When You See Me

by Lisa Gardner

  The mayor’s voice broke. On the table, his hands trembled violently.

  The sheriff reached across, patted the man’s shoulder awkwardly. D.D. didn’t know what else to say. She moved away from the table, her gaze once more on the swinging door that connected to the kitchen. For the first time she noticed what appeared to be a small slip of paper. Dropped by the girl when she’d brought the coffee?

  D.D. drifted closer to the doorway. She was aware of the mayor’s attention shifting, the man studying her. He definitely didn’t want her too close to his niece, that much was certain. And suspicious? D.D. leaned against the wall, made a show of getting more comfortable. Just an overworked detective, already on her feet too long and it wasn’t even six A.M.

  The sheriff spoke up. The moment the mayor focused on him . . .

  D.D. bent down, snatched up the folded paper, then covered the motion by elaborately retying her shoe. When she stood back up, the mayor was frowning at her, but appeared to be none the wiser.

  Noise from the front of the inn now. The ME’s van finally arriving. D.D. shoved away from the wall to do the honors.

  She waited till she was back in the lobby, out of sight of the mayor, before inspecting her find. The scrap of paper was tiny, ripped from a larger piece and folded several times. Smoothing it open against her palm, D.D. could make out what appeared to be a simple picture.

  A single image. Black. Distorted. Ominous. With red fire for the eyes and hulking shoulders.

  A monster.

  The girl had drawn a picture of a demon, then dropped it on the floor for D.D. to find.

  Meaning what?

  The ME and his assistant knocked on the front door. Still puzzled, D.D. led them to the rear bedroom, and to the body of a woman who’d made her last confession.

  CHAPTER 22

  FLORA

  NOT BEING MUCH OF A sleeper, I spend most of the night pacing. Shortly after four, I hear a commotion in the hall and come out of my room in time to catch D.D. exiting hers. She provides me a brief update of the situation at the mayor’s place, then she and Kimberly disappear out the motel doors to do their policing business, leaving me behind.

  It still takes me another hour to find my courage.

  I wish I could explain it, even to myself, but I can’t.

  Take on a known rapist? Check.

  Walk down a dark alley where a suspected predator snatches his prey? Check.

  Race into a burning building to confront a killer, save a pregnant woman, track an arsonist? Check, check, check.

  Knock on the door of the handsome man staying in the room next to mine . . . ?

  I pace the deserted lobby. Roam the tiny dining area, which at this time of morning doesn’t offer lights, coffee, or even Pop-Tarts. Finally, back down the hallway I go, telling myself I’m brave, I’m strong, I’m a survivor.

  I’m shaking by the time I reach Keith’s door. I get my hand up to knock. I think of my friend Sarah, who’s gone back to college and now has a boyfriend. I think of the way her face lights up when she talks about her life. From surviving to thriving.

  She did it. I can do it.

  I’m still standing there, frozen with my fist midair when the door swings open. Keith appears, fully dressed and not looking surprised to see me.

  “Kimberly and D.D. left,” he says.

  I belatedly pull down my hand. “There’s been a death. Mayor’s wife. Hanging.”

  “Suicide or murder?”

  “That’s what they’re trying to figure out.”

  Keith frowns at me. “What does that mean for us today?”

  I take a deep breath. Will he think I’m crazy? Then again, Keith has been remarkably adaptable so far.

  “I want to rent an ATV again,” I tell him. “I want to visit the guy they were talking about last night—the loner, Walt Davies.”

  “The guy who shoots cops on sight?”

  “We’re not cops.”

  Keith arches a brow. “We’re trespassers. A guy who shoots cops probably shoots trespassers, too.”

  “Then we’re trespassers who will need to talk very, very fast.”

  Keith doesn’t say no. He considers me for a moment instead. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I need to do something. And this . . .” I frown, I don’t know how to put it into words. Ever since I heard Walt Davies’s name last night, it’s been stuck in my brain. Because I heard it before? Or because I have a thing for crazy loners?

  I say at last, “Yesterday, D.D. had us trying out local food looking for matches. But Jacob had other appetites.”

  “Drugs and alcohol,” Keith fills in.

  “Exactly. If this Walt Davies guy is the local supplier of moonshine and dope, there’s a good chance Jacob would’ve sought him out. Especially given Walt’s reputation as the town outsider. All the better in Jacob’s world.”

  “Makes sense. But the sheriff said he was going to send two deputies to talk to the guy. So again, why us?”

  I give him a look. “That was before this morning’s suspicious death. I bet any officer who’s slept more than two hours is now assigned to that scene. So why not us? We can’t help out at the inn, but as civilians, we might be the right choice for talking to the local paranoid schizophrenic.”

  “And just like that, I’m worried again.”

  “In or out?”

  We both know the answer. Keith is Keith. He will follow me anywhere, even down to Georgia and up a hiking trail to a grave.

  “The ATV rental won’t be open for another few hours,” he says at last.

  “Then we’ll go to the diner.”

  “Our last meal?”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  He smiles. Quickly, so I don’t have time to think about it, I stretch up and kiss his cheek. He turns his head just enough to meet my lips with his. I don’t pull back. We stand there, lips to lips, in suspended animation.

  Slowly I draw back. His blue eyes are darker now, harder to read.

  “I’ll get my jacket,” he murmurs.

  * * *

  —

  OVER BREAKFAST, KEITH WORKS HIS computer magic while I pick my way through a bowl of yogurt. It’s easy enough to identify Walt Davies’s address, then look it up on Google Maps. Next, Keith pulls up the network of ATV trails to identify the closest connector.

  I can’t decide the best strategy for approaching a man who’s been described as an anti-government survivalist. Head straight down the driveway, hands in the air? Or approach from the rear, getting the lay of the land?

  Keith gives me a condescending look, then boots up Google Earth. “You want recon? This is recon.”

  I obediently ooh and aah as his laptop screen fills with images. I value the internet as a tool, but I’m a hands-on girl, more prone to footwork than keyboard strokes. Still, Keith is good.

  First thing we learn, Walt Davies doesn’t just have property, he has property. The lot appears to be a good twenty acres tucked away from everything. And he doesn’t have only a house but a compound. We make out four structures almost immediately. A medium-sized cabin that’s probably the main residence, an even larger detached building that could be an oversized garage or a barn, and two small dots we guess are sheds.

  “That’s a lotta space for one man,” I say, studying the property layout while forcing myself to swallow more yogurt.

  “Family land,” Keith provides immediately.

  He is humming slightly as his fingers fly across the keyboard, a nerd in his element. He’d ordered another egg-white omelet. I wonder if I could really be in a relationship with someone who eats such annoyingly healthy food.

  I wonder if I could really be in a relationship.

  “Main cabin dates to nineteen-oh-five. Here we go: wellhead.” He taps a faint spot on the overhead view of the property. �
�Obviously septic, as well. Generator.” He zooms in, panning left then right. “Chickens. So maybe that second building is a barn for goats, small livestock. I have a feeling this is a guy who takes off-the-grid-living seriously.”

  “What’s that?” I point to a series of lines that zigzag through the deeply wooded lot. While Google Earth is handy for a broad overview, the image gets distorted when Keith zooms in for close-ups. At least to me it does. Again, Keith appears in his element. I wonder if he has Google Earthed my address, or done street view, or whatever else there is that allows one person to spy on another without ever leaving his sofa.

  “I think they’re trails,” Keith says, considering. “Maybe ATV, but some of them appear pretty wide. Maybe for tractors or heavy equipment.”

  “They go every place. Logging?” I guess.

  But when Keith pans back out, it’s clear no trees have been cut down, at least not recently.

  “Why so many access points to one set of buildings? And all leading to different trails, byways?” I look at Keith. He is frowning, playing around with different perspectives of the property, frowning harder.

  “I don’t know,” he says at last.

  I don’t either, and it makes me suspicious. I finish my last bite of yogurt, remembering D.D.’s words that I have to take care of myself.

  “I don’t want to ride up to the front door,” I tell Keith.

  He waits.

  “This guy, he’s the local recluse, right? If we approach directly, even assuming he doesn’t shoot us, he’s not going to magically let two complete strangers wander his property.”

  I want to see what’s in those buildings. I want to understand what’s going on with all these roads and entrances and exits. Then, I want to talk to Walt Davies.

  “Stealth it is. All right, let’s determine our point of entry.”

  * * *

  —

  BILL BENSON, THE ATV GUY, doesn’t question our second-day rental. He accepts Keith’s credit card, asks if we need any help identifying more trails, then appears genuinely disappointed when we decline. In a small town like this, it’s probably street cred to have an inside track on a murder investigation. Or maybe just having firsthand knowledge as to what the outsiders are up to. I can’t help but think that the minute we leave, he’ll be at the local watering hole, disclosing all.

  While Bill roams the shelves behind him to select the right helmets for us, I wander the tiny rental space. The requisite framed first dollar is hung above the rack of local attraction brochures, while next to it are haphazard groupings of more personal photos. A group shot of a dozen people, posing in front of their four-wheelers. Maybe one of the ATV clubs. I can just make out a younger version of Bill second to the left, but no one else looks familiar to me. Then there’s Bill posed in full hunter’s garb, rifle still in hand, as he beams beside the massive buck lying prone on the ground. A young kid kneels at the buck’s head, also cradling a rifle.

  “My son,” Bill announces proudly, coming up to hand me my helmet. “First kill.”

  “Okay,” I say because, being a hunter myself, who am I to judge?

  Keith joins us, eyeing the photo more squeamishly.

  “Is this your family?” he asks, pointing toward the posed shot of a family of three. Younger Bill stands to the left, son in the middle but now a lanky teen a full head taller than his father. Which leaves the dark-haired woman sitting in the wingback chair in front of them as the wife and mom.

  “She’s beautiful,” I say to Bill.

  “Thank you,” he says. “We’ve been married nearly forty years now. How the time flies.”

  There is something in his voice that makes me give him a second glance. Wistfulness? Resignation? I glance at the portrait again. The woman is very pretty, but almost hauntingly so. I realize now she’s not looking at the camera so much as through it. There is something about her eyes, a little too vacant, as if she’s sitting for the photo shoot but still isn’t there. I wonder if it was her idea to hire the photographer, capture one last memory before their teenager flew the coop.

  “Does your son work in the shop, too?” Keith asks.

  “Nah. He has no interest in the family business. Like most of the kids around here, he took off for greener pastures first chance he got. Town’s too small, not enough job opportunities unless you want to work in tourism, tourism, or tourism. As parents, it feels good to raise a child in a close-knit community. For the kids, on the other hand . . .” Bill shrugs ruefully. “Our children bolt for big cities, while we then hire the big-city kids to work our businesses. Irony, I guess.”

  “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to another photo of Bill shaking hands with an older gentleman in a mint-green suit.

  “That’s the mayor. Mayor Howard. I won Business of the Year five years back. He presented the award.”

  Keith and I exchange looks. To judge by Bill’s expression, he hasn’t heard of the tragedy at the mayor’s house yet.

  “Are you and the mayor close?” Keith asks.

  Shrug. “We know each other, of course. I think he’s a good mayor. He and Martha have done a lot to boost business in our community. Ten years ago were lean times. We suffered compared to towns like Dahlonega, which offers up old-time charm but with the benefit of spas and wine tasting and gold mine tours. Gotta say, I wasn’t sure if my own business would make it. But Mayor Howard poured a lot of money into fixing up the Mountain Laurel, took it from a historic inn to a luxury getaway for newlyweds and business execs. Then he got Dorothea, the town clerk, to put together a whole new website for the town, not to mention launch all these social media platforms. Once a month she goes around to the local businesses, has us produce candid photos to lure in more tourists. Speaking of which, want to pose?” Bill produces his cell phone, eyes us hopefully.

  “No, thank you.”

  He shrugs, pockets his phone. “Well, to answer your question, the mayor has done right by our community. Lots of people coming here now. Good for the economy. Good for the locals.”

  Keith and I nod, make our goodbyes.

  Per our deal, Keith gets to drive today. Which puts me in charge of navigating, but also, more important, keeping an eye out for surveillance cameras and booby traps. Already, we’d identified a ridge line running along part of the property line, and a gully along another stretch, which make for natural defenses.

  That leaves us with another six options, so of course we’re going with the seventh—parking just off property on the ATV trail, then hoofing it in through the woods. Keith has his compass app and can’t wait to use it.

  I spy the first impediment almost immediately after we dismount the ATV. Barbed wire, running willy-nilly through the trees. It’s old and rusted, but still plenty sharp. I have a Leatherman tool in my pocket. I inspect the tree branches above us for surveillance cameras, then the bushes around our knees for motion-sensitive game cameras. I discover two almost immediately. Walt Davies is just as paranoid as I suspected.

  I indicate with my hand to keep walking. We make it another fifty feet, to a place where a thick bush obscures all from view. Several clips of the Leatherman later, and we are through the first obstacle.

  We walk in silence, Keith staring at his app to determine direction, while I take point. I half expect a hidden net to snatch us up, or the ground to open into a pit of spikes, or even some old bear trap to snap off one of our limbs. Instead, we get closer and closer, sweat trickling down our foreheads, soaking our shirts. I don’t have a backpack like Keith, relying once again on the myriad of pockets in my hoodie and cargo pants. Unfortunately, the day is too hot for such layers and I quickly envy Keith and his high-tech wicking fabrics.

  I abruptly stop, hold up a closed fist. As if we’ve been doing this for years, Keith immediately pauses, drops low. I point through the trees, where we can now see the first outbuilding.

  Old, weat
hered barnboard, rotting at the base, a slapdash roof. The windows are so caked with dirt that it would be impossible to see inside even if we were standing up close, let alone from this distance.

  The building appears neglected. At the sight of it I’m struck by déjà vu, though I’m not sure why. Like the mildewed cellar where I was once held, there is something sad about this place, something abandoned.

  I can imagine girls being held in this building. I can imagine bodies abandoned beneath those decaying floorboards. I can picture this being the last thing someone like Lilah Abenito ever saw.

  The distance from Walt’s place to the grave sites is less than six miles. Easily traveled by an ATV, with three trails connecting his property to Laurel Lane.

  Except . . . why dump the bodies off his land when he has so many private acres to work with? Land where he can obviously control access and limit the chance of anyone randomly stumbling upon his handiwork?

  I feel like I understand something, but not enough. Which, of course, is why we are here.

  I resume my inspection of the perimeter where the woods thin out then give way to the hodgepodge collection of structures. I spy four or five spotlights; I would guess they’re motion sensitive, but not terribly effective given the mid-morning sun. What I find interesting is that the lights appear new, with clean metal brackets attached to walls that clearly were erected decades ago.

  I pause, tilt my head to the side. I can hear the rumble of an engine, followed by a distinct grinding sound.

  I turn wide-eyed toward Keith just in time for him to nod his agreement. “Wood chipper,” he murmurs.

  “Great. How fucking Fargo of him.”

  Keith shrugs. Philosophically? Fatalistically? It occurs to me this is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and considering how I’ve spent the past six to seven years, that’s saying something.

  I can’t make out any more cameras or signs of life. With the noise across the way offering cover for our approach, I step from the woods and onto the property.