Aromas of garlic and seared meat wafted through the air as waitstaff weaved their way between tables, deftly balancing trays laden with steaming dishes. A man at a nearby table nursed his beer, his eyes occasionally flicking over to Sheila and Natalie.
Just then, the door swung open, and a tall man stepped inside, carrying a military backpack slung over one shoulder. Sheila's gaze was instantly drawn to him, taking in the lean, purposeful stride that spoke of confidence and discipline. She recognized the unmistakable air of a fighter.
"Hey, sorry I'm late," Finn said as he approached, his voice warm and slightly gravelly. "Traffic was a nightmare." He paused, his gaze lingering for a moment on the man drinking beer nearby.
"Better late than never," Natalie said with a smile, gesturing toward an empty seat. "Have a seat."
Clearing his throat, Finn sat down and unzipped his backpack, pulling out a laptop and setting it on the table. Sheila helped move a few dishes out of the way to make room.
Finn's fingers danced over his laptop keyboard, the soft tapping a rhythmic accompaniment to the low hum of conversation and clinking of cutlery in the restaurant. Sheila couldn't help but be drawn in by the air of concentration that seemed to emanate from him as he worked.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, not looking up from his screen. "I've been trying to track down the origin of that nail we found at the crime scene, but no luck so far. It's like it came out of nowhere." He paused, furrowing his brow. "Maybe it has some sort of symbolic meaning to the killer? It clearly wasn't there for practical reasons."
Sheila considered his words, her gaze drifting to the half-empty beer glass on a nearby table. The amber liquid caught the evening light filtering through the windows, casting a warm glow on the wood-paneled walls. She wondered if the man enjoying his drink had any idea of the darkness they were delving into.
"Speaking of potential connections," Natalie said, "are you familiar with the app 'Birds of a Feather'?"
Finn nodded. "Never used it, but I've heard of it. Why?"
"Apparently Jennifer was using it. Sheila has a theory that maybe Jennifer met the killer through the app."
"Really?" Finn glanced up, looking impressed as his eyes met Sheila's. "That's an interesting theory. Do we know if the second victim, Hadley, used the app as well?"
"Not yet," Natalie said. "I reached out to her family, but haven't heard back. We were hoping you might be able to help us."
"Sure thing," Finn said, tapping away at the keyboard. "Shouldn't be too difficult to figure out if she has an account."
Curious, Sheila rose from her seat to stare over Finn's shoulder as he navigated through various screens and entered a series of commands. She marveled at the fluidity of his movements, each keystroke precise and efficient. He was clearly more fluent with a computer than she was.
She found herself holding her breath as Finn worked, exhilarated by the possibility of uncovering a crucial piece of information. The hum of conversation around them at the restaurant seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the steady rhythm of Finn's typing.
"Got it," Finn said, his voice low but triumphant. "Hadley Ferguson did have an account on Birds of a Feather. I created it last year."
Sheila felt a surge of excitement course through her, the implications of this discovery igniting a fire within her. They were one step closer to finding the killer, and she had played a crucial role in that.
"Good work," Natalie said, her eyes shining with pride as she looked at both Sheila and Finn. "This could be the break we need."
"When was the last time she used the platform?" Sheila asked.
Finn's fingers flew across the keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration as he navigated through the digital labyrinth of Birds of a Feather. Sheila leaned in closer, her heart racing with anticipation, watching the screen with rapt attention as Finn delved deeper into Hadley Ferguson's online presence.
"Here we go," he said, excitement creeping into his voice as he clicked on a series of messages. "Both Jennifer and Hadley were active on Birds of a Feather during the days leading up to their deaths."
"Was there anyone they both communicated with?" Sheila asked. "Anyone they both dated?"
She watched as Finn's skilled hands worked the laptop, her admiration for his expertise growing. She had never been particularly tech-savvy, but Finn seemed to be a master of this digital realm.
"Alright," he murmured, his words punctuating the tense silence that had settled over their table. "It looks like there were a handful of men that both Jennifer and Hadley interacted with. Let's see if anyone stands out."
As Finn began clicking through various men's profiles, Sheila studied each face intently, searching for any clues that might indicate a connection to the murders. They were all so different, an eclectic mix of ages, races, and styles.
"Wait!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Go back to the last one."
Finn obliged, pulling up a profile that featured a man named Jack Sawyer. In the background of his photo was a lake, its waters shimmering with reflected sunlight. Sheila squinted at the picture, certain she recognized the landscape.
"What is it?" Natalie asked, her brow furrowed.
"The lake in the background of his picture," Sheila said softly. "It's the Great Salt Lake."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sheila's grip tightened on the steering wheel as she guided the van around a sharp bend, navigating the narrow dirt road that snaked through the dense forest. The isolation of the area sent chills down her spine.
If Jack Sawyer really is our killer, she thought, it would make sense for him to live all the way out here.
As the cabin came into view, nestled among towering pines, Sheila couldn't help but wonder if this was the place where the killer had brought his victims before disposing of their bodies in the lake. The cabin itself was rustic yet elegant—a wooden structure with large windows that shimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Solar panels adorned its roof, and a small wind turbine spun lazily nearby. A water tank stood at the edge of the clearing, fed by a stream that meandered through the trees.
"Looks like the guy's got everything he needs to live off the grid," Sheila mused as she parked the van.
"Perfect place to take a woman after abducting her, right?" Natalie asked.
Sheila stepped out of the van, gravel crunching beneath her boots as she took in her surroundings. The stillness of the forest weighed heavy on her chest and seemed to swallow any sound that dared to break the silence. She glanced back at Natalie, who was maneuvering herself into her wheelchair with practiced ease.
"Where's Finn?" Sheila asked, scanning the area for him.
"Over there," Natalie said, nodding toward a cluster of trees where Finn stood, his gaze locked on the cabin. He looked as tense as Sheila felt, and she couldn't help but wonder what had caught his attention.
As they approached Finn, the eerie quiet continued to gnaw at Sheila's nerves. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, as if she were being watched by unseen eyes. "Anything we should know before going in?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Finn shook his head. "Can't see anyone inside, but it doesn't mean nobody's home. Stay alert."
"Always do," Natalie replied, her hand resting on the wheel of her chair as if ready to propel herself forward at a moment's notice.
Before they could take another step, the front door of the cabin swung open with a loud creak, startling them. A man in his thirties stood in the doorway, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in the trio before him. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a scruffy beard that framed a friendly, sun-kissed face. His flannel shirt and worn jeans gave off a rugged outdoorsman vibe, and Sheila found herself momentarily disarmed by his handsome appearance.
"Can I help you folks?" he called out, his voice warm and inviting.
Sheila exchanged a glance with Natalie and Finn, a million questions swirling in her mind. Was this Jack Sawyer? If so, could he really be the one responsible for the horrific crimes they were investigating? The man in front of them seemed so...ordinary, so harmless.
"Sorry to bother you," Natalie began, her voice firm as she took charge. "We're looking for Jack Sawyer. Is that you?"
"Sure is," he replied with a nod. "What can I do for you?"
"We have a few questions for you," Natalie said, her grip tightening on the wheels of her wheelchair. "Do you mind if we come inside?"
"Of course not," Jack said, stepping back and gesturing for them to enter. As they crossed the threshold, Sheila couldn't help but feel like they were walking into the unknown, and she prayed they'd find the answers they were seeking within these walls.
The interior of the cabin was surprisingly cozy and well-kept. Polished wood-paneled walls lined the space, adorned with mounted antlers and framed landscapes of the surrounding wilderness. A worn leather couch sat opposite a large stone fireplace, which crackled with warmth. The scent of pine hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of something cooking in the adjacent kitchen.
"Wow, this place is incredible," Finn said, his eyes sweeping over the cabin's contents with genuine appreciation.
"Thanks," Jack said, a touch of pride in his voice. "I built it myself. Always wanted a place like this—off the grid, self-sufficient. It's got solar panels on the roof for power, a natural spring for water, and I hunt or fish for most of my food."
Sheila took in the details of the cabin, noting how every aspect seemed tailored to provide its owner with complete independence. It struck her as both admirable and unsettling—the perfect hideaway for someone with something to hide.
As they settled into the living area, Jack's demeanor remained warm and open, a stark contrast to the dark suspicions that had led them here. Sheila and Finn exchanged a glance, both seemingly taken aback by how friendly he seemed.
"Jack, do you live here alone?" Natalie asked with polite interest.
"Yep," he replied, nodding. "Used to be married, but got divorced a couple years back. I've come to appreciate the quiet life out here." He gestured around the cabin with a rueful smile.
Sheila couldn't help but feel that his words rang false, given what they knew about his activity on the dating app Birds of a Feather. She glanced at Natalie, who seemed to pick up on her thoughts.
"So you're not trying to date anyone?" Natalie asked.
Jack smiled. "Why, you trying to set me up?"
"You know what they say," Finn said. "Birds of a feather flock together."
Jack's expression flickered, looking confused for a moment before he quickly masked it. "Yes, so they say."
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