by Lisa Gardner
Cook lets me wash the knives unsupervised now. She knows I’m defeated. She knows there’s nothing to fear from a weak, brain-damaged thing like me.
But I can’t tell my story, deliver these warnings to the girl, standing here.
Instead, I risk a single look under my lashes. I try to beam out: “I know. I’m afraid, too. You’re not alone.”
And just for a moment, the beautiful girl falters.
She will die tonight. We both know it. The stolen knife is too little, too late. Not a last stand, but an admission that all is lost. Sometimes fear is like that: It leaves you with nothing but the desire for it to be done.
The girl is trembling now. My eyes have said too much. She crosses herself, and from across the room, Cook barks, “You two! Back to work.”
But the girl is shaking too hard.
I try to soften my eyes, to be the blank stare they all expect, instead of the dark knowing that floods through me too often these days. I wish I could ask her name. I would add it to the list in my head. A name is such a precious thing. Everyone should have at least that much. A single marker to carry, leave behind, be remembered by.
And maybe my gaze is more powerful than the rest of me, because suddenly she whispers, “Stacey. Stacey Kasmer. My family—”
Cook slams both hands against the stainless-steel table. “Don’t make me come over there!”
“—live in this tiny little town, you’ve never heard of it. But if you should see them . . . get out . . . and I don’t . . .”
She can’t say the rest. We both know change is in the air. Bad things have always happened here. But now, with People Coming, it’s all happening faster. Too fast.
“Tell my parents I’m sorry,” she whispers furtively. Then bursts out loud, “Stupid Girl! Grab that plate before it falls!”
Belatedly, I grab the teetering dish, as powerfully built Cook, who likes to wield cast-iron pans, broom handles, and marble rolling pins, comes stalking over.
The knife is gone, tucked beneath the girl’s skirt. We’re not allowed pockets, so I have no idea where she’s placed it. I’d secured mine in the waistband of my underwear, which the Bad Man must’ve figured out, because after carving swirling patterns in my forearm, he took away my panties for the next six months.
Cook arrives. She grabs the girl’s shoulder, shoves her back. Then cuffs me hard. I’m not expecting it. I stumble against the sharp edge of the dishwasher, feel it gouge into my belly. Before I can recover, Cook delivers another stinging blow, then for good measure, slaps the other girl, as well.
“Back. To. Work.”
The beautiful girl drops into a curtsy. I wonder what she had been in another life. A dancer? Cheerleader? Or just a girl with ambitious dreams? Most arrive older than I was. I don’t even know how I got here.
But others . . . Some, I think, come looking for jobs. But there are also girls who speak languages none of us understand. I don’t think they choose this place at all. They never stay long. They are the Ones Who Can’t Be Seen.
Though I try to see them. I try to see everything.
The girl—Stacey—turns away. Her footsteps aren’t completely steady. Hopefully Cook will think she’s merely cowed from the blow. She makes it three steps, four, five.
Then I see it. A drop of blood. Turning into a trail.
A clatter.
The knife. It’s fallen from her skirt. Bounced onto the floor.
Belatedly I glance at Cook. Maybe she didn’t see it. Maybe I can scoot over, cover it with my own foot . . .
But Cook is staring right at the knife, the blood, the girl, who is no longer walking, but swaying slightly in place. Cook once again crosses her thick arms over her chest.
“Stupid girl,” she mutters.
I get it then, as with a little sigh, Stacey’s arms go up, her body goes down . . . She collapses to the floor, lying there, dark eyes open, in the growing pool of her own blood. She didn’t bother to wait till later. Or till they found the knife, snatched it from her, did something worse. Because they know everything, anticipate our every thought, then shred us down to the bone.
But this . . . Slicing open the artery in her own leg. Not even the Bad Man can stop this.
Stacey doesn’t make a sound. Instead, as I watch, the light in her eyes dims and dims.
A final breath, then she is gone. Frantically, I glance around. I want to see it. Her soul leaving her body. I want to watch it go up, up, up. I want to believe it sails high above us. Maybe she’s already halfway to heaven. Maybe she’ll find my mother, and my mother will fold this poor, pretty girl into her arms, and whisper that she’s safe.
Is that her soul? That smudge of purple in the corner of the room? Is a soul purple? Or maybe the color depends on the person, because when I see my mother, she is always silver to me. I honestly don’t know. I just want to believe. I need something, anything to cling to, as the pool of blood nears my feet.
“Clean up the mess,” Cook grumbles. She turns back to her cooking prep.
The episode is over. A girl is dead, but our servitude continues.
I turn off the laboring dishwasher. I finish stacking the sterilized plates.
Then I make my way carefully to the girl’s fallen form. Stepping around the spot of blood, this line, that pool.
I crouch down and gently close her eyes. Her dark sooty lashes rest against pale, pale cheeks.
The Bad Man will come, haul away the body, with a single toss over his massive shoulder. I will mop up the blood. Just another day in the life.
But for now, this single moment.
I purse my mouth. I wish again for the power taken from me so many years ago, that I could move my tongue and lips and form a single word.
Instead, inside my head, where I know all things, where I’m stronger, wiser, and braver than I’ll ever be in this world, I whisper, “Stacey.”
I hold on to her name. And vow once again to make them pay.
CHAPTER 9
KIMBERLY
KIMBERLY HAD MARRIED AN OUTDOORSMAN. Mac was a special agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigations and was already teaching their two daughters to hunt, fish—wrestle with bears, for all she knew. Kimberly herself was a runner. She liked jogging the long winding paths around the commercial park where her office was located, or if she was feeling exotic, racing down rural roads.
She wasn’t a huge fan of mountains. The names in Georgia didn’t help. Blood Mountain. Slaughter Creek Trail. Not to mention that the last time she’d been in the area, pregnant, chasing a serial killer, Blood Mountain had more than lived up to its name. She and Mac never discussed it. In their line of work, there were always a few cases that stuck with you. Blood Mountain was Kimberly’s. On the bad nights, Mac would say, “That one again?” and she’d say, “Yes,” then they’d both let it be.
You accepted. You moved on, best you could, and on the few nights Kimberly suffered the nightmares, she lay awake afterward and instead of trying to shove the memories back in the box, she took them out, let the ghosts play awhile. She remembered the boy, the last look on his face, because no one else would, and he deserved that much.
Given that personal history, scenic Dahlonega made her shudder. She kept her hands on the wheel, driving directly to the sheriff’s department. It was situated along the left side of yet another historic town square. The requisite green space occupied the middle, populated with park benches and broadleaf trees waving delicately in the light wind. The sheriff’s office, clearly a newer addition, was a squat gray building adjacent to the courthouse. It looked more like a prison than a law enforcement agency, but maybe in these parts it served as both.
Kimberly opened the front door, was hit with a blast of air-conditioning, and forced herself to proceed.
Just because tomorrow morning she’d re-enter the Appalachian Trail in search of bodies f
or the second time in her career did not mean history was repeating itself.
An older woman wearing a pink sweater set smiled from the receptionist’s desk. She was surprisingly tall and broad shouldered, a solid physical presence that no doubt helped with unruly visitors. Her real height was hard to distinguish, given that she had ash-blond hair pulled in a bouffant bun that appeared immune to heat, humidity, and the forces of gravity. Kimberly stuck out her hand. The woman answered with a firm grip.
“Francine Bouchard. Call me Franny. Everyone does.”
“Thank you. I’m—”
“Supervisory Special Agent Kimberly Quincy of the Atlanta FBI. Of course. The sheriff’s been expecting you.”
“Do you know everyone who walks through the door?”
“Honey, around these parts, it’s impossible not to. Water, tea, coffee?”
“Just the sheriff, please.”
“Speak of the devil,” Franny drawled, then nodded her head down the hall, where sure enough, Sheriff Smithers had just appeared.
A big burly guy, he looked every bit the Southern cop to Kimberly. He had a broad ruddy face, with creases in the corner of his eyes from a life spent outdoors, as well as an easy smile. In this neck of the woods, he probably wore many hats and worked long hours—whatever it took to get the job done. All good in Kimberly’s opinion, given they’d be working close in the days and weeks ahead.
“Survive the drive?” the sheriff asked now, walking down the hall to greet her.
“Always beautiful in the mountains,” she half lied.
“Water, coffee, tea? Franny can set you up.” He nodded to his receptionist, who standing was indeed almost as tall as the sheriff, yet still managed to look exactly right in her sweater set and delicate gold necklace. The art of the Southern woman, Kimberly thought, because God knows she’d never mastered it.
“Water,” Kimberly conceded this time. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Franny produced a bottle of water from the minifridge behind her. Another beaming smile, polite head nod, then Franny resumed her seat, attention already on the computer monitor in front of her, while Sheriff Smithers led Kimberly back to his office.
The sheriff didn’t occupy a huge space. The tight quarters offered glimpses of linoleum floor dominated by an oversized 1980s pressed-wood desk piled high with stacks of files. The sheriff gathered up the papers, looked around for a new spot to stash them. At last, he dropped them on the last clear spot on the floor.
“Sorry. Not much time for organizing lately,” he muttered. “Or for that matter, any place to put anything. We outgrew this space about twenty years ago. Sadly, the county doesn’t agree. We’re supposed to be a quaint tourist area. No crime in the mountains, right? Unfortunately, no one told the drug dealers that.”
Kimberly got it. Voters, especially in rural communities, liked to think bad things only happened in big cities. Whereas most drug dealers would tell you the very lack of population is what made small towns excellent for meth labs, growing farms, and import/export opportunities. Not to mention addicts lived everywhere and came from all walks of life.
But Kimberly and the sheriff weren’t paid to argue with their budgets. They were paid to get the job done, regardless.
Sheriff Smithers planted himself behind his massive desk, half obscured behind the debris. Kimberly took a seat across from him.
“Got us a dog team,” he announced. “Two shepherds from a buddy who does search and rescue. Experienced cadaver dogs, have flown all over the world, or so I’m told.”
“And they were available on such short notice?” Kimberly asked.
The sheriff shrugged. “Good news. No current tragedies or natural disasters to pull them away. Handler’s name is Dennis. He says his dogs need to go first. Too many humans running around pollutes the scent. Not that they can’t find it—he was firm on this point. But it’s more work and the dogs’ll tire faster. Given the size of the search area—”
“Understood.”
“It’ll change our timeline for the human volunteers,” the sheriff continued. “I can’t even have them outlining the search grid, because again, that’ll contaminate the area.”
Kimberly nodded.
“So I figure me and one of my deputies will head up with Dennis at oh dark thirty tomorrow. Two hours later, the rest of you can follow.”
“I’d like to hike up with the dogs.”
Smithers shrugged. “You can, but bear in mind, the search crew needs a voice of experience. I got one good deputy. I don’t have two.”
In other words, the sheriff was suggesting they divide and conquer. He’d handle the canine efforts. She’d handle the human efforts. Dogs moved way faster—and deeper—into the woods than the humans could. Fair enough, Kimberly figured.
“You have a checklist operator?” Kimberly asked. Keeping track of all the searchers was half the battle. Kimberly hadn’t done such detailed fieldwork in a bit. But being the one who now read all the reports, there was nothing worse than a massive search area where half the grids went untended or un-annotated. Details mattered, and tomorrow would be an intense exercise in logistics.
“Franny, my receptionist.” Smithers jerked with his chin toward the front of the building. “She’s good. Grew up in these mountains, knows everyone’s business, and exactly how to put the overexcited, not to mention the just plain stupid, in their place.”
“She appears formidable,” Kimberly agreed. “She’s okay with having to manage her own neighbors? That can’t be easy.”
“It won’t be a problem. I’ve known Franny for nearly thirty years, starting when I was just a deputy. She worked as a waitress at my favorite diner. Got herself knocked up. Probably by some married tourist, but she never said. Back in those days, being a pregnant teen wasn’t easy, especially in these parts. But she kept her head high, no matter the gossip. Did her job. Managed nosy friends and judgy neighbors just fine. Unfortunately, her baby didn’t make it. Stillborn. Within a matter of weeks, Franny was back at work, pouring coffee, clearing tables. Next time I was in, she looked right at me. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I reckon I’ve made enough mistakes for a lifetime. Now I’m ready to work hard, build a life. What do you suggest?’ I told her to get her GED, then come find me. And she did.”
“Impressive,” Kimberly agreed.
The sheriff nodded, leaned back in his chair. “I was thinking we should start the searchers at the bottom of the trail tomorrow. Sure, the body was found a mile up, but nothing saying there aren’t bones to be found further down. Don’t want us to get tunnel-visioned.”
“The killer wouldn’t want to dump remains too close to civilization. But the raccoons probably aren’t so worried?”
“Exactly.”
“How many people?”
“Three dozen. Mostly from around the mountains. Some are experienced search and rescue, we get lost hikers often enough. Of course, you’ll have a few coming for the show.”
She knew what he meant: people drawn by the sensational nature of a body in the woods.
“But we got some solid hiking guides, local hunters. They know this area. Where humans and animals are prone to wandering.”
Sounded good to Kimberly. She rose to standing. “I’ll meet you at the trailhead, five thirty.”
Smithers nodded. “I read about your father,” he said abruptly.
“Everyone knows my father.”
“Big shoes to fill.”
“Then it’s good I have a solid head.”
“And the Boston detective and two civilians?”
“I’ve worked with them before. They’ll pull their weight.”
“Even the vigilante?” he asked dryly. “I might live in the sticks, but I got Google, you know.”
Kimberly had to laugh. “Flora’s intense. But she knows things no one else knows. And if this case does tie to Jac
ob Ness . . .”
The sheriff nodded slowly. “The thought of him, operating in my backyard. Maybe even living here, because that’s what you think, right? That maybe he had some kind of cabin, safe house in these woods.”
“You’re a smart man, Sheriff Smithers.”
He considered her shrewdly. “As much as it turns my stomach to think of a man like Ness prowling my county, the alternative . . .”
That it wasn’t a stranger at all, but a local who’d buried Lilah Abenito’s body. Someone who knew the area and had ties to the community. A neighbor, given an area this small. Maybe even a friend.
Kimberly didn’t offer him any words of comfort, because in that case, there would be none to say.
Instead, she extended her arm. A final handshake, and they were done.
CHAPTER 10
FLORA
I CAN’T SLEEP. I HARDLY do even when I’m home. It’s one of those things the docs tell you will pass. Night terrors, insomnia, an over-pumped adrenal system that keeps me constantly on edge. One day it will ease. I’ll sleep an hour more here, an hour more there, till eventually, voilà, I’m a real person again.
It hasn’t happened yet.
I pace my hotel room, roaming from cheap chair to funky curtains to minuscule kitchen banquette. I try sitting on the edge of the bed. Then standing next to the window. Lights on. Lights off. TV on. TV off. Up, down, and around again.
SSA Quincy had met us at the budget lodge, where we had to wait our turn behind the proverbial family of four. The father already appeared frazzled as he searched through his wallet for the right credit card, while the harried mom was frantically trying to herd two small children who had no intention of standing still. The older girl kept dashing behind the check-in counter, making the clerk yelp. I caught the boy, age five or six, eyeing my right boot as if he already knew about the butterfly blade.
