Tortured Dreams

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter 16

I stepped outside as men with gurneys filled the small, overly cramped cabin. Morning was in full bloom, light had blossomed over the clearing of death. The sun only seemed to provide light, not heat. My breathing was clearly visible in the cold morning air.

My attention was directed at the ground. Hundreds of footprints, frozen in time, littered the mostly dirt clearing around the cabin. Some lead into the woods, some lead out of the woods. There were pairs, groups, and individuals. They circled the cabin. They lead down a narrow path that ended at a small shed like building.

Their presence seemed as grotesque and out of place as ours. This was a forest, not a murderer's lair. I could only identify a few sets of animal prints. They had either been lost under the human prints or they didn't dare venture here.

There were dozens of people milling around outside. They were chatting quietly or not speaking at all. Several held insulated cups that steamed in the harsh Illinois air. They watched the woods, not each other. They seemed prepared to divert anyone that came their direction.

Lucas joined me on the porch. His breath steamed just as mine did. His breathing was steadier, deeper than my own and it was noticeable in the cold.

He didn't speak. His eyes followed the tracks on the ground. He traced their movements to and from, as I had done upon seeing them. I would have given anything to be able to read his mind at that moment.

"One set of these tracks belongs to our killer," he finally spoke. His voice was quiet and hushed, almost as if we were in a museum or a cathedral.

"Why do you say that?" I asked in the same muted voice.

"Because it has rained here for most of the last week. Last night, it suddenly froze. That means the tracks of every person who stepped in this mud-riddled wasteland has been preserved."

I nodded. His analysis seemed to be correct. It was a wasteland. At least, it was now. Two weeks ago it was probably just a cabin in the woods that local teenagers made out in and hunters caught in the weather sought refuge in. Now, it would be stigmatized, demonized. It would be infamous.

"Not only our killer, but our victims' as well. Their final steps have been immortalized, at least until the thaw."

"Very dark and gothic." I told him.

"Perhaps," he nodded, "sometimes I can't help it. I see the victims or what is left of them and unlike Xavier and Alejandro; I don't have an off button. I'd like to think of them as just victims, but I see their lives too. It always touches me with a bit of sadness and melancholy. Life cut down, but something of them always remains. In this case, their last walk. Somewhere among these hundreds of prints are the prints of ten women who walked to their deaths. I think it is worth a little darkness and drama. Their killer had a touch of humanity. They weren't barefoot in this terrible weather when they walked to their deaths. There aren't any barefooted prints. Everyone who stepped in the mud had on shoes. So our victims must have had their shoes on when they walked here. This means they were given the grace and dignity of not being paraded here naked and barefoot."

I had nothing to say to that. His thoughts were too deep for me at that moment. I couldn't sympathize with the victims. He could. I appreciated that someone could feel their horror and pain.

"Our monster has a human streak, a redeeming quality that can be seen in something as tiny as footprints," Alejandro joined us on the porch.

"I am not sure I find that reassuring." I admitted.

"You shouldn't," Lucas told me. "Having a touch of humanity does not make up for what he did to them once he got them here. It just proves that he is human."