Blood Ribbon

By Roger Bray

Brooke Adams has had a troubled past but is now a confident young woman with a close-knit group of friends who have become her family. When a weekend getaway ends with a bloody, savage attack that leaves her near death on the beach, she is determined not to let the traumatic experience define her.

Recovering in hospital she is approached by retired cop turned PI Rod Morgan and Brooke is shocked to learn a striking similarity between her attack and a series of killings stretching back 35 years. Will Brooke piece together the unsolved beach murders and reclaim her future, or will a clever killer put more victims six feet under the dunes?

Blood Ribbon is a tightly-woven standalone thriller. If you like dark mysteries, chilling suspense, and survivors battling incredible odds, then you'll love this gripping page-turner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Bray
• Release date: Aug 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780995351189

Roger Bray

Just a guy who likes to tell stories.

Book preview

BLOOD RIBBON by Roger Bray

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part Three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

OTHER WORKS BY ROGER BRAY

Part One

Chapter One

It was dark, almost midnight when he crossed the Nestucca River Bridge in Pacific City and turned left toward the entrance to the state park. The trail which took him back toward the Nestucca River should have been blocked with a barrier, but it was open. He smiled, this was going to make the job a lot easier, he drove in, and closed the barrier behind him. Driving slowly down the trail he turned his headlights off and relied on the sidelights and moonlight to drive through the soft covering of sand. There would be no one around at this time, but headlights shining out across the park would be noticeable from a distance, and he didn’t want some busybody or worse, a local cop coming to see what he was doing.

He parked before the end of the trail, turned off his engine, and got out. The moon was about three-quarters full and was reflecting ample light for his purpose. It was quiet apart from the rustling of the salt grass and low shrubs in the gentle breeze blowing in off the Pacific.

Perfect, he thought and went to the trunk of the car. He opened it and, ignoring the body wrapped up inside, found his camping shovel. Unfolding it, he extended it as far as it would go and locked everything in place before walking into the dunes. It only took a short time before he found a likely spot, about sixty yards from the trail, toward the parking lot. He looked around one more time, stood quietly, listening, nothing had changed. Satisfied he was on his own he started digging.

The military style shovel he carried made short work of the sand and before long he had dug down nearly seven feet. More than enough, he thought. He was off the main walking and horseback riding trails. Not that it mattered, he had become quite expert at covering his tracks and when he had finished, even working in the moonlight, he was happy any signs of disturbance would be gone.

Walking quickly, he went back to his car. Again, he waited, nothing. From this point, he knew he was vulnerable. Had someone come along earlier it would be problematic, but he could talk his way out of any questions. Once he opened the trunk and pulled on a pair of disposable latex gloves, well, that would be harder to explain, and he didn’t want to have to dig two graves.

Once the gloves were on, he unwrapped the body, the metallic lined thermal blanket rustled as he pushed it to the front of the trunk. The girl lay there, eyes closed, her face slightly swollen from him strangling her, but still pretty, he thought. He checked the pockets of his jacket and ensured they were zipped or fastened closed to make sure nothing would fall out. Leaning into the truck he lifted the body out and laid her on the ground. He found her bag and took that from the trunk as well before closing the lid and locking the car. He lifted her and put her over one shoulder and put the strap of her bag over the other. Satisfied, he walked back into the dunes to the grave he had prepared.

It only took him a couple of minutes to reach the site and as he bent down to lower her to the ground, her arms fell forward, and he felt something bounce off his foot. He laid her down and looked around. The back-light had come on when it landed, and her cell phone was easy to see.

Shit, he thought as he grabbed the phone. He had forgotten all about the damn cell phone. A girl like this would have one, and he had forgotten about it completely. He grabbed it and without even trying to get the back off properly, he bent the phone with both hands until the back sprung off, and he was able to pull the battery out. He threw the battery into the grave quickly followed by the other parts in his hand.

Panic over, he looked down at the girl and smiled. She looked serene, he decided, happy even. He kneeled next to her and sat the body up until she was leaning against him. He smoothed out her hair, already tied up with a thin hair tie, until it hung in a single cascade down her back.

Lovely, he thought as he pulled the ribbon from his pocket and tied it around the hair tie which was already in place. Only once he was satisfied that the two ends were of equal length did he lay her back down onto the sand.

He sat back and admired her, brushing a few stray pieces of hair away from her face.

Lovely, he thought again as he smiled at her.

How long he sat there he wasn’t sure, not more than a few minutes, but that was long enough for now. There would be plenty of time for them to get to know one another in the future. For now, he had to complete his task.

He lowered her carefully into the grave feet first and slowly maneuvered her into a sitting position before letting go, and she fell, perfectly placed in the grave, lying on her back. As she fell back the last of the air in her lungs made a sad wheezing noise as it left her.

Careful not to get too close and collapse the edge into the grave he looked down at her. He was happy with how she looked, picked up his shovel, and started filling in the hole. He started at her feet and shoveled the sand in until only her face was visible. He smiled again and threw in the next shovel full covering her.

It took him about half an hour until the grave was full, another fifteen minutes to move dry sand from further away to cover the damp look of the disturbed sand. He knew that it would only take a few hours of sunlight the next day to dry out the sand, but he always believed in being careful.

There were a few pieces of driftwood and some dead shrubs which he laid across the grave. He fiddled about for a while until he was satisfied. It looked completely natural, and he was happy that a casual observer wouldn’t see anything wrong.

Some rain, which was expected that week to bed down the sand and no one would be any the wiser.

He broke down his shovel and peeled off the gloves, pushing them into the pocket the ribbon had come from. Quickly checking his pockets, he was happy he had not dropped anything and set off back to his car.

One more thing to do and he could leave.

He opened the trunk and took a map of the Oregon coast from a bag, found where he was, and worked out where he had just buried the girl. Then he took a thin awl from the bag and punched a small hole through the page, marking the spot.

He smiled as he held the map up. The hole he’d just made allowed the light of the interior light through, joining all the other holes in the map.

A mini-constellation of his own making.

Chapter Two

Brooke Adams threw the damp cloth she was carrying at the sink in her small kitchen and turned before seeing if it landed in it or flopped onto the floor.

Her apartment was clean. It had taken her most of the day and it was only a small apartment with one bedroom, one bathroom, and a combined kitchen dining room, but she had scrubbed everything in it. The walls, floor, windows, everything that could be swept, vacuumed, or scrubbed had been, and throwing the cloth at the sink signified the end.

She stood for a moment with her hands on her hips and looked around, satisfied with the result. Brushing a damp hair off her face as she stepped forward and moved the dining table a little to the left to square it in the room, she was happy.

The only thing left of her life before the epic clean was a small plastic bag, half-full, and tied up sitting on the floor next to the front door. When her now ex-boyfriend had left ten days earlier he’d packed a bag with everything he wanted and took it with him. The plastic bag contained the discarded and forgotten bits that he’d left behind.

For almost a year they’d been together. Nearly a full year and all he had left her was a small bag of crap she’d throw in the communal dumpster when she went out.

Brooke looked up at the framed mirror on the wall opposite her. The first thing that she’d bought after Denny had left. He’d smashed the previous two she’d bought and hung on that same hook. She hadn’t bothered to buy a third, knowing it would be broken, but now he was gone it was one of the first things she had bought.

She’d only known him for two months before he moved in, and he’d seemed OK. They had six months of what she thought was a normal relationship until she realized it wasn’t. Another three months of regret and hoping that he would change followed and then a further three to pluck up the courage to tell him to get the hell out of her life. Now he was gone, and she felt relief, but she wasn’t sure.

There was absolutely no sense of ending or regret. Maybe regret that she hadn’t split with him when she first realized what he was and that he wouldn’t be changing.

They were so similar in many ways, at least, their stories were. No families, both orphans, and an inbuilt distrust of everything and everyone they met. She had learned that not everyone was untrustworthy, but he hadn’t.

He’d never hit or even threatened her. That may have been better or at least given her the excuse to get rid of him sooner. He professed his undying love and then destroyed that in short order by his inability to hold down a job for more than a couple of weeks at a time. He spent every cent they earned while complaining she didn’t earn enough for them to have fun. His idea of fun was to get wasted on weed and cheap whiskey which she had done once or twice early on before realizing what a sorry waste of money it was.

Every cent she had he would spend. He didn’t ask he just took it, and she had learned quickly not to leave money lying around; or anything he could pawn, which he did constantly. The older model ThinkPad that she had bought secondhand for her studies she carried everywhere to make sure he was never alone with it. She knew, given the chance, he would steal it and take it to the pawn shop as fast as he could get it there. The fifty bucks he would probably get for it would be gone before he got home. Losing the laptop would be bad enough but it could be replaced. She was more concerned that all her college work and assignments were on it. That, and the cute laptop bag with the cartoon elephants which she carried it in.

The only reason she could pay the rent was because of her boss, Nico Stassino, at the open-nearly-all-hours convenience store a couple of blocks away. He’d figured out what Denny was like early on and had talked her into leaving at least half her pay with him. She would have laughed had anyone else made the suggestion, knowing that she would be ripped off, but old Nico meticulously recorded every dollar and added a few more to it, she suspected.

She looked around the little apartment again and smiled at the thought.

The best thing that had ever happened to her was falling asleep down by that dumpster near the back door of his shop five years earlier.

Brooke had known when she reached sixteen that she would be leaving her hometown in Northern California. It was the only life she knew, and she hated it. Homes, institutions, and foster carers. It was the only life she’d known and had she not spoken to the only person who seemed to care about her, she would have left that summer.

Mrs. Hanson, her English teacher, understood how she felt, or at least, said the right things to make her think again.

You’re a clever girl, Brooke. I know things have been hard, but you can get your certificate if you keep going the way you are. A couple more years and then you can decide what you want to do.

She listened and knew Mrs. Hanson was right, as she often was. She put the idea of leaving off and concentrated on her school work. If she was honest, it was the one thing that gave her pleasure. She didn’t have any real friends, she was one of the kids from the homes and that was enough to give her a stigma the other kids wouldn’t ignore. Her cheap and worn clothes marked her apart from the perfect group who seemed to look down on everyone that passed them by. There were a few other kids like her, and like her, they preferred to keep their heads down and get through school. Unlike her, school for them was something to be endured and got through. Brooke felt that given the right circumstances she could fit in, but the stigma of the homes followed her around like a straggly, stray cat.

And anyway, she knew if she left, she had nowhere to go and at her age, she would just be picked up somewhere and put back into the system. She would go back into a home and then maybe with another foster carer. She didn’t get to choose where she went, and it may be somewhere worse than where she was.

The system always seemed to shuffle her around, or maybe there was some plan she was unaware of that moved her between homes and carers. Whatever it was it had the effect of never allowing the kids to get too comfortable. The institutional home, like the fosterers, differed. Some were good, some were bad, none lasted too long, and she would be back into a children’s home.

She had no memory of a family, not a real family, and certainly not her own, anyway. The fosters were generally all right, but she was always on the outside, a little lost girl standing on the edge of the happy bubble; adoption was always a possibility but that faded as she got older. Now she was an older girl, with little, or no chance of adoption.

The last foster home wasn’t the worst. She was only there for about eight months. The mom was a bit strict but always made sure Brooke had enough to eat and clothes even if they were hand-me-downs from Goodwill. The dad was nice and always wanted to chat with her when he could, but he was away a lot, working in a road maintenance gang across the northern part of the state. Their son, who was about six months older than her, was the real problem. He was, she decided, a pervert, and possibly a trainee rapist.

He leered at her and would try to ‘accidentally’ come into the bathroom when she was in there, he would brush against her, and try to corner her for a kiss or a grope when his folks weren’t around. They went to the same high school, were in the same year, but he would either ignore her or make fun of her when his friends were around.

She was nearly eighteen when she told her social worker that she was leaving and walked out the door ignoring the halfhearted protests. Taking a small duffel bag, she left with the few clothes she had, her high school certificate that she never intended to use, and about a hundred and twenty dollars in her pocket.

There was no one she knew except other kids and workers in the welfare system, and she had no intention of winding up back in some home. Mrs. Hanson had left town six months earlier when her husband had been transferred west with his job with the power company.

Brooke got to the bus station at Redding and bought a one-way ticket on the first bus leaving which happened to be heading north. She had to buy a ticket somewhere and chose Salem because she liked the name.

Almost ten hours later the Greyhound stopped in Church Street, Brooke got off and stood for a moment with no clue what she should do next. She took a few steps away from the bus door and stood near the road, trying to look as though she was waiting to be picked up. Ten minutes later the driver closed the door, and the bus continued its journey north leaving Brooke in a town she’d never been to, knew nothing about, and with no one she could contact. It was just the way she’d planned in her rush to leave.

This may have been what she wanted but then, as she stood on the almost deserted street at a bit after ten o’clock on a cold October night, she wasn’t so sure. Her money was almost half gone after buying her ticket, and she knew what she had left wouldn’t be enough to get into a hotel, a hostel maybe, but she had no idea where to find one of those.

She walked south on Church Street, hoping to find a YWCA or some sort of hostel where she could find a cheap bed for the night but there was nothing. A couple of big buildings, a few banks, a locked church, but nothing where she could find a bed.

Brooke was beginning to think she may have made a mistake. Either Salem was a lot smaller than she thought or she’d gone in the wrong direction and missed the center completely.

As the street she was following ended, joining a larger road, she knew she had lost any idea of where the city center might be. There was no one around to ask directions and it was cold. Only the walking was keeping her a little warm but the wind blowing down the street was stripping any warmth from her, and she was starting to shiver.

Making a quick decision she turned right and kept walking. The wind wasn’t blowing as hard, but it didn’t seem to matter that much, she was as cold as she ever remembered being.

She took the next right intending to backtrack a little further toward where she thought the town center should be and, had she continued, she would have found it, but after a few hundred yards she saw some bright lights and turned left instead. It was only when she’d gone a block she realized the bright lights were just the spotlights on the front of a hotel. A hotel which she couldn’t possibly afford. Hotel on one side, multistory parking garage on the other. And more big buildings in front of her. They all seemed commercial and closed at this time of night and the street was empty of anyone. Further down the block she could see traffic lights and thought a street sign may have given her more direction but as she reached them, there was nothing.

The road turned to the right, but Brooke decided not to follow it and crossed the six lanes of empty road and walked straight ahead. By the light of the moon that was starting to rise in the clear night, she saw that she had entered a park and could see the Willamette River in front of her.

She went into her small kitchen and made a coffee as she remembered her first night in Salem.

Just inside the park, she found a children’s playground with small huts at the top of the slides. She clambered onto the smaller of the two and sat down under the cover, in the corner out of the wind. Her big adventure was turning into a big disaster but at least she felt a little warmer. Out of the wind and in the area only lit by a few small street lights, she found herself dozing.

A couple of times the night noises jerked her back to full wakefulness, and she peered around into the night not knowing what to expect. There was no one around, and she suspected raccoons or something else trying their luck in the trash cans near the toilet block. The final time she started to doze she fell into a deep sleep and only woke five or six hours later. Somehow, she had slumped down and used her bag as a pillow which was not as uncomfortable as she would have thought. She had a crick in her neck, but she felt rested and, strangely, given her circumstances, safe.

Leaving her bag where it was she went to find the water fountains she remembered seeing when she’d entered the park. She drank her fill then filled a plastic cup she found on the floor near the bin. Fairly clean but with a stain like the remains of red wine in the bottom and a smear of lipstick around the rim, she gave it a wipe before she filled it and carried it back to the playground.

Breakfast was the water and half a burrito she’d saved from a rest stop in Corvallis the evening before. After she licked her fingers clean she grabbed her bag and climbed down and, making sure to put the wrapper and the cup into the bin, she tried the doors of the toilet block only to find them locked.

She smiled as she stirred her coffee. Of all the things she should have been worried about, if needing to find a toilet was the worst then it wasn’t that bad.

Brooke went outside and sat on a small chair on the veranda. She liked to sit here in the mornings and drink her coffee. Even more so now, she decided, since Denny had left, and she didn’t have to put up with his mess, constant complaining, and the bickering.

That first morning in Salem she had wandered around aimlessly for a couple of hours trying to get her bearings. She found a diner and had a coffee and used their restroom, managing to wash her face and brush her teeth without it being too obvious to the old waitress whom she suspected was on to her the moment she walked through the door. Coffee would have to do as she didn’t have the money to waste on food. The smells coming from the kitchen nearly forced her to buy something, but she resisted them—and the growling of her stomach—and just had the coffee with lots of sugar, then a refill, and she sat for about an hour, leaving before she thought she would be thrown out.

That was how Brooke spent her first four days in Salem. She managed to find the park again for the second night and slept in the little hut on top of the smaller slide set after eating her dinner of a large bag of corn chips washed down with water from a bottle she’d bought and refilled at the fountain.

It wouldn’t be long until her money ran out, and she had no idea what to do when that happened. It was only luck and a couple of young men cruising past her in an old Chevy that forced her to abandon the park on the fifth night and instead meet Nico Stassino.

She was in North Salem and it was late, probably after ten, and she was slowly making her way back to the Riverside Park, the only familiar place she knew. There was no hurry to get there. It wasn’t as if she was heading back to a comfortable bed in a warm room somewhere, a hot meal waiting for her. Her bed was still the little hut on top of the slide set which she found quite comforting. She had never seen anyone else around and it was becoming familiar to her, but it wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, and she needed to be tired when she got there to be able to fall into a weary sleep.

Brooke was starting to get her bearings a little and once she found the Greyhound stop again, she could navigate across Salem without going all the way around the way she had done the first night. Tonight, there were a few more cars on the road and it was one of those that caused her first real panic.

They probably didn’t mean any harm, and they did nothing to scare her except slow down and curb crawl, driving slowly alongside her while they cat called her through the open window.

Hey, babe, said the passenger, where are you going to?

She walked on ignoring them while feeling a rising panic. If the car had stopped, and she’d heard the doors open, she would have run—she was already looking for a suitable bolt hole.

C’mon, babe, don’t be like that. Talk to us. The driver joined in.

Brooke kept walking until she came to an intersection, and she quickly turned left remembering that it was a one-way street, and she was walking against the traffic, so they couldn’t follow her. She walked straight, expecting to hear the car doors being opened then slammed shut as the two boys jumped out and came after her but just as she was about to run she heard the car accelerate.

See you around the corner, baby, was the driver’s parting shot as he accelerated down Union Street.

Brooke took a quick look over her shoulder and saw the rear of the Chevy heading away, then disappear behind some hedges planted at the edge of a parking lot on the other