Mortal Danger

or highly educated, or if she is naïve or brilliant, homely or beautiful, poor or wealthy. The brainwashing that certain men employ can trap any woman until the invisible, silken strands of their webs render her virtually helpless, cut off from those who might help her, her self-esteem squashed, her mind confused.
    Ironically, it is quite often the weakest of men who stalk and capture. An insightful friend of mine calls this “the tyranny of the weak.”
    Strong, confident, men have no need to control. Only those who are empty inside have to—or they cannot survive themselves.

MORTAL DANGER

Chapter One
    May 2008
    Pacific Northwest residents were enjoying the sixth warm day of the year after a very long, very rainy winter. There was no better place to be on a day like this than in the town of Gig Harbor, Washington. Once a seaside hamlet where almost everyone knew everyone else, Gig Harbor’s ideal location made the town’s population grow by leaps and bounds. The original town had clustered around the harbor itself, but now there were new developments and shopping malls on both sides of the I-16 freeway that raced from the western end of the soaring Narrows Bridge in Tacoma, Washington, to the Bremerton navy shipyards.
    The Washington Corrections Center for Women was located a few miles away in Purdy, but Gig Harbor hadn’t known much crime—until recently. From 2006 to 2007, a series of appalling murders reminded people who lived in Gig Harbor that there really is no completely safe place anywhere.
    On a balmy spring Saturday in 2006, David Brame, the police chief of the City of Tacoma, stalked his pretty youngwife, Crystal, with deadly intensity. She had finally gotten the nerve to separate from him, and he would not allow that. In a crowded shopping mall in Gig Harbor, with their two small children in the backseat of their mother’s car, Brame fatally wounded his wife with his service revolver before committing suicide.
     
    Passersby rushed to remove the children from the car and shield them from seeing any more horror than they already had. Brame was dead, but Crystal lingered in critical condition for several days while family, friends, and strangers prayed that she might survive to raise her children. She could not come back from her massive brain injuries, although she fought a good fight.
    Ten months later, in March 2007, an older couple died in Gig Harbor in a murder-suicide in their own home. It was difficult to say which tragedy shocked locals the most. The two deadly encounters made headlines in Seattle, Tacoma, and Spokane, and the news flashed throughout the Internet, touching lives far away, too.
    Even so, there are still numerous pockets of serenity in Gig Harbor. None seem quite as safe as a small development a half mile from the original downtown. The residents there are all over fifty, and bylaws of the community are strict. None of the homes are sprawling or flashy, all are painted a discreet gray and white. The streets are named with sailing terms, such as Dockside Drive, Tideland Terrace, Windy Way, and Jib Sail, and they wind around in a series of curves and cul-de-sacs. The homes at the front of the neighborhood have wonderful views of the harbor, theDalco and Colvos passages that curve west of Vashon Island, leading to Puget Sound beyond. Most of the others have at least a peek at the view, and the tall fir trees in Grandview Forest Park creep up to their backyards, swaying and sighing in the wind off the water.
    There are islands in the streets to discourage speeding; they’re about fifteen feet across, all covered with bushes and flowers. Each velvet-green yard shows the loving care of its residents: Japanese maples, rhododendrons, azaleas, dogwoods, tulips, daffodils, and heather abound in the spring, and hydrangeas, lavender, petunias, gladiolas, and dahlias blossom in full summer.
    But there is one small house that stands empty. Its lot, like all the others, is very small—perhaps eight feet away from the neighbors’ windows. It’s a sweet house, once the beloved home of an elderly woman. Now it almost seems to vibrate, sending out a chill feeling of terror, oppression, and perhaps insanity.
    It was very difficult for me to park in its driveway for even ten minutes. Everything in me seemed to scream: “Leave! Get away from here… now !”
    I didn’t listen. I had a story to tell.
     
    Sometimes the month of May felt to her like a replay of one long bad dream, bringing