When You See Me

by Lisa Gardner

  “Okay,” D.D. said, as clearly someone needed to answer, and since leaving the forensic anthropologist’s office Flora had given up speaking.

  “Dahlonega is known for its historic town square, surrounding vineyards, and luxury spas.” Keith looked up from his phone. “Any chance we’re staying in Dahlonega?”

  D.D. laughed. “Welcome to real policing. We stay in economy inns, live on pizza, and are proud of it.”

  “But I’m not really a cop . . .”

  “You may go wherever you please,” D.D. assured him. “But don’t expect us to call you with all the exciting case developments you’ll be missing.”

  Keith sighed heavily.

  “According to SSA Quincy,” D.D. continued, “the local sheriff—”

  “Smithers,” Keith interjected. “Took office twenty years ago. Active in D.A.R.E. and teaching educational classes in the school system. He’s also very proud of his Hunter’s Safety Certification program as well as firearms education for civilians.”

  Computer nerd and a know-it-all.

  “Sheriff Smithers volunteered his office as taskforce headquarters,” D.D. continued. “It’s in the center of the county, near Dahlonega, with some hotels nearby. He’s working on reserving a block of rooms in a local motel as we speak. I imagine we’ll learn more when we get there.”

  “But ground zero is a good fifteen, twenty miles from Dahlonega,” Keith began, having no doubt traced it out on the map.

  “Understood, but if you look up the little town in question, it’s barely a speck on the map. Apparently, it has a general store, some quaint B and Bs, local restaurants, and that’s it.”

  “Niche, Georgia,” Keith promptly rattled off. “Located almost two hours north of Atlanta, it’s at three thousand feet and boasts cool mountain air, quaint storefronts, and access to the AT. With a population of three thousand, its primary industry is tourism, though there’s a growing retirement community based on quality of life, natural beauty, and small-town life.”

  “Road access?” Flora finally spoke up. Her gaze was out the window, looking at the scenery, ostensibly, but probably still seeing Lilah Abenito’s reconstructed face. God knows D.D. was.

  She hadn’t known what to think about Flora’s desire to “meet” the victim. In D.D.’s opinion, Flora shouldered way too much blame when it came to Jacob Ness’s reign of terror. And D.D. was never sure how much of Flora’s vigilante streak was truly due to a desire to feel safe, versus a need to serve penance.

  “Dahlonega is at the end of a major highway, GA Four Hundred. What we’re on now,” Keith said. “After that, we’re traveling rural routes. Some of them quite steep and windy. For example, Route Sixty we’ll be taking to Niche.”

  “Does any of this look familiar?” D.D. glanced over at Flora.

  The woman shrugged. “All roads look alike to me. We’ve passed several truckers, so it’s possible Jacob followed this route. Mostly, however, he worked east–west, not north–south.”

  “According to Ness’s trucking logs—”

  “You’ve read his trucking logs?” D.D. interrupted Keith.

  “You haven’t?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Highways Twenty and Eighty-Five were more likely occurrences. And if he was hauling north–south, Highway Seventy-Five makes way more sense than Georgia Four Hundred.”

  “Do you ever remember being in a smaller vehicle, say, a car or truck?” D.D. asked Flora.

  “I don’t remember anything immediately following the abduction. One moment I was dancing on a beach, the next . . . I was in a box in a dank basement. When he announced we had to go, he had his rig parked outside. Not with a trailer attached. Just the cab.”

  “What do you recall about the outside of the house?” Keith leaned forward from the back seat.

  Flora shook her head. “He blindfolded me so I couldn’t see much. Just narrow gaps above and below the fold. I had an impression of towering trees. And the air was cool against my cheeks. The mountains. I was definitely in the mountains. It reminded me of home.”

  “Niche is known for hiking trails lined with wild mountain laurel. It can also have some snow in the winter. All in all, that’s not so dissimilar to the wilds of Maine.”

  Flora didn’t say anything.

  “When he was driving out, did you notice any town signs, road markers, anything?” Keith pressed.

  Flora finally twisted around to look at him. “I was in a box. Even in his rig, he’d built a custom pine box just for me.”

  “He had his rig,” D.D. spoke up, focusing the conversation. “That’s good to know. It’s been seven years since your rescue, but Jacob Ness was big news, especially around here. I’m sure many people still remember him, and might be reluctant to speak up when showed his photo. It seems to be human nature not to want to get involved. On the other hand, flashing around a photo of a big rig—that’s much more innocuous and might get us somewhere.”

  Still sitting forward, with his shoulders nearly between the two front seats of the rental car, Keith nodded.

  D.D. slowed as civilization appeared ahead. She made out an open square, lined with pretty trees, park benches, and squat redbrick buildings with crisp white trim. Very scenic, very quaint.

  “Dahlonega,” Keith announced from between the seats.

  No kidding, D.D. thought. She made a right-hand turn, braked for a pedestrian in the crosswalk, then further scrutinized their surroundings.

  “We take the road to the left, which is north to Niche.” Keith again, while Flora continued her intense window-staring.

  “Wrong. We stop. Eat lunch. There. Diner!” D.D. pulled into a parking space with renewed enthusiasm, while Flora finally roused herself.

  “No! We have to get to Niche, meet up with the sheriff, start the search.” The girl sounded slightly wild.

  “What time is it?” D.D. asked.

  “Just after two,” Keith provided.

  “How many more hours before sunset?”

  Keith studied his phone. “Five hours, forty-seven minutes, give or take.”

  “Grid set up? Volunteers logged in? Canine team delivered?”

  Now both Keith and Flora stared at her.

  “Today is prep,” she explained to them, one hand on the door handle. “Debriefing in Atlanta this morning, now setting up mobile HQ and getting organized in Niche. In other words, the action starts tomorrow. In the meantime, we spent half the night flying, slept only a handful of hours, and—speaking for myself—had only a banana and four donuts for breakfast. Feed me now, or I’ll kill you both.”

  Flora and Keith climbed obediently out of the car.

  “Besides,” D.D. said as she led them into the diner. “We have our own plans to make.”

  * * *

  —

  SHE LET THEM GET SETTLED. Coffee and water all the way around. Keith inquired about some weird egg-white omelet with spinach and feta; total waste of a diner, if you asked D.D. Flora said she wasn’t hungry. D.D. planted the menu back in front of her.

  “You will order. You will eat. You are part of a taskforce now, and you owe it to the rest of us to pull your shit together and keep functional. Got it?”

  Another wide-eyed stare. “I’ll take oatmeal,” Flora told the waitress standing at attention.

  “Honey, it’s Georgia. How ’bout some grits?”

  “Sure.”

  “She’ll take fresh fruit and yogurt with that,” D.D. spoke up. “As for me, I’ll have the Hungry Man special, two eggs over easy, sliced ham, buttered biscuits, and anything else you can squeeze on the plate.”

  The waitress beamed in approval. D.D. knew how to do diners right.

  “What do you mean we need a plan?” Keith asked the second their waitress left.

  “I mean a taskforce is a beast. Many opinionated individuals
, many kinds of expertise, and many moving parts.” D.D. planted her elbows on the table, dead serious now. Flora seemed to be coming out of her funk.

  “Tomorrow, the search for additional remains. Do we help?”

  “Of course!” Flora said immediately.

  “For the sake of argument, how much experience do you have searching for bones?”

  “At least I know the woods,” Flora grumbled.

  “True. And if you want to be there, I won’t stop you. But I can tell you now, the most valuable members of the search team will be the dogs. You heard Dr. Jackson. So what do you bring to the table?”

  “Eyes. Feet. An understanding of where to look, after talking to Dr. Jackson.”

  “Information we should definitely share with the team,” D.D. agreed.

  “I don’t get it,” Keith spoke up. “What do you want us to be doing?”

  D.D. studied him. “What did you want to do most this morning?”

  “Analyze Ness’s laptop,” he said immediately.

  “Exactly. Because you have skills. Because you made more progress tracing Jacob’s internet footsteps in two days than the FBI did in seven years. You should be on the computer. But tomorrow you’ll head into the woods?”

  Keith flickered a glance at Flora. Wearing his leather jacket and dark green cashmere sweater, he stood out in the diner. Too upmarket metro for this neck of the woods. What he had to wear into the forest, D.D. was guessing, would be even more fish out of water. Yet, she gave the man credit. Based on the look he was giving Flora, where she went, he would follow.

  “You want to search, we can all search,” D.D. conceded. “But we don’t want to be just more bodies on the taskforce. We need to add value. As in, what can we do, what might we know that no one else does?”

  Now she stared at Flora hard.

  “You want me to walk around the town of Niche,” Flora said slowly. “See if I recognize anything. Except, I never saw the town.” Her voice picked up. “I just went from that stupid basement to that stupid rig . . .”

  The waitress had returned with the bowl of grits. She glanced at Flora nervously. Flora sat back, let the bowl of corn mush be set before her. Next came the fruit. Then the yogurt. Flora glanced at the food, didn’t appear optimistic.

  “You will eat,” D.D. reminded her again, as the waitress walked away. “Or I will stick you on a plane back to Boston.”

  That earned her a glare. Which was good. Angry Flora was more workable than sad Flora.

  D.D. let her get down the first bite of grits. Flora made a face.

  “Add maple syrup,” Keith said. “Or honey.”

  “How do you know?” she asked him.

  “I read.”

  “About grits?”

  “When flying to Atlanta . . .”

  Flora narrowed her eyes at him, but picked up the maple syrup. The second bite seemed to go better.

  “You may not remember the town,” D.D. said now, “but you still might be linked to it. I think that’s what you and Keith need to work.”

  “Hey, I thought I was laptop guru!”

  “Unfortunately, you’ve lost the laptop to that much prettier FBI agent. Besides, remember what she said. You may have found Jacob’s password and username for the dark web, but unfortunately you were about half a dozen years too late. We need something more—or at least, something current.”

  “Stupid pretty FBI agent,” Keith grumbled, which earned him a second glance from Flora.

  The waitress appeared with his egg-white omelet and D.D.’s Hungry Man.

  D.D. took in her overflowing plate and hummed in approval. She hadn’t been this happy in days.

  “So,” she continued, picking up her fork, diving in. “You’re still computer dude. Just don’t worry about Jacob’s laptop, at least not yet. And remember, there are two things we’re looking for.”

  “Bones,” Flora spoke up, moving on to the yogurt.

  “And Jacob’s cabin where you were first held. Now, are any of us particularly qualified to locate skeletal remains?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “I think you and Keith should go around with the picture of Jacob’s rig and quiz the locals. You”—she stabbed her fork at Flora—“can see if they recognize his truck. While Keith can look for signs that someone recognizes you.”

  “You think someone in Niche might know me.” Now Flora had given up on her food completely.

  “There must be a reason Jacob came to the mountains. This isn’t on any trucking route, we haven’t found any houses in his name. Which brings us back to . . .”

  “He had help,” Keith provided. “An accomplice, or at least a friend.”

  D.D. nodded. “That’s a theory worth pursuing, especially now that the police have discovered another body linked to Jacob’s MO.”

  “He’s not from here,” Flora said slowly. “All his family ties are in Florida. Yet he brought me to the mountains, and probably Lilah Abenito, too. So why northern Georgia? Why this town, this place?”

  “And who can answer these questions for us?” Keith concluded.

  “Strategy,” D.D. announced, around a mouthful of biscuit. “The trick to surviving a taskforce is to pick your path, play to your strengths, and no matter how much the committee gets in your way, accomplish real work. We didn’t come here to play well with the feds. We came here to learn anything and everything about Jacob Ness. Are we clear?”

  Flora and Keith nodded at her.

  “I still want to go into the woods tomorrow,” Flora said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “I just . . . I need to see. I need to know.”

  “Torturing yourself doesn’t accomplish our mission, Flora.”

  “I know. But I keep thinking about what Dr. Jackson said. All children just want to go home. If I could find anything, even a single rib, bring that piece of her home . . .” Flora stared at the table. “I need this.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow we play with the taskforce. Then—”

  “We go rogue!” Keith burst out.

  D.D. stared at him. “You are entirely too excited about that.”

  He smiled. “It’s the company I keep.” Then he flickered another glance at Flora that made D.D. shake her head.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE MOTION CATCHES MY EYE. Furtive movements. Someone trying to do something unseen. I can’t help but glance over.

  Immediately, the girl glares at me.

  She has a small paring knife tucked against the skirt of her uniform. At her scowl, I quickly look away. At the opposite end of the kitchen, Cook bustles away, pulling trays of food out of the fridge to prep dinner. Soon I will begin my kitchen duties: fetch this, tend to that. Right now, I finish pulling scalding hot plates from the still-moving conveyor belt of the commercial-grade dishwasher. You must unload quickly, before the plates reach the end and crash to the floor. In the beginning, the steaming dishes would burn my fingers and I would slow from the pain. Then things would break, earning me even greater punishment. Now, after all these years, I don’t feel the heat.

  The girl wanders over, trying too hard to look innocent. Cook glances up. I want to shake my head at the girl, tell her to stop, but that will only call more attention. Instead, I focus on my work, the row of shiny white plates, lined up on their edges, marching toward me.

  “You saw nothing,” the girl hisses in my ear as she wanders by. She sounds cruel, but I understand. She is very beautiful. With smooth almond skin and thick black hair. This life, these people . . . beautiful only makes things worse.

  Cook is watching both of us. The help aren’t supposed to converse. Then again, it’s me. How much conversing can a Dumb Girl do?

  I want to tell this girl to put the knife away. I want to describe to her the first time I managed to sneak a knife out of the kitchen. How the Ba
d Man found it and took it from me. I thought I would inflict some damage, or at least go down fighting. Instead, in the blink of an eye, the butter knife had gone from my hand to his. I never even saw him move. So much effort and risk on my part. Preparing myself mentally, determining how to sneak a knife out of the kitchen, starting to plot the next stage of my escape.

  Then the Bad Man was standing in my doorway.

  And a moment later . . .

  It was done. Just like that. I don’t know if I even opened my mouth to grunt a protest. One minute I thought I was so smart. The next . . .

  Sometimes, I think the Bad Man knows things before we do. Like he’s not human. This is why I need my name. So my mother’s love can help me, because surely nothing on this mortal earth can defeat a man who moves like smoke and punishes like an anvil.

  That day, the Bad Man had pulled out his own weapon from the sheath of his boot. Not a butter knife at all, but a hunting knife: smooth on one side, serrated on the other.

  I remember staring in mute horror as he took my hand and gently extended my arm toward him. Then, using his blade, he started to draw on the clean brown skin of my forearm. Blood welling up, forming fine red lines while I hissed and trembled and did everything in my power not to flinch. His knife carved sinuous patterns into my flesh. Mesmerizing. Beautiful, even.

  We both stared. Bound by the winding forms and the knowledge that if I jerked away, that sharp ugly blade would gouge into my arm, sever my arteries, and destroy the first pretty thing about me.

  Later, he said I should thank him for turning my arm into a work of art.

  I wear long sleeves now. But at night, I still trace the ridged lines. And right or wrong, I can’t help but admire the pattern. I am a Dumb Girl with a shattered temple, scarred hairline, and distorted eye. There’s nothing attractive about me. Except for the intricate scrollwork on my right forearm, a road map of his power and my pain.

  Now this beautiful girl with her big dark eyes . . . He won’t make her pretty. He’ll carve away an ear. Take an eye. Draw a crude V down her cheek or create thick ridges in her neck. He’ll steal her loveliness from her. I’ve seen him do it, heard the girls scream, caught the evidence of his handiwork later, walking slowly, brokenly down the halls.