Том Годвин: Ed McBaines 87th Precinct Mystery Magazine. Volume 1, No. 4. April, 1975

“Damn it,” Warren said. “I’m afraid we’re going to get it.”

They looked at the sky.

Her gaze dropped, traveled along the shore, among the shadows of the dark trees. It was growing quite dark now, and she did not like it. She knew it was what Warren had said of the rapist-murderer around here. She asked him why she hadn’t seen it in the papers, and he told her he’d learned from a TV newscaster friend that the authorities were trying to keep it quiet, so as not to frighten the man off. But, even so, word had leaked out, newspapers were putting on pressure, and the story would probably make headlines today or tomorrow.

Nine girls had been raped and killed, Warren had said, their bodies, broken, torn, discovered in the woods, the fields. One had survived long enough to tell how the man carried Poloroid snapshots of his victims after he was finished with them, forced her to look at them before he commenced on her. She had not been able to describe him. She had died.

Whoever it was, he was terribly elusive. The police were working day and night, but there was no trace.

Charlotte shivered. “Maybe we should go back,” she said. “We could eat at my place.”

“Nothing doing,” Warren said. “We came here for a picnic. I wouldn’t miss that.”

“But—”

“It’s just rain,” he said. “Boy, though — it is going to come down. I can tell.”

Thunder pounded, then, and a streak of lightning ripped at the woods. The rains came. A deluge streamed upon them.

“This’ll last for a couple three hours!” Warren shouted. “Come on. I know what we’ll do.”

“Come on—” He grabbed her arm and they ran splashing for the shore. Now the drops of rain felt colder than the spring-fed lake.

They reached the pebbled shore, stepping gingerly.

“In the car?” she asked, talking loudly above the streaming, pounding water.

“No. We’ll get the food from the car. Then I’m taking you to the cliffs.”

“The cliffs?”

“Surprise. Come on.”

They hurried to the car, parked in the woods. He rushed around, gasping, streaming water, picked up the large picnic basket and took her arm again, grinning down at her.

He was so big, so overpowering.

“Hadn’t we better stay in the car?”

“A little rain won’t hurt. Come on.”

She held back.

“Charlotte.” He pulled at her. She went along with him. They hurried through the woods, running across slippery pine needles, softly humped ground, across the road, through a field, into more woods. He kept laughing, now, and it troubled her. His muscles rippled under the sheen of water.

“Where we going?” she asked, gasping, spitting rain.

“Up here. C’mon.”

They crossed glistening black slate, and began climbing a slope.

“But, Warren!”

“You do as I say.”

But he was grinning at her. It was all right.

“Here we are.”

It was absolutely pouring now, thunder rippling and pounding, lightning fleeing the heavens.

“What’s this?”

“A cave.”

She saw the dark opening, the rocks, the bushes.

“C’mon, inside,” he said. He pulled at her arm, and she tried to hold back, but he was very strong, yanking at her. They stepped into the sudden, dry hush of the cave. “It’s not very large,” he said. “But it’ll do.”

It was about the size of the average living room, domed and jagged, niched in stone, with a rocky, dirt floor.

“Good thing we have matches in the basket,” he said.

“But, Warren—”

“You just wait here,” he said. “Be right back.”

He dropped the picnic basket, squeezed her arm, and rushed outside into the gray-black late afternoon. She stood there. She felt cold. She folded her arms and clutched herself. She looked around in the near dark, unmoving.

Presently he returned, his arms loaded with pieces of wood.

“Kind of damp,” he said. “But it’ll dry out.”

He tossed the wood in the corner, hurriedly made a pile in the center of the cave. He took paper from the picnic basket, and matches, and soon there was a glowing blaze.

The warmth felt good. The cave flickered and leaped, their shadows weirdly gesticulant on the walls.

“Nice, huh?” he said.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Warren, how’d you know about this place?”

He stared at her, unsmiling. “I’ve been out here lots, Charlotte. I know this country like the palm of my hand.”

“Oh?”

He continued to stare at her, and she thought again how little she knew about him. He had said he was an artist, looking for a good place to paint. But she had never seen any artist’s equipment. She’d been a fool. Yet, how could she have known, until he told her, what had happened out here? The way he looked at her was disturbing.

Those girls who had been attacked, killed, who were they?

“I thought you were new around here,” she said.

“A white lie, honey. Let’s eat, huh?”

“I–I’m not very hungry.”

“I’m starved. You’ll have to excuse me, then. Got to have something.” He went to the picnic basket, hunkered down, the firelight reddening his face, gleaming in his eyes. He opened the basket, unwrapped a sandwich, and began to wolf it, chewing and swallowing. “Man, can you build a sandwich,” he said around a mouthful. “Delicious. Steak, too. What a man needs.”

“Glad you like it.”

He tore open another sandwich, then opened the thermos of coffee, began drinking. “You better have some. We’ll save some, though. No telling how long we’ll be here.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, the rain, you know.” He chuckled, looking at her. “Say. Why not sit down? That rock’d make a good seat. C’mon, Charlotte.”

“I don’t want to sit down. How did you know about this cave?”

“Always knew about it, honey.” He glanced at the dirt floor, then up at her again. His mouth was sober. “I’ve brought plenty girls to this cave, Charlotte. Plenty.” He cleared his throat. “Be surprised how many. But—”

“Girls?” she said quickly.

“Yeah, honey. Girls. I was always kind of girl crazy. Ever since I was very young.”

She stepped back toward the wall of the cave, one step, watching him. He stood up, then, staring at her. The wrapper from the sandwich fell from his hand, fluttered to the dirt floor of the cave. He leaned quickly, set down the thermos, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Charlotte?”

“You’re not an artist!” It burst past her lips.

“No,” he said. He took a step toward her. “I’m not. And I’m not new to this country, honey. But you’re the first girl to—”

“Stop!”

“Charlotte.” He stepped quickly to her. She cringed back against the wall of the cave. He was between her and the fire. It leaped and roared behind him, smoke bellowing out the entrance. He was a huge black shadow.

“Please, Warren — please!”

He grabbed her arm. “Charlotte, come here. I’ve got to tell you...”

“What’re you two doing here?”

Warren whirled. A man in overalls, red-faced, eyes shining in the firelight, stood crouching in the smoke-filled cave entrance. “Seen the light from my place,” he said. “What’s going on? This is my land.” He looked at Charlotte.

She gave a long sigh as Warren released her.

“Oh, please,” she said. “Please.”

The man smiled. He carried a shotgun.

“Well?” the man said. “What you got to say for yourself?”

Charlotte was so relieved she could hardly contain herself. She abruptly ran for the man, her arms out.

“Get back,” Warren snapped.

He lashed out with one arm, struck her brutally. She sprawled back against the wall of the cave, landed on her side. She looked up quickly. The man lifted the shotgun. Warren leaped at him.