Moody Gulch

By Roger Hanson

Ellie and her cousin, Carla, both in their early twenties, rent a house in Redwood Estates, a hamlet in the Santa Cruz mountains near Los Gatos. About the same time, a series of gruesome murders begin there. The victims are not only killed, but impaled, sometimes left dangling. From a series of notes, actually bad poetry, Ellie figures out the first letters of the names of the victims are spelling the word murder. She becomes quite worried that the E in murder might be might be herself. Sleut

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644242629

Book preview

1

Anatomy of a Loony

If any clippings were torn, he had carefully taped them back together. He glanced at all the articles he had posted—ninety-nine. At least one more must go up to make an even hundred, and any more would simply be gravy.

He had selected them carefully, knowing that not just any article would do.

* * *

The sun’s glare hit his face, waking him from a restless sleep. He turned away from the brightness, irritated, and threw the quilt to the floor. The box springs squeaked as he shoved himself from the bed. He yawned, running his fingers through his unruly hair. His lips shifted into a semigrin as he looked at his precious bulletin board that covered one wall. This shrine had become his family. It was by far the neatest part of his room.

He was brilliant—at least he thought so. They could never finger him for things he had done or would do. Still, a hobby like this, if it could be called that, would guarantee him anything but a long life.

If too much time elapsed before a quality event happened, it would create a problem. He would have to take action.

He looked at the story on the top left—Lizzie Borden. Now there’s a woman who knew how to use an ax, he thought. And they acquitted her.

His steely-gray eyes glanced down past several articles—Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, Jeffery Dahmer. His eyes came to rest on Jack the Ripper. You should be top center. In the best English accent he could imitate, he said, By Jove, you Americans know brutality. But we English get the medal for clevahness.

Right beside that story was another fifteen-year-old article that he unpinned so he could read it more closely. He picked up his glasses sitting next to a pack of cigarettes. He wiped off the lenses with a corner of his bedsheet and put them on.

Ten-Year-Old Arrested for Animal Cruelty, said the title. A fifth-grade student was taken into custody yesterday, having been accused of pouring gasoline on a dog and lighting it on fire . . .

Okay, he thought. But what they didn’t say was that the fuckin’ dog was always nipping at people’s heels, biting them every chance he got. And when he bit mine, that was his big mistake. Maybe I should have yanked his teeth out instead. Idiot authorities. I was doing them a favor!

He had spent the rest of fifth grade in juvenile hall.

He used to think about school and how boring it was. His IQ had never been tested, but by his own reckoning, it topped 150.

Stay in school, people told him.

Why bother? he would think. It’s full of uninspired teachers pushing you toward a piece of paper you’re supposed to frame so you can put it on your ego wall. School doesn’t teach you anything that you can’t figure out for yourself.

Philosophy interested him, and he did read several books on the subject but drifted toward existentialism and its preaching of how indifferent the universe was toward the individual. This was mainly while he was seeing a series of court-assigned psychologists who told him he’d be much better off with a different outlook.

And then what? he thought. Let the idiot jerks in his life get away scot-free with their capers? No, he had been burned too deeply for that. The psychologists had better take their ideas elsewhere. Other philosophies contained the biggest sham ever placed on the lap of mankind: morals. One sentence would suffice for the entire field: Morals—the world doesn’t have any.

Okay, he rambled, I’ve figured it out. Give me a diploma! Why in the fuck should I have to waste four years to get knowledge I already have? Who made up these idiotic rules anyway? He babbled on.

"Get on a freeway sometimes, assholes. Get a job so you can feed the government—a bottomless pit if there ever was one. Get an office and become a wealthy entrepreneur. Now, there’s a philosophy for you. Make a million. There’s nothing left to do but make another and yet another while you’re pulling every string you can to control the market. Go to church on Sunday, where there’s only one prayer you’ll need—put all the liberals in a box and drop it in the ocean.

And the cops, the musclemen of this system. Maybe just once, capture one. Strip him naked and hang him way up a flagpole and make him wait until sunrise to be rescued. All right, let him keep his helmet and whistle. Now there’s a picture that belongs on a calendar.

He looked again at his bulletin board, which had become his family.

You’re a real bulletin board, he said to it. "But I’ve been neglecting you. And my alphabet—I’ve been neglecting you too. Pretty, pretty alphabet, right at the top where you belong. I’ve been bad and must reform. Must take better care of you.

"Just like first grade. I was the first one to master you, months ahead of the other kids. ABCs. Really, did they have to write a song about you, as though nobody could learn you without a song?

Yes, I was the little genius, teacher’s pet, they said. Miss Mathis, the only good teacher I ever had—-and they dumped her because she smoked a little pot and got a DUI. You fuckin’ authorities. She was no druggie. You fired her and kept that bitch, chain-smoking Mrs. Robinson, smoke stack of the school, as my teacher. I could smell her breath from the back of the classroom.

And the DUI, my DUI. I don’t care if it was years ago. Retribution time is overdue. He scowled as he lit a cigarette. Forget the fine. Forget the insurance hike. Forget the ‘ride in cop car’ captivity to county confinement, for which I had to pay what? Ten times more than a taxi would’ve cost? I’ve already paid for that in taxes I pay, and you want me to pay again?

He walked to the window and took a drag. Yeah, forget all that. You see, I’m the kind of guy who can let things go and not hold on to all that ugly baggage. But when I had to do weekend work and sweep the same high school corridor three times in the same day when nobody was using it because Officer Smut couldn’t find anything else for me to do and then get a bill for the work I did, somebody stepped over the line, and I don’t mean a trifle. I mean a goddamn mile. He crushed out his cigarette on the floor.

Oh yes, there’s a score to settle, and it has been a while, hasn’t it? My sweet little letters. You’ll help me, I hope. ABC__FGHIJKL_NOPQ__ST_VWXYZ. I have been neglecting you too long. I know I’ve taken some of you down. I stand and salute you. But be patient and don’t cry. I’ll be putting you back up one by one. It won’t be very long, and we can all be back together. Yes, maybe somebody was on target when they wrote a song about you. Perhaps I will write another."

He walked to the opposite side of his small bedroom, kicking the corner of a twisted throw rug. He rummaged through some papers until he found the ripped-off magazine cover with a police officer on it.

Okay, cop, too bad you’re only a cardboard figure. But I saved a big spot for you on my bulletin board. He walked back across the room. "Let me pin you up. Oh, did I get that pin through your eye? How unbalanced of me! Here’s one for your other eye. Now, that’s better, isn’t it? You poor old man. It is a little hard to see with pins in your eyes, isn’t it? It’s just as well because you ain’t seen nothing yet.

Stay right there, asshole. See these burns on my arms and legs? Oh, here, let me unpin your eyes. Now, see these burns? That’s how you chose to put your cigarette butts out. Two years old and I was your fuckin’ ashtray. Hell is too nice for you.

He breathed heavily and stared at what he held. See this? It’s a piece of rebar—reinforcement bar they use in concrete in case your itzy-bitzy brain needs an explanation. Now, do you see the end of it? All nice and sharp because I filed it to a silvery point. See how shiny it is? All for you. Wham!

"Oh, my! Did I eradicate your belly button? I guess not. Seems like I got off center. How sloppy of me. Now you have two belly buttons, and not many cops can claim that. If your choice of careers doesn’t work out, you can join the naval reserve. Hey, laugh it up a little! Don’t look so smug, pig head. If you haven’t figured it out yet, you are just an appetizer.

Okay, Redwood Estates, you’re as good a target as any! Deep mountain forest and spooky, just the way I like it. For any of you noble citizens whose name begins with one of my chosen letters, I have but one word of advice—beware. Oh, too bad you might become an innocent victim, but in a world without morals, there are no innocent victims, are there? Anyway, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. As for you fuzz heads, better take some smart pills, because you’ll need them. Just to be fair, my alphabet and I are going to give you some clues along the way. Yes, we’ll write you some notes, maybe some poetry. That’ll keep it interesting, won’t it? Have fun. I assure you, we’re going to.

2

The Mailboxes

It wasn’t the first night he’d hung around the mailboxes, pretending to get his mail, not by a long shot. There were twenty of them on a long wooden plank situated near a pond just off the intersection of Summit and Marty Roads. Some were large, some small, two not in use. All but one was painted, and three had flower designs. Madrone and redwood trees, both evergreens, flourished close by.

These were the woods.

He knew that around six thirty—it was dark by then—Mary Collins would stop to get her mail. He had talked to her several times, and she had come to accept him as something he definitely was not, a new neighbor.

Hi, Mary, he said as he fumbled through some mail.

Hi, she replied, looking away, not engaging in conversation.

Mary had no idea what lay ahead. He wouldn’t need her tonight. Tomorrow would be a different story, and he knew she’d be there.

When she’d gone, he got a fully charged cordless drill from his pickup, which he had hidden behind some trees. Into the drill he had already placed a new bit. Ten feet behind the mailboxes, barely out of sight, he drilled a hole in a redwood tree about five feet above the ground. The hole had to go through four inches of bark and another four inches into the wood itself for his plan to work. But the bark and wood were soft, which made drilling easy.

Hearing a car, he moved behind the redwood tree and watched it pass by. He scattered the sawdust at the foot of the tree and then inserted a piece of sharpened rebar into the hole as a trial. It extended out two feet.

Perfect fit, he thought. Now I must get back to my family and tell them we’re ready.

* * *

Wednesday was the night. His heart beat wildly as sweat formed on his brow. He had planned so well, leaving no room for any screw-up; this had to work. At six thirty-three, Mary parked her car to the side of the mailboxes and got her mail. She was neatly dressed in light slacks and a maroon blouse topped by an off-white jacket. Maroon, he liked that color. Her light auburn hair was pulled back, not that it mattered.

He stood at the other end of the mailboxes, appearing to look at his mail. Though dark, he recognized one piece as a clothing ad. He said to her, This looks like something for a woman. And he stepped forward and handed the flyer to her. He had on rubber gloves, but she didn’t notice them until it was too late. As she took the ad and turned, he grabbed her and forced his left hand over her mouth. She looked at him, her eyes filled with terror. Her struggle was brief as he brought forward the knife, concealed in his right hand, and plunged it into her side. She fell limp, and he dragged her to the tree and let her drop. Nearby he had placed his sharpened piece of rebar, a sledge hammer, and a saw. Retrieving them, he returned to her, the forest floor crunching beneath his feet. As a car approached and slowed at the mailboxes, Mary squirmed. He didn’t notice that somehow she had gotten a pen and scribbled something on a crumpled piece of paper. Again he forced his hand over her mouth and stabbed her repeatedly.

A man got out of his car, left his engine running, and went to his mailbox. The killer crouched down and, in so doing, cracked a small twig. The man looked around without otherwise moving. The killer readied his knife. If the man wandered over or saw the blood, he, too, would have to be killed. The killer certainly didn’t want that because it would mess up his plan. The man got his mail, returned to his car, and left, apparently none the wiser.

Someone else might come, so it was necessary to work fast. He placed Mary flat on her back and hammered the rebar through her heart, blood splattering his clothes. It went through her and ten inches into the soft forest floor. He was a bloody mess, but that was no problem. He brought a change of clothes and a plastic sack for the bloody ones.

Now came the hard part. He pulled Mary up using the rebar as a handle. He struggled to get the sharpened end of the rebar into the hole he had drilled. It was hard to see. He wiggled and shoved, finally getting the rebar into the slanted hole. Mary now hung there impaled, her head drooping, lifeless, and her feet dangling several inches off the ground. He poked a hole in a prepared note and slipped it over the end of the rebar. He backed off, studying his macabre creation, and decided she was not well enough exposed. He picked up his saw and cut off two tree branches between the redwood tree and the mailboxes. If not tonight, then tomorrow she would be discovered. His heart beat even faster now from excitement. He had no fear of being caught. Rather, this was a feeling of immense power.

One down. Five to go.

3

Reunion

Ellie was tired from the long day at work. The commute from San Jose to Olive Springs Quarry, where she worked, took an hour each way and ate up too much of her day. If she could live closer, maybe Santa Cruz or Capitola, the drive would be so much easier.

She was hungry, and her stomach growled. She fixed a salad and took a leftover tuna casserole out of the refrigerator. It was one of her mother’s favorite dishes, one of hers too. She sat down to eat, continuing an already-started crossword puzzle. Puzzles, a passion of hers.

She had taken only two bites of salad when the phone rang. Pushing back her chair, she went into the living room to take the call.

This is Carla. It was her wayward cousin.

Carla, I haven’t heard from you in ages. How have things been going?

Remember I told you I was going to go to cosmetology school? Carla was excited. "Well, I did and I got real good marks. I got a job at a top-of-the-line salon in Los Gatos. I’ll have to do your hair sometime.

Anyway, I live twenty-five miles away from the salon, but I found a closer place I’d like to rent. It’s in the mountains about a ten-minute drive from my new job, and it’s so cute. It’s in Redwood Estates, if you know where that is.

Ellie took the phone back into the kitchen. Yes, I pass it every day on my way to work. So are you going to rent it?

I can’t afford it by myself. I know you work in the mountains at a quarry, and I thought it might be an easier commute for you if you lived with me.

Just like my cousin, thought Ellie. I haven’t seen her in a year, and she wants us to live together. Still the idea was appealing. Ellie liked the deep, beautiful forest.

Carla, I’ve got to admit, that’s just what I was thinking about. Now that I’ve finished school, I don’t need to stay in San Jose anymore. Yes, Redwood Estates is much closer to the quarry. I’ll look at it, but I’d better do it quickly because I have an odd rent schedule, and it’s almost due. How’d you find the place?

A few days ago, I made a drive to the Holy City Art Glass Shop to look at their stained glass windows. I drove around the area, both in Redwood Estates and Chemeketa Park, and checked out lots of places for rent. This one was hands down the best.

I admire your energy, Carla. Let’s go see it.

* * *

The next day, Ellie met Carla at the site. The landlord, Lou Riker, showed them the rental, half cabin and half house. I really like the rear bedroom, said Carla. But it’s your choice. You gave your bedroom up for me one time.

You can have it, replied Ellie. The front bedroom has a large window, which I like. The place is really cute, she commented as she admired the skylights.

The carpet was new and plush for a rental. Carla pushed her fingers into it. New carpet always smells the same. I can move anytime.

It’ll be the middle of the month for me, said Ellie.

I have some extra painting to do, said Riker, who was comfortable with the women. How about we sign a lease?

* * *

Carla called Ellie three days later. I’m all moved in.

Already? You should have let me help, replied Ellie. Your shadow can’t keep up with you. You’re getting fast in your old age.

Twenty-two is not that old, and don’t forget, you have a year on me. And anyway, besides my magazines and clothes, I don’t have that much stuff.

Ellie ran her fingers through her hair. I wish I could say that. I’ll be moving up this weekend. Jason just bought a new pickup, and he and a friend are going to help me move. By the way—she chuckled—since you’re all moved in, you can come and help too.

Carla perked up. If your brother’s friend is as good-looking as Jason. I’ll be there.

Then she changed the subject. Someone’s at the door. Hold for a second. It’s my neighbor, I’m sure. He thinks I’m cute. I’ll be right back.

Ellie’s mind wandered to thoughts about herself, Carla, and attracting men. Why don’t I turn more heads? she wondered. She should have. She had a nicely proportioned face forming a perfect smile when she used it. Her chin was angular, her nose slender. Bright hazel eyes were outlined by her long eyelashes. Her lips were full and beautiful.

But Ellie was aware she didn’t put much effort into showing herself off. She had picked up on her mother’s casual attitude. Be comfortable, she would say. Why abandon a pair of sweats, even spotted, if you’re just going to the store? Imagine a garment 99% clean, and you’re not supposed to wear it in public!

Ellie knew Carla’s feelings on this—how Ellie’s mom was and couldn’t understand this attitude, one her mom had passed on to both Ellie and her brother, Jason. She remembered Carla once saying that she, Ellie, was more naturally beautiful than herself and that she should enhance her looks. But she knew Carla worked at presenting herself, and this meant spending an hour in front of a mirror, selecting the right cosmetics, and shopping at Nordstrom more than her budget really allowed. And she knew Carla was careless with her credit cards.

Vanity? No doubt. But people noticed Carla, and she had her pick of men. Maybe Ellie was smarter—her college degree versus Carla’s high school diploma. True, Ellie knew she was Ms. Responsibility, but that didn’t seem to help her catch a guy.

Yet her cousin knew something Ellie did not—how to get out, look good, make friends, and have a social life. She knew Ellie was too bookish, even lonely for someone in her life. True. To Carla, it seemed so easy.

Even so, she knew her cousin wanted to be her mentor and encourage her to expand her horizons. Living together, Ellie might do that, but Carla wanted to be Ellie’s mentor, too—show her how easy it was to snag a guy.

When Carla returned to the phone, Ellie commented, You have too many boyfriends.

Carla ignored her comment. What’s Jason going to do with his car?

He’s going to sell it to me. Only $600.

That’s a neat little car, a Celica, right? How’d you manage a deal like that? asked Carla.

Jason took his car to his dealer for a trade-in, but he was only going to get $600 for it, explained Ellie.

What a rip-off.

Anyway, continued Ellie, he said I could have it for the same price. Think of it, me and a sports car.

Carla did have to think of it. This was clearly a switch for Ellie, but Carla shared