PART ONE
THE BEGINNING IN THE END
“La plus belle ruse du diable est de vous persuader qu’il n’existe pas”- Charles Baudelaire
ONE
Detective Kaitlin Pierce
Present Day
Waking up to murder and mayhem is never how I want to start my morning. I sigh and take another swig of coffee. It’s too hot. The liquid singes my taste buds and I hold back a groan.
“From the sounds of it, this one is fucking grusome, Pierce.” My captain’s voice is raspy and coarse as he bristles about the case through the Bluetooth in my car. He probably rolled out of bed not long before I did.
“What was called in exactly, Captain?” I ask with a yawn thatcauses my burnt tongue to throb.
“All dispatch could tell me was that there was a body off the exit halfway between Bellingham and Mount Vernon. They said the caller was shaken, kept sobbing about blood—so much blood.”
“Fuck.” It’s too early for this. “I’ll check it out then come in and report back.” I end the call and place my phone in the cup holder next to my overly hot coffee.
The rain pounds against my windshield in a steady rhythm as I cruise the roads, driving to the crime scene. It is early, far too early, and my coffee has yet to kick in, meaning my vision is slightly blurred as I struggle to see through the slithering streaks of rain tracing across the glass in front of me. It’s a cold early spring night—morning now, actually. The defroster is blasting onto the front windshield, trying desperately to hold off the haze of the cold. Thank goodness, bright spring days are right around the corner. I’m so damn sick of the cold, dreary rain.
Dispatch said the body was off exit 240, just north of the Skagit Valley. It’s a vacant space between towns, full of nothing but the vast emptiness of towering trees. I’ve done a few traffic stops out here back when I was a uniformed officer and this place always unnerved me. It is just so dark, so silent, so empty out here. At this time of day, it will be pitch black out there. Not even the shadows of the trees will be visible.
How the fuck did anyone manage to spot a body out here through the rain and darkness?
I really hope the first responding officers had set up enough spotlights for whatever horror I’ll be walking into. Nerves swirl in my stomach as my mind reels through possibilities of what I’m going to discover. A bloody crime scene? What the hell happened out in the shadows of the ancient pines? We don’t get a lot of calls for bodies here. Sure, we get the occasional overdose call or reports of college kids getting drunk and aggressive. Butthis isn’t King County. Seattle is known for their murders, not sweet little Bellingham.
As I pull off the highway, climbing the hill up the exit road, I can see the illuminated lights above. Red and blue cruiser lights paint the dark sky in swirling rotations. As I crest the hill, crime scene spotlights break through the oppressive stillness of the trees, casting a brightness on the horror that resided here. Something bad has happened here. I can sense it. My core tightens with a sense of impending dread that fills my soul.
Something bad didn’t just happen here, something dark and hellish hangs heavy in the air, as if the Devil himself has tainted this spot.
“Detective Pierce,” one of the uniformed officers greets me as I exit my vehicle.
I pull on my hood, shielding my head from the soft wind and steady rain of the Washington weather. The uniformed officer beckons me to follow with a wave of his hand. I trudge through the mud and damp foliage, being careful not to slip. The officer that I’m following is a tall man with tan skin and dark features. He looks young, jittery, nervous. I didn’t get a good look at his face with his hood partially obscuring it, but he seems young. Hopefully, he’s just new on the job and hasn’t seen a murder before.
“What do we have here?” I ask as we approach a section of forested ground surrounded by bright yellow tape. Large spotlights shine down on the ground.
“Female. White. Appears to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Nude. It’s…” he trails off, clearly unwilling or unable to put into words the scene ahead.
His fear is unnerving.
“Please, Officer, continue describing the scene,” I prompt him with both a compassionate and unapologetic authority in my tone. I didn’t become the youngest female detective inWhatcom County history by shying away from the darkness. You can’t fight the monsters that lurk in the darkness if you’re too afraid to stare into the abyss.
He takes a calming breath, steadying himself before continuing, “It’s a gruesome scene, Detective. She was tortured and beaten before being sliced apart, by the looks of it. Her face is beyond recognition, and yet, they laid her as if she’s sleeping peacefully. Whoever did this is a sick fuck.” His voice shakes with emotion as he describes what lies ahead. I swallow down the nerves rising in my throat.
We slow as we approach the barrier to the scene. The young officer stops abruptly. I turn to look at him. He’s staring ahead blankly, his tan skin paled. I let out a long breath before lifting the barrier and stepping inside. When I’m behind the crime scene tape, my eyes fall to the damp ground. My breath is stolen completely from my lungs as I take in the carnage on display beneath the spotlights.
A woman lies among the sticks and leaves littering the ground. She is—was—a beautiful young woman. Her creamy pale skin glows in the bright lights shining down on her from above. Across her neck is a giant gaping slash. Streams of dried and oozed blood pooled from the horrific wound, leaving stagnant rivers of red running down her bare chest. The cut is so deep that the tendons of the young woman’s throat are exposed. Bright red hair is swept around her face in soft delicate curls. Blood stains several strands, turning the soft red a sickening shade of death and decay. Her naked body is covered in an array of various injuries—cuts, bruises, bite marks, scrapes, and burns all dot the delicate landscape of her flesh. This was not a quick death. This poor girl suffered.
But it’s her face that’s truly the worst of it all. She’s been beaten; not the kind of beating that leaves a black eye. The flesh of her face has been essentially destroyed, leaving behinda grotesque display of carnage. She’s completely unrecognizable—every inch of her features are completely destroyed by the beating she endured.
That’s going to make identification difficult.
“Any leads on ID?” I ask the officer behind me without taking my eyes from the violence in front of me.
“A wallet dumped nearby held a license that appears to be her. Name on the ID is Allison Clarke. Twenty-eight years old.”
