My name is Elizabeth Anne Morganthaw Gustefson, called Betsy and I'm writing these horrifying remembrances at the request of my husband Ben. I'll attempt to relate my thoughts and feeling as accurately as possible. In reality, my conversations with this monster were far more extensive and frightening but what follows is a highlighted version. It's far easier to calmly pen the words I said than it was to say them. When I think back, it's difficult to believe I found the strength to do so. It must have been Molly; knowing her very life, was in my hands.
While I was petrified beyond anything I could imagine I knew Molly would die ignominiously without all the cunning I could muster. I steeled myself to hide the fear that welled up inside me like the worse cramps I could possibly endure. The unspeakable deeds of this animal who held us were well known to me, vicariously, through the notes of Howie's visits to his past. However, his knowledge of us, and especially me, was either limited or incorrect. Perhaps, just perhaps, I thought, I could somehow use this information to my advantage.
I knew neither how he found us, what information he knew nor what incorrect assumptions he'd made. He thought Molly is was my daughter. He'd based this incorrect guess after stalking us and seeing us together. I was sure it was he who talked to her when she was walking Bumpus. Locating us wasn't as a result of Julie's contest entry or from the break in of her apartment. If so, he'd know Julie was Molly's mother. Did he think I was the tipster, solely because the public consensus appointed the psychic a female?
I tried to blank his horrible killings from my mind and concentrate on how I should react to him. Belittle him, praise him? Should I be fearful or subservient? How would he react to each of these? I knew rape was power to the perpetrator so I vowed to be firm and possibly defiant, and not display fear. Molly was his prime target but for some reason, he'd kept me alive. I was sure his goal was to eliminate the person or persons tracking him; the tipster.
I said nothing on the hour long trip in his van. Thankfully, Molly slept until we arrived, at a small cabin in a thickly wooded area. We were herded to a barn and into a basement work room. I was temporarily encouraged when I saw it was stocked with carpentry tools; saws, hammers, nails, all potential weapons!
My prison had only a kerosene lamp for light. The walls were solid concrete and windowless. The single portal was a thick wooden door that he secured with an equally thick board that fitted across the entire opening on the outside.