Excerpt from THE HOUR TO PREY
PROLOGUE
HUNTINGTON, WEST VIRGINIA 1983
The old coal-burning furnace knocked steadfastly to its own beat; the boy and his mother grateful for whatever warmth the noisy buffer provided. Even though coal trucks rumbled daily down their street, the icy winter air snuck in through torn plastic-covered windows chilling them to the bone. In spite of the proximity to supply, feeding the belly of the old furnace wasn’t easy. Poor was too prosperous for their standard of living.
She was the one person he could rely on to protect him. Listening to the regularity of his mother’s breathing had always soothed his fears in the dark. She’d hold him in her arms, waiting until he drifted off to sleep. Even now he wished he could remember exactly how she looked. The fading memory of her face became an unintended ally that kept the terror of that night at bay.
There are some burdens a five-year-old child should not have to carry. One of them is witnessing your mother’s head being repeatedly bashed in with a ball-peen hammer. His drunken father had caught them by surprise as they slept. Grabbing her by the arm she’d laid around her son’s body, he pulled her sideways off the bed. Screaming that she was making a pussy out of his son, he threw her on the floor and proceeded to kick her in the ribs. As she cried out, the boy watched him raise the hammer and savagely swing it at her head. He kept on swinging, until sprays of his mother’s blood and brain matter created lacy arcs across the dingy walls and floor. Screams of, “STOP, Daddy, NO,” weren’t enough to quell the tide of misdirected rage. With the demise of the steel and manufacturing industries, his father’s job was just one among massive layoffs occurring as mills and plants closed down.
In the early nineteen eighties in Huntington, West Virginia domestic violence was a low priority for the judicial system. Repeated offenses were still tried as a misdemeanor calling for sentences of one year to no more than five years and a fine of no more than $2,500. His poor excuse for a father had already done three years on two separate occasions for domestic violence. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to deter him…but murder was.
The boy’s name was Mason Chalmers. He wound up in foster care.
CHAPTER ONE
On Sunday morning when Gillian and her friend Nancy set out along one of the trails in Pocahontas State Park in Chesterfield County, Virginia they would have no idea what life was about to hand them. The spring air still slightly damp from the previous night’s rain held the promise of a clear, bright sky as the sun broke through the last of the clouds.
As they walked briskly with their dogs, the two women commented on the different rate of bloom for each of the variety of trees labeled along the trail. Their unleashed canines, two Labrador retrievers, bounded happily ahead of them through the brush and then back on the trail. It was their habit to disappear entirely, then to re-appear later on confounding the women as to how they both knew where to meet up with them. So, it was of no concern this particular morning when the dogs took off leaving the women to walk alone.
“I’m in no mood to give Ginger a bath today, so I hope she doesn’t take an early spring dip in the lake,” Gillian commented. “The marshy areas are full of winter’s detritus of leaves, muck, and God knows what, and I always hope Ginger will act like a lady and not come home a mess of mud.”
“Good luck with that,” Nancy replied.
About twenty yards ahead of them, they could see the two dogs in the bog digging and tugging at something buried in the leaves. “Ginger! Get over here, NOW.” “Damn dog. It serves me right. Of all mornings; I should have gone for a walk without her.” “GINGER!”
Neither of the dogs was paying any attention, or if they were, they had chosen to ignore their masters. Both women hastened their steps to catch up with them along the trail.
“What the hell are they playing with,” Nancy wondered out loud. Nancy’s lab came bounding over to show her its discovery. “Is that a…hand?” she screamed.
“Oh, my God, it is. Oh, God. MISTY! DROP IT. DROP IT, NOW!” The dog had pranced over with its treasure as proud as if it had just discovered another dog’s hidden cache of bones.
“Call 9-1-1 while I try to get her to drop the hand,” she screamed. Off, Misty, OFF! DROP IT.” The dog complied, and sat there wagging its tail.
The words tumbled out from Gillian’s mouth so fast the emergency dispatcher had trouble understanding her. “We found a hand. I mean our dogs found a hand. Human. What? Oh, our location? We’re on a trail in Pocahontas State Park. How would I know our exact location? Can’t you trace my call; use my phone’s GPS or something? We’re surrounded by trees and a trail that goes along a lake. Which lake —maybe Beaver Lake? I don’t know. We were just talking and walking aimlessly—someplace along Swift Creek.”
“Oh, jeez Gillian, give me the damn phone.” Nancy seemed to have a better command of the situation, which wasn’t much considering she had almost just touched a severed hand. She was able to direct the police to the correct trail, but it would be up to them to find which end they were on. The women were told to stay where they were.