by Lisa Gardner
Flora’s nostrils flared. She eyed D.D. mutinously, but at least there was some fire in her eyes.
“I don’t get it,” Keith said.
D.D. kept her attention on Flora. “What did you do when you were held captive? What did you experience? Think, Flora. Nine months ago when you did the memory exercise, what did you use as triggers?”
The woman suddenly blinked. She straightened, engaged for the first time all morning. “I ate,” she said softly. “Jacob, when he returned, always brought food. Lots of takeout. Ribs, wings, burgers, pizza. The greasier the better.”
D.D. nodded approvingly. “I’ll be the first to say, this assignment pains me, if only because I wish I could do it myself. But we all have our crosses to bear. So I’ll be a good doobie and tackle the mayor, while you and Keith identify all the local restaurants that have been in business for the past ten years and then . . . eat. Order every item on the menu if you have to. You want to keep dining around until you find something that, I don’t know, tastes like a match.”
Flora stared at her.
“It’s not enough to search for establishments that have been open ten years,” Keith spoke up briskly. “We need ones where the head cook has remained the same, as well, as chefs influence the style of food prepared.”
“Sure.”
“I can Google a list of restaurants for Niche plus surrounding towns, then prepare a spreadsheet listing length of operation, hiring date of head chef, opening date for owner/operator.”
“Great.”
“I’m not sure my palate is that refined,” Flora interjected. “Or my memory that good.”
“You’re not trying to identify the secret ingredient in the special sauce, Flora. You’re just searching for a sense of déjà vu.”
Flora nodded slowly. Her flat affect was gone. Now she appeared . . . younger, nervous. Scared that she would discover a dish that reminded her of Jacob? Or more terrified she wouldn’t, and the man, what he did to her, what he might have done to others, would forever remain a mystery to her?
Coming to Georgia had been a brave move on Flora’s part. D.D. respected it. She even felt for the woman. But she kept her expression firm and her expectations clear. Coddling had never worked when it came to Flora. An impossible challenge, on the other hand . . .
“All right,” Flora said abruptly. “We’ll do it. Dine our way through town. How hard can it be?”
Keith squeezed her shoulder, which was answer enough.
Behind them, the door opened, the sheriff appearing in his fresh shirt.
“Touch base end of day,” D.D. instructed. She made a shooing gesture with her hands. Flora and Keith belatedly turned and headed down the hall.
“Where are they off to?” the sheriff asked.
“Two crazy kids in love? Who knows?”
CHAPTER 13
KIMBERLY
KIMBERLY MET UP WITH HER ERT team shortly after five A.M. They gathered in the motel’s lobby before coffee had been brewed and cellophane-wrapped pastries tossed into the basket. They were a good team, experienced and detail oriented. Kimberly trusted each member with her life, and had done so the last time they’d retrieved bodies from a mountain in Georgia.
Supervisory Special Agent and Senior Team Leader Rachel Childs was their designated circus master. The five-foot-nothing redhead had grown up in Chicago and had a set to her jaw that discouraged dissent. By contrast, Harold Foster, a six-foot-one beanpole who towered above her, was their designated outdoorsman. He’d hiked the entire length of the Appalachian Trail before heading off to college and was eager to do it again. He was also well versed in flora, fauna, predatory wildlife, and poisonous snakes. Kimberly had a tendency to hike close to Harold—when she could keep up with him.
Harold and Rachel had brought two more agents with them.
Franklin Kent, whom Kimberly had never met but had a voice that reminded her of the bayou, was as well-equipped as Harold, so another with mountain experience.
Finally, Rachel introduced Maggie Sharp, who appeared to be lugging their survey tool for crime scene mapping. A walking IT department.
They all exchanged pleasantries. Kimberly explained the two graves and the role of Dr. Jackson, the forensic anthropologist who would be in charge of the exhumation. The ERT, meanwhile, would assist with establishing the grid, working the outer perimeter, and, yes, retrieving any additional scattered bones.
They split into two vehicles to drive to the trailhead. Kimberly and Harold went ahead to set up mobile command at the base of the hiking trail and meet up with Dr. Jackson. Which put team leader Rachel in charge of coffee and snacks—arguably the most important task.
As Kimberly and Harold reached their destination, Dr. Jackson pulled up in a white ME’s van, and Kimberly made the introductions. She’d only worked with the forensic anthropologist a couple of times, but Kimberly already appreciated her no-nonsense approach. This morning, the woman wore loose-fitting clothes and hiking boots. Kimberly noticed a pile of coveralls in the back of the van, which were quickly loaded into a pack. Then there were buckets, trowels, sifters, tarps.
Kimberly was beginning to wonder if they should consider a horse or a donkey to assist with transport when the rest of her team appeared and wordlessly started absorbing supplies into their own packs while attaching various buckets to various hooks all over their bodies.
Then they were off. Harold took the lead, Rachel not far behind. Kimberly had given both coordinates, so she wasn’t worried.
She took an easier pace, falling beside Dr. Jackson. The older woman was doing great, given she probably spent most of her life in a lab. But the mile-long trail was steep and it didn’t hurt to take a couple of breaks.
“When I told you to find me more bones,” Dr. Jackson grumbled, “I didn’t mean this.”
“Did you look at the pictures I sent you?”
“Of course.”
“We stopped digging once we saw the top of the skulls. I didn’t want to do more harm than good.”
“Finally, some words of common sense from a fed.”
“It does happen,” Kimberly assured her.
“You’re fishing. You want me to tell you things you know I can’t yet tell you.”
“I want to know the age of the grave site. Sooner versus later. Have we stumbled across something old, or something ongoing?”
“The skeletal condition is one vote for old. But I’ll have to get the remains back to my lab to tell you more.”
Kimberly nodded, accepting the verdict as they continued their ascent.
The first burial site had already been worked thoroughly a month ago. Given the need to recover more bones, however, Rachel assigned Harold and Franklin to continue examining the area in case they’d missed something. Harold was famous for covering miles of mountainside in a single step. Kimberly didn’t know what Franklin was famous for yet. The agent seemed to be focused, dedicated, and completely self-contained. A puppy and a panther. It would be an interesting day for both of them.
She led the rest of the team up to the site of the new mass grave. Two deputies had been assigned overnight watch. They rose gratefully to their feet as Kimberly and her crew emerged from the dense underbrush.
“Morning, ma’am.”
“Hot coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Kimberly had learned early in her career it was the little things that got the job done. Now, they all took a moment to unload their gear, unpack bags. They made sure to stay well clear of the grave to prevent cross-contamination, though Kimberly could tell everyone was anxious to get a look.
The deputies were dismissed back down the mountain to get some sleep. Eventually, two new ones would arrive. It never hurt to have an oversight crew, keeping their attention on any approaching threats—whether coyotes or gawkers—as the forensic team’s efforts would be focu
sed on the dirt.
Rachel directed her team to get set up. Maggie unpacked the Total Station, an instrument first used by survey crews to create 3-D models of major roads and traffic patterns, then adapted to render 3-D images of complex crime scenes. As Kimberly had already related to Mac, the remains were not laid out in a neat and orderly fashion. Instead, best she could tell, the bodies had been tossed in together. Then, over time, as flesh and sinew gave way, the remains had collapsed in on one another.
Back in the lab, Dr. Jackson would carefully rebuild each skeleton, while digital images from the Total Station would be used to preserve information from the original scene.
Once they had their supplies sorted out and organized, Rachel consulted with Dr. Jackson on the plan of attack. In spite of what people sometimes assumed, the FBI’s Evidence Response Team’s main goal was to collect evidence, not to analyze it. None of them were forensic experts, though some, like Harold, had developed areas of interest over the years.
Dr. Jackson had donned coveralls over her hiking ensemble. She now passed out additional garments, and they all suited up, grimacing at adding an extra layer of clothing over their sweaty gear.
Birds chirped in the distance. There was a nice wind in the trees as Dr. Jackson stepped gingerly over the lines and made her way to the middle of the grid. Kimberly already knew what she would see: a slight depression in the earth, next to a mound of dirt. Lay people assumed the mound was the grave. Not true. The depression was the grave, the mound of dirt was the earth the killer had dug out of the ground, then left to the side after dumping in the bodies. Over time, decomp reduced the mass in the grave, causing the earth to settle, and creating a distinct pattern all crime scene techs learned to identify: one mound plus one depression equaled one unmarked grave.
Or in this case, one unmarked grave with three rounded skulls already peering out from the loose soil.
Dr. Jackson picked up the first trowel. They got to it.
CHAPTER 14
FLORA
I CAN’T EAT ANOTHER BITE. You do it.”
“Me? I don’t think that’s the point.”
“Please, I double-dog dare you to tell me these ribs taste any differently than the ones before them, or the ones before those.”
I glare at Keith, my eyes daggers of contempt, until he has no choice but to rise to the challenge.
“Double-dog dare. Well, if you’re that serious.” Keith gamely picks up a knife and fork, slices off a bite of barbecued meat.
“Who uses a knife and fork to eat ribs? Authentic experience. Come on!”
“You’re very cranky,” he informs me, but sets down the silverware, picks up the bone with his fingers.
“I have good reason to be cranky.”
“And yet, what does it change?”
I glare at him again. He shrugs a shoulder, then takes a delicate bite of pork and chews thoughtfully. “I would say these ribs have a tad more vinegar than the ones before. Or maybe it’s a hint of cloves.”
“You are making that up!”
“Yes. I am.”
Keith sets down the bone. I can’t help myself, I half sigh, half explode in exasperation, throwing myself against the back of the booth.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I don’t remember. I was too busy being grateful for food, any kind of food. I was scarfing and inhaling and chewing like a goddamn animal. I didn’t notice sauce, or flavor or seasoning. I was fucking starving and I ate like a starving woman.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh shut up.”
Another shrug. I want to scream. Or tear out my hair or rip apart this booth. I want to run so far, so fast, that this awful food and those awful memories can never catch me and I’ll never have to think about Jacob again.
Keith had identified two restaurants in Niche that had the same owner-operators for the past ten years. A diner and a pub. So we’d started there, the owners trying to protest it was too early to be serving dinner, me staring them down until the entire menu suddenly became available. It was creepy how easy it was to select entrees. Oh, Jacob would love this, Jacob would like that. Like picking out food for an old friend, or long-lost lover. Which brought back other memories, the chili dog in St. Louis that exploded down his shirt after the first bite and I burst out laughing before I could catch myself. Then froze, thinking he’d smack me, except he started laughing, as well. He’d ordered two more and we’d eaten them greedily at the truck stop, talking about nothing in particular, enjoying our time in the sun.
Who enjoys a sunny afternoon with their own rapist?
And yet that was Jacob, too. He wasn’t a monster all of the time. Or maybe he realized that the moments of normalcy made his monstrousness all the more frightening.
D.D. had given us her rental car. After hitting the two establishments in Niche, we’d driven south to Dahlonega, which had many more restaurants. We’d been eating, I don’t know, forever. Ordering plate after plate while fellow diners stared. My stomach ached. My head hurt. I wanted to vomit, though whether from food or memories of Jacob . . .
“They remodeled Columbine High School the summer after the shootings,” Keith offers up. He’s pushing the ribs around on the plate with his fork. “The administrators knew it was important to wipe out as many traces of violence as they could so the student body could move on. And they understood that meant not just patching bullet holes, but instituting a whole redesign, especially one that changed up the library, where so many were killed.”
I nod absently. Keith likes to talk. Sometimes I pay attention, sometimes I don’t.
“But the principal argued a new look wasn’t enough,” Keith continues. “They also needed to change the fire alarm tone, which had gone off for hours that day. Just the sound of those notes sent himself and the students back into a state of panic.” Keith paused. “They also removed Chinese food from the cafeteria menu.”
He looks at me. “That’s what the cafeteria had been preparing for lunch that day. Chinese food. No one could take the smell anymore. Again, it led to immediate panic attacks. Poor Chinese food. It probably was a lunch many used to enjoy.”
I stare at him.
“I understand you’re overwhelmed,” he says softly. “I know thinking about Jacob, remembering anything involving Jacob, has to be excruciating.”
I don’t say a word.
“But Sergeant Warren, what she said is true. We process information through all of our senses. We make associations through all our senses. From building design to the fire alarms to cafeteria food. You may not have seen much when you were first kidnapped. But you experienced a lot. You processed way more than you know. And with a little time and patience . . .”
“I’ll magically know if I’ve been here before?”
“Or you’ll be able to confirm once and for all that you weren’t.”
“My memory isn’t that good. My senses are not that refined.”
“Or your safeguards are just that high.”
“I’m not trying to avoid this!”
“Flora, no one blames you for not wanting to take a trip down memory lane. Sergeant Warren is asking the impossible of you and she knows it.”
I’m horrified to realize my eyes have filled with tears. I’m going to cry. Goddammit, I refuse to be this weak.
“What if I told you it all tastes right? What if I said, every single thing we tried . . . Yes, Jacob could’ve brought that to the basement. Every meal is exactly the kind of thing he would’ve liked. And I know that, because I lived with him that long, I got to know him that well.”
“Okay,” Keith says.
“Okay? There’s nothing okay about this!”
“You’re here. He isn’t. You won. He lost. Everything is okay about that.” Keith reaches across the table and takes my hand. “You’re here with me. And
that’s very okay.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong. That I never feel like I won. That mostly I just endured, and I hate myself for that, too. For the days I didn’t fight. For all the times I fell upon Jacob’s offerings of food and greedily devoured them. Shame. I think of Jacob and to this day, I feel shame. It follows me everywhere I go, even sitting at a booth in a tavern staring at barbecued ribs.
“Let’s go,” Keith says.
“Where? Isn’t there another pub we’re supposed to hit?”
“You’re full, I’m full. We’re done.”
I stare at him curiously. “So now what?”
“We take a page out of Sergeant Warren’s book. We launch our own investigation.”
“What are we investigating?”
“ATVs.”
“What?”
“Forget Jacob for a moment. There’s no one in the world who can physically lug four bodies up a mountainside. I barely made it up that trail yesterday and I can run for miles.”
I nod slowly.
“Meaning there has to be another way, maybe even a whole different path we haven’t identified yet. Personally, I’m favoring a four-wheeler-accessible trail. Think about it; it’s not just getting a body or bodies to the site, but also shovel, pickax, other supplies. The area is too heavily wooded for a truck, which leaves us with an ATV.”
I nod again. While I’ve been lost in my dark thoughts, Keith has clearly been using his head, and his logic makes sense.
“Where to start?” I ask.
“I Googled a nearby ATV rental company. They must have trail maps, right? Not to mention local knowledge. Because it might be that the trail doesn’t exist anymore, which is why we didn’t see immediate signs of it. But maybe there was something people used fifteen years ago, that sort of thing.”
I don’t speak right away. Instead, I study this serious man sitting across from me with his Ted Bundy good looks and relentlessly curious mind. I realize I’m no longer angry, I’m no longer ashamed. I’m intrigued.
