Never Knowing

bed every morning? How do they keep on living?

Everywhere I go I see death — a side effect of reading nonstop about serial killers. But the thing that haunts me the most is how quickly it happened to these people. I don’t mean just John’s victims. I mean all the murdered people I’ve been reading about. They were just going about their lives, sleeping, driving, jogging, or maybe just stopping to help a stranger, then just like that their life was over. But sometimes it wasn’t, sometimes they lived for days. Some of the things these killers did … I can’t stop thinking about their victims’ last moments. How terrified they must have been, how much pain they endured.

I used to enjoy true crime shows. “It was a hot summer day in the Rockies when the young blond reporter decided to go for a jog.…” I liked the tingle of fear I’d get down my back and the way I’d sit on the edge of my seat during dramatic reenactments, clutching the pillow, my body tense. It was fascinating, this look into the dark side of human nature.

Evan’s always trying to get me to think more positively, or at least more rationally, which requires calming down first — always a challenge, and I’ve been working really hard on it. But when the car makes a weird noise I automatically think the brakes are going, when Ally gets a cold I think it’s pneumonia, and when Moose disappeared …

As soon as I got home from our last session I made the rounds of calls again — the pound, SPCA, all the vets in town — but still no sign of Moose. Billy came over to help, carrying a greasy bag of burgers and fries I practically inhaled. He said he had a feeling I hadn’t eaten all day and he was right. We drove around and put posters up at all the gas stations and stores in my area. My house is close to the base of Mount Benson, so we even drove up that way, stopping a few times to get out and call Moose.

It was nice to have company, especially when I started spiraling into fear-based rants about who might have Moose. Billy would just ask a question or give me a task that forced me to concentrate. At one point I started talking so fast I was almost hyperventilating and he said, “Whenever you feel yourself panicking, just breathe, regroup, and focus on your strategy. Trust me, it works.” Then he made me look at my list of places where I wanted to hang posters and tell him what I’d crossed off, interrupting if I rushed through any. It was frustrating as hell, but the tight band around my chest gradually began to loosen.

When Billy had to go back to the station, I kept driving around by myself for another hour. I was almost back at our house when I rounded a sharp bend and nearly ran into some ravens in the middle of the road, fighting over what looked like entrails. Then I spotted the trail of rust-colored blood leading to the ditch, where a raven stabbed at a small dark mound. After I pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, I walked toward the ravens. My eyes pricked with tears.

Please, God. Don’t let it be Moose.

The ravens flew up when I got closer and cawed as they perched on the power line. With my eyes riveted on the trail of blood, I took the last few steps on shaky legs and looked down into the ditch at the mangled corpse.

It was a raccoon.

When I got back in the Cherokee and started down the road, the ravens swooped back to their treasure. I shuddered as they stabbed at it again and again, sorry for the raccoon, relieved it wasn’t Moose.

I was almost home when my phone chirped with a text message from Billy to give him a call. My DNA results were back.

It wasn’t until after I’d walked in my house — it felt so empty without Moose’s snorts and grunts — poured myself a cup of coffee, and called Evan, that I had enough courage to phone Billy. I sat in my favorite chair in the living room, wrapped Ally’s Barbie quilt around me, and dialed Billy’s cell. Just my luck, Sandy answered.

“Thanks for calling back, Sara. Billy’s on the other line right now, but I can fill you in.”

“You have the results?”

“They came in an hour ago.” She was trying to keep her tone neutral, but it vibrated with excitement. “You’re definitely a match to the DNA we have on file.”

The Campsite Killer is my father. This is real. I waited for the emotion to hit, for the tears to come. But they didn’t. It felt like Sandy had simply told me my own phone number. I stared out the window at my cherry tree. It was all in bloom.

Sandy was still talking. “We weren’t able to collect biological samples from every scene, but when DNA testing came into effect we conclusively linked him to many of the victims.”

“How do you know he’s responsible for the other murders?”

“The MO is consistent.”

“What about women who are still missing?”

Her voice was forced patience. “The Campsite Killer is only triggered in the summer and he doesn’t try to hide the bodies, so he’s not considered a suspect in any other disappearances.”

“But isn’t it unusual that he only attacks in the summers? I know about cooling-off periods between kills, but his are—”

“It’s not unheard-of for a serial killer to have a long cooling-off period. Once their needs are met, they can often hold off for a while, reliving the crime over and over.”

“And that’s why they take souvenirs.”

“For some of them, yes. John probably uses the jewelry to keep himself connected to the victim. But we still don’t know what triggers him in the first place, or why his kills are so ritualized — which is why your conversations with him are that much more important.” “I’m trying my best, Sandy. I didn’t know he’d see the Web site.”

“Of course, a perfectly understandable mistake.”

I gritted my teeth. “It wasn’t a mistake. I don’t want him knowing details of my family, of my life.”

“We don’t ever want you to do something you feel puts you at risk.” But I knew it wasn’t true. She wanted to catch John — more than anything. And she hated that she needed me to do it.

“He has to trust you, Sara.”

“So you’ve mentioned. A couple of times now. I should get going — I still have a missing dog to find.” I hung up before she could say anything else.

But I didn’t find Moose. And when Ally came home from school I finally broke the news that he was missing.

“You lied! You said he was at the vet’s!” Then she started hitting my legs and screaming “Why, why, why!” until she was hoarse. All I could do was hold her furious, trembling body away from mine until she’d worn herself out. Finally she just dropped to the floor and wept. It broke my heart when she wailed, “What if he doesn’t come home, Mommy?” I promised I was doing everything I could to find him, but she was inconsolable and sobbed in my arms while I fought to hold back my own tears. That night she crawled into my bed and we held each other close. I stayed awake for hours, staring at the clock.

The next morning Ally and I shared a solemn breakfast. When she said, for what felt like the hundredth time, “You have to find Moose, Mommy,” I told her I would. But as every day passed I was losing hope. I even tried to call John again, rehearsing ways to ask if he’d taken my dog, some threatening, some pleading, but still no answer.

After I took Ally to school, I did load after load of laundry and vacuumed the house top to bottom. The sight of Moose’s stuffie — its tail stiff with dry drool — just about broke my heart. Usually I wash it every week, but I couldn’t bring myself to erase any sign of him and instead simply set it in his dog basket.

I was just about to take a shower when the cordless rang in the kitchen. Hoping it was someone calling about Moose, I raced downstairs, but when I checked the call display it was just Billy.

“Got some good news for you, Sara.”

“You found Moose!” My heart was in my throat as I waited for his answer.

“I asked all the guys to keep a lookout for the little guy when they were on patrol. One of the officers pulled over some teens at the skate park and he was getting their vehicle information when he saw a French bulldog in the backseat. He checked his tag, and sure enough it was your dog.” “Oh, thank God! How did they get him?”