CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The eastern sky turned pink and gold as Jenna guided her cruiser along the winding country road.
Jake sat beside her, thumbing through notes on his phone, the blue glow illuminating the tired lines around his eyes.
Neither had spoken much during the drive—what was there to say?
If Jenna’s suspicions proved correct, they were heading toward yet another grotesque setting, another victim preserved in an unnatural perfection while his actual body lay discarded somewhere else.
“Anything more on Alcox?” she asked, breaking the heavy silence.
Jake glanced up from his phone. “Latest book released two months ago to critical acclaim. Publisher calls it his ‘magnum opus.’ No social media presence, no public appearances scheduled.” He scrolled further.
“Last confirmed sighting was at a grocery store in Pinecrest three weeks ago. Cashier remembers him because he bought enough canned goods to ‘survive the apocalypse’—her words.”
Jenna nodded. “Consistent with someone planning to isolate himself completely.”
“Making him the perfect target,” Jake added. “No one to miss him. No reason to report him gone.”
“And at the high point of his career, like the others,”
The road narrowed as they left the highway, trees pressing closer on both sides. Jenna checked the GPS—five minutes to the junction where Spelling waited. Her mind kept circling back to the faceless mannequin from her dream, its gravelly voice echoing in her memory: “He told me I was his first.”
Jake’s voice pulled her back to the present. “You okay? You seem... elsewhere.”
“Just trying to prepare myself for what we might find,” she replied, not quite a lie but far from the whole truth.
The junction appeared ahead—a simple crossroads where County Road 42 met Highway 17, nothing but forest and a small gravel turnout marking the spot.
Colonel Spelling’s black SUV was already parked there, its official insignia catching the morning light.
Spelling himself stood beside it, talking with a uniformed State Highway Patrol officer.
Both men turned as Jenna’s cruiser approached.
She parked alongside Spelling’s vehicle and cut the engine.
As she stepped out into the cool morning air, her gaze was immediately drawn upward, past the treeline.
Her heart stuttered in her chest. Dark shapes wheeled against the pale sky—vultures, at least half a dozen, circling in that distinctive pattern that signaled death below.
Just like in her dream.
Jake followed her gaze. “That’s not a good sign,” he murmured.
“No, it isn’t,” Spelling agreed, approaching with long strides. His tall figure was ramrod straight as always, but fatigue showed in his eyes. “Sheriff Graves, Deputy Hawkins, this is Officer Ford. He’ll be assisting us this morning.”
Ford nodded in greeting—a compact man with close-cropped hair and watchful eyes.
Spelling commented, glancing skyward, “Those vultures are concentrated about a quarter mile into the woods, if I’m gauging correctly.”
“In the direction of Alcox’s cabin?” Jenna asked.
“Yes. The cabin itself should be just beyond that ridge.” Spelling pointed toward a slight elevation in the tree line. “I’ve been there once before, as I mentioned. It’s isolated—deliberately so.”
“How do you want to proceed, Colonel?” Jake asked, checking his sidearm with practiced efficiency.
“I’ll lead the way, since I know the path,” Spelling replied. “Ford will secure the perimeter once we reach the cabin. Sheriff, Deputy, you’ll follow me. If this follows the pattern of the other scenes, we need to document everything exactly as we find it.”
They set off down a narrow trail that would have been easy to miss if not for Spelling’s guidance.
The forest closed around them, ancient oaks and pines creating a canopy that filtered the strengthening daylight into dappled patterns on the forest floor.
Their footsteps were muffled by years of fallen pine needles, creating an unsettling silence broken only by the distant call of birds.
Jenna felt a crawling sensation between her shoulder blades as they advanced deeper into the woods.
The path was too familiar—the same twisted roots breaking through the soil, the same quality of light filtering through the leaves.
She’d walked this route before, in her dream, following the sound of typewriter keys.
“The cabin should be just ahead,” Spelling said, his voice hushed as if respecting the forest’s solemn atmosphere.
They rounded a bend in the path, and suddenly there it was—a small structure of rough-hewn logs darkened by age and weather, just as Jenna had seen it. Near the front door, an axe was embedded in a stump, a neat pile of split firewood stacked against the cabin wall.
It was identical to her dream, down to the last detail.
“Someone could still be inside,” Jake observed.
“Stay alert,” Spelling said, drawing his weapon.
They approached cautiously, moving with the coordination of experienced law enforcement. Spelling took the lead, with Jake covering the left side of the cabin and Jenna the right. Officer Ford remained slightly behind, watching their backs.
The cabin door stood slightly ajar—another echo of Jenna’s dream that made her pulse quicken. Spelling positioned himself beside the entrance, then called out, “Missouri State Highway Patrol! Anyone inside, identify yourself!”
Silence answered him.
With a nod to Jake and Jenna, Spelling pushed the door fully open with his foot, weapon raised. “Clear the structure,” he ordered, stepping inside.
Jenna followed, her service weapon drawn, senses on high alert. The cabin’s interior was dim after the brightness outside, a single room containing a small potbellied stove, a narrow cot against one wall, and a simple wooden table beneath the room’s only window.
And there, seated at the table, was a mannequin.
Unlike in her dream, this one wasn’t faceless.
It wore the visage of Dean Alcox—his wild mane of graying hair, his sharp, haunted eyes frozen in an expression of intense concentration.
The figure was positioned before an ancient typewriter, jointed fingers resting on the keys as if caught mid-sentence.
It wore clothing that matched the photos from Silver Acre Books’ website—a flannel shirt with rolled sleeves, revealing forearms dusted with artificial hair.
The craftsmanship was perfect. If not for the unnatural stillness, the slight sheen to the skin that betrayed its silicone nature, it could have been Alcox himself, lost in the act of creation.
“My God,” Jake whispered beside her. “Another one.”
“Just like Powell and Torres,” Spelling confirmed, holstering his weapon after ensuring the cabin was empty.
Jenna approached the mannequin carefully, studying the face that had spoken to her in her dream—now rendered in silicone rather than the smooth, featureless oval she’d encountered in her nightmare.
The detail was extraordinary—every wrinkle, every age spot, even the slight asymmetry of Alcox's features, perfectly captured.
“Look at the paper in the typewriter,” she said, pointing without touching.
The page was blank—and so were the pages that were stacked beside the machine. Their blankness was consistent with what she knew about Dean Alcox—that he had declared to the world that he was finished with writing.
“Ford,” Spelling ordered, “secure the scene. No one touches anything until forensics arrives. I want photographs of everything exactly as we found it.”
“Yes, sir,” Ford replied, already pulling out his phone to call for the forensic team.
Spelling turned to Jenna and Jake. “Those vultures weren’t circling this cabin. They’re somewhere deeper in the woods. Let’s find out what they’ve found.”
They left Ford to secure the cabin and headed in the direction where the birds still wheeled overhead. The forest grew denser as they walked, the path less defined, the ancient silence broken only by their footsteps and the occasional call of a bird.
After several minutes of walking, a new sensation intruded—the unmistakable odor of decomposition, faint at first but growing stronger with each step.
Jenna’s stomach clenched, but she kept moving forward.
This wasn’t her first encounter with death, not by a long shot, but the smell never became easier to bear.
“There,” Spelling said, pointing through a gap in the trees where the vultures had begun to land, black shapes descending to the forest floor.
As they approached, the stench intensified. Spelling waved his arms, shouting to scatter the birds. They rose reluctantly, heavy wings beating the air as they retreated to nearby branches, watching with patient, hungry eyes.
What they had been feeding on lay in a small clearing—a human body arranged on its back, arms crossed over its chest in a position of repose.
A sheet had once covered it completely, but the vultures had torn at the fabric, pulling it aside to expose the flesh beneath.
The face was largely intact, confirming what they already suspected—Dean Alcox, author of dark psychological thrillers, lay dead on the forest floor.
Like Marjory Powell, he was naked, his clothes now adorning his mannequin counterpart.
Unlike Powell, however, nature had begun its reclamation.
The vultures had focused on the softer tissues—the eyes were gone, and portions of the torso showed evidence of scavenging.
Yet the positioning was unmistakably deliberate, the body laid out with the same care as Powell’s had been.
“Same MO,” Jake said, keeping his voice clinical despite the gruesome scene. “Body arranged, clothes removed, mannequin placed where the victim would normally be.”
Spelling nodded, surveying the scene with practiced detachment. “Based on decomposition and scavenger activity, I’d estimate he’s been dead three days, maybe four. The medical examiner will give us a more precise timeline.”
“The killer is moving fast,” Jenna observed. “First Alcox, then Powell, now Torres.”
“And he’s not done,” Spelling added grimly. “We need to identify his next target before he strikes again.”
They retreated a few yards from the body, the stench becoming overwhelming in the warming morning air. Spelling radioed for the medical examiner and additional personnel while Jake took photos of the scene, documenting it before the vultures could cause further damage.
Jenna stood slightly apart, trying to process what they’d found.
The reality matched her dream with unsettling fidelity—the cabin, the typewriter, the author preserved at his typewriter while his actual body lay discarded in the woods.
, Spelling approached her. “Sheriff Graves,” he said, his voice low enough that Jake wouldn’t overhear.
Jenna felt her throat tighten. “I told you, Colonel. I made a connection based on research—”
“That’s not the whole truth, is it?” Spelling interrupted, his blue eyes sharp and penetrating. “This isn’t the first time you’ve known things you shouldn’t be able to know. Things that led us directly to evidence no one else could have found.”
She met his gaze, trying to formulate a response that wouldn’t sound completely insane. “I follow the evidence—”
“Evidence that doesn’t exist yet?” Spelling’s mouth quirked in what might have been amusement. “Evidence that led us directly to a body no one knew was missing, in a location few people even know exists?”
Jenna felt heat rising in her cheeks. “Colonel, I—”
“You don’t need to explain,” Spelling said, watching her discomfort with what seemed like enjoyment. “I’ve worked with you long enough to recognize a pattern. With every case, you’ve had insights that couldn’t be explained by conventional investigation methods.”
She remained silent, uncertain how to respond.
Spelling chuckled softly, the sound incongruously warm against the backdrop of death that surrounded them. “Never mind. I know you’re a psychic.”