by Lisa Gardner
I go with a simple handshake. My mind isn’t working anymore. I’ve gone down some rabbit hole where nothing feels real.
Keith, once again, has held it together. He thanks Walt for his time, the tour, the meal. Wishes him the best with his microgreens—why not? Mentions we’d probably visit again soon. Might bring an associate or two—such as the police.
Walt nods nervously, wiping his hands again and again on the legs of his jeans. He agrees to all.
We regard each other for a long moment. I can tell he has no more apologies in him, and I know I have no more forgiveness in me, so I guess that makes us even.
“Thank you for the fish,” I manage.
Then I follow Keith out the door and let him drive us back to the hotel.
* * *
—
“I’M SORRY,” THE MOTEL ATTENDANT says the moment we walk through the lobby doors. “You must leave.”
I stare at Keith. I haven’t been of sound mind for hours now, so maybe I’m mishearing this.
Keith: “Excuse me?”
“We cannot have you as guests anymore. You must go.” The attendant is the same man from yesterday. Small of stature, slight build, thick dark hair, and very nervous hands. He’s clasping and unclasping them now, as if he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.
“I thought these rooms were reserved for a week.” Keith, taking charge.
“Yes. But there has been a change. Please get your things. I can give you a list of other properties.”
“Is there a problem with our rooms?” Keith asks.
“Yes. That’s it.” The tiny man brightens. I stare at him intently. He is the worst liar I’ve ever encountered.
“Then we’ll take another set of rooms.”
“You can’t.”
“We can’t?”
“The problem . . .” The man purses his lips, clearly thinking hard. “The problem is with all the rooms!” Fresh smile. He believes he has saved himself. I’m wondering if there are any straws in the small breakfast nook. I’ve used them to kill before. I’m sure I can do it again.
Keith takes hold of my hand, clearly sensing my mood. “So you’re kicking everyone out? All of your guests?”
“Yes!”
“The entire assembled law enforcement team? FBI agents, county police? You do not want these fine and upstanding officers in your establishment?”
Dark rounded eyes. Fresh hesitation.
“There’s a problem with all the rooms,” the attendant repeats again. His voice sounds squeaky.
Keith perfectly composed, “I demand to speak to the manager.”
Finally a normal reaction. The attendant pulls himself together, puffs out his chest. “I am the manager!”
“Then I demand to speak to the owner.”
“I am the owner! This is my establishment! Now you must leave. Go!”
Behind us, the lobby doors open. Kimberly comes striding in with D.D. Some young girl dressed as a maid follows in their footsteps. The girl has a slight limp and drooping face and she’s staring about in complete bewilderment.
“I met Jacob Ness’s father,” I hear myself say.
“The motel is kicking us out,” Keith adds at the same time.
Kimberly and D.D. stop. The girl gazes at me wide-eyed.
“Give me thirty seconds with this guy,” I announce, “and we’ll have our rooms back.”
“D.D.” Kimberly instructs dryly, “Get your dog back on her leash.”
“One more word,” D.D. informs me, “and I’ll call your mother.”
I growl low in my throat. The sound of frustration. But she has me and she knows it. Because then my mom will call Dr. Samuel Keynes. And once my FBI victim advocate is involved . . . things get complicated. As D.D. well knows.
“So, about our rooms.” Kimberly turns to the manager. Her voice is softer when she wants it to be. With a trace of the South that’s been her home for a decade now. D.D. and I will always be true North. Kimberly, on the other hand, can pull off local charm. “What seems to be the problem?”
The tiny man is eager to talk to her. He pulls his gaze quickly from me. “Um . . . mechanical. All rooms must be evacuated. Everyone. Everyone must go.”
“Even though we paid for an entire block of rooms for the week? Arranged through the county sheriff’s department?”
“Sorry. So sorry. Nothing can be done. Everyone must go.”
“Do you have a list of places we could try instead?”
“Yes!”
“Except . . .”
The manager—or owner, or whatever—flushes.
“My memory,” Kimberly says calmly, “is that this was one of the only places that could accommodate a group of our size. Furthermore, given that we’re about to go into the weekend during the busy fall season, what are the chances of any of these new places having rooms available?”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“I don’t think we will. I think you’re trying to kick us out of town. Split up the taskforce group. Or maybe force us all back to Atlanta. Now why would you want to do that?”
“The motel has a mechanical problem,” the man squeaks again.
“You certainly are about to,” I mutter.
D.D. glares at me.
“What exactly is the problem?” Kimberly again.
“Umm . . . No hot water! Can’t have rooms without hot water.”
“Perfect. I’ll make a call. We’ll get that fixed for you right away. Consider it a sign of our appreciation.”
The manager stands there, stupefied. “And . . . and . . . my computers are down. I can’t check anyone in. No computers, no service.”
“I can fix that,” Keith speaks up.
The man looks like he wants to cry. Or flee. Or both. “Please?” he tries.
“No.”
D.D., who has been quiet this whole time, finally speaks. “Who asked you to send us away?”
The man’s face twists. His hands return to their frantic clasping and unclasping. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then consider this our real gift to you.” Kimberly touches the man’s arm. “We won’t press, for now. You can tell whoever demanded our departure that the police pulled rank. There was nothing you could do. And you can also tell your boss if he has a problem with our presence, feel free to contact us directly. Now, I’m going to go shower.” She pulls out her room key. “Debrief in an hour.” She stares at me. “I’m sorry, did you say you met Jacob Ness’s father?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ll have much to share at the meeting.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I inform her.
Kimberly heads down the hall. I wait for D.D. to follow, but she and her new charge just stare at me.
“You two have adjoining rooms?” D.D. asks Keith and me.
Of course, she would know that.
Keith nods.
“I’m taking them. For Bonita and me. She can’t be alone. She’s a material witness.”
“Bonita?” Keith asks.
D.D. gestures to the girl. “She used to work at the Mountain Laurel B and B. Now she’s with us.”
“Where do Keith and I go?” I ask, still processing the room change.
“You two can have my space.” She smiles knowingly. Meddler.
“I can get a cot,” Keith offers.
“No, no, no,” the owner protests immediately. “No cots. You shouldn’t even have rooms!”
Fuck Kimberly and her dog-on-a-leash comment. I reach down, pull out my butterfly blade, and make a show of flipping it open, closed, open, closed.
“You may have a cot!” the man squeaks.
But then I glance at the young maid. Her face has gone bone white. Her eyes are round with fear
and she is staring at my knife in horror.
I quickly put it away, but not before I see her touch her forearm, where the cuff of her sleeve has ridden up, and an intricate pattern of scars dances across her exposed skin.
I don’t feel strong anymore.
I feel shame.
For being what a monster made me.
I head down the hall before any of them see me cry.
CHAPTER 30
KIMBERLY
NO LASAGNA OR CHOCOLATE TRIFLE from the church ladies tonight. Instead, the sheriff’s conference room featured trays of deli sandwiches, a couple of neglected salads, and a table full of assorted beverages, most heavy on the caffeine. Franny bustled about, clearing empty plates onto a giant serving platter she effortlessly hefted from table to table, while smiling so brightly she looked like a cross between June Cleaver and a mental patient. Around the U-shaped tables, investigators booted up computers while shoveling food into their mouths.
Kimberly took a moment to gauge the overall mood. Tired but wired, she decided. She walked through the door, Flora and Keith in tow. She went with a turkey sub, a pile of green salad, and a Diet Coke. Then she took the open chair next to Sheriff Smithers. Of all of them, he looked the worse for wear. Kimberly and her crew had no ties to this area, whereas for the sheriff this was all personal.
He gave her a nod, chewed absently.
“Howard Counsel settled?” Kimberly murmured.
“Got him in a holding cell, deputy on watch.”
“I’m sorry,” she offered.
The sheriff looked at her. “Bad things happening around here. Bad things. Feels like I don’t know this place anymore.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Phone’s starting to ring off the hook. People want reassurances that their community is safe and the problem solved. Hell, I’m more confused than I was yesterday, though of course I can’t tell them that.”
“Lying is part of policing,” Kimberly assured him.
“Except, I want to know my county is safe, as well. Only a matter of time before the press arrives. I can’t believe we’ve been lucky this long.”
“With the ME returning to Atlanta with three more bodies, our time is probably running out,” Kimberly agreed.
The sheriff closed his eyes. “You really think Martha Counsel hanged herself?”
“No.”
“Someone else did it. Not her husband. I don’t believe that for a moment. Meaning there’s another threat out there. One we haven’t identified yet.”
Kimberly eyed the man with genuine sympathy. She understood his stress and strain. Their current situation had just gone from one body to five, from a cold case to a fresh murder. Nothing about this was good, especially for the local cop.
On impulse she reached over and squeezed the sheriff’s meaty hand. “We’re on this.”
He didn’t appear convinced, but at least he squeezed back.
Fresh activity in the doorway. Kimberly’s fellow ERT agents arriving, dirt still smeared across their clothes. With Dr. Jackson en route to Atlanta with the recovered skeletons, the team would provide the update on the burial sites.
Kimberly waved at Harold, his lanky frame looming above his teammates. As always, their leader, Rachel, headed the charge. She nodded at Kimberly in greeting, her sunburned face streaked with sweat and grime. Franklin and Maggie filed in after their compatriots, and they all made a beeline for food and water. Harold, after a moment of hesitation, helped himself to three different subs. The man might be built like a beanpole, but he could eat like a sumo wrestler.
Flora and Keith had already taken seats, Flora with a bottle of water, Keith with pasta salad. Kimberly let the Evidence Response Team take up positions, then it was time to start. She rose, moving to the front of the room.
“It’s been a big day. Looks to me like many of you have findings to report. I’m going to start with our early morning callout to a suspicious death at the Mountain Laurel B and B.” Briefly, she recapped the discovery of Martha Counsel’s body, the accompanying suicide note, and Mayor Howard’s revelation that his wife had had an illegal kidney transplant approximately fifteen years ago. She noticed Franny stopped fussing at the food table and stood silently, the sorrow tangible on her face. Like the sheriff, she’d probably personally known the Counsels. Nothing in this community would be the same again.
Rachel raised her hand. “Hang on. We recovered medical supplies connected to one of the bodies in the mass grave. Are you saying that victim might have been the source of the illegal kidney?”
“We don’t know yet. The doctor who performed the operation passed away eight years ago. We’re working on tracking down his former receptionist now to gain access to his old files. But knowing a member of this town underwent an illegal medical procedure right about the same time four bodies were buried in the woods hardly seems like coincidence.”
“Meaning there could be other locals who visited this same doctor,” Rachel said evenly.
Kimberly nodded. “Absolutely.”
More hands shot up, but she held up her own.
“Hang on,” she said. “We learned other news at the Mountain Laurel, as well. It would appear at least some of the staff isn’t legal. And given that most are young women, it’s highly possible our four victims in the woods have a connection to the bed and breakfast. Unfortunately, because they weren’t all documented, I’m not sure how we can go back fifteen years and search for their identities. But at the very least, we know there’s some kind of human trafficking going on at the Mountain Laurel, whether it’s for low cost help or, worse, organ donor candidates.”
The revelation rippled through the room.
“Mayor Howard has been taken into custody for now and is on suicide watch. We also have a . . .” She hesitated. She didn’t want to give away much about D.D.’s new charge, Bonita. The girl was alone, voiceless, vulnerable. “We have a source,” Kimberly said at last, “who has led us to believe there is another player in this operation. An unknown male, can’t tell you anything more than that at the moment. It’s highly possible he’s the one who killed Martha Counsel, so whoever he is, he clearly has a stake in things. We believe the cook may also be complicit, and she has disappeared. Sheriff Smithers has issued a BOLO with her description. Also missing, another maid, Hélène Tellier. We have reason to believe her life is in jeopardy. Maybe even the cook, or the UNSUB, kidnapped her.”
Around the room, eyes widened. Hearing it all spoken out loud, even Kimberly was startled by just how much had happened in the past twelve hours.
One of her fellow FBI agents raised his hand. “We have news that might be relevant.”
“Go on.”
“We’ve been running background on all the names of hotel guests we’ve been able to gather for the past sixteen years, looking for registered sex offenders, individuals with criminal histories, et cetera.”
Kimberly nodded.
“A good ten to fifteen percent of the names registered at local hotels—they don’t exist. The names appear to be aliases. Nor can we find corresponding credit card charges to go with these reservations, which suggests the individuals paid cash. Cross-referencing the names with restaurant credit card receipts, also nothing. We have dozens of room reservations at multiple lodging establishments that appear to belong to ghosts.”
Sheriff Smithers stirred.
“Ten to fifteen percent, you say?” he spoke up.
The agent nodded. “We’re talking dozens of people a year, going back a decade.”
“There’s always some people who prefer to pay cash. But that number seems mighty high. All lone individuals? Male, female?” the sheriff asked.
“No discernible pattern. Some reservations are for couples, some for males, females. Some names imply ethnicity, though who knows?”
“Time of year?” Kimberly pus
hed.
“Follows the seasonal trend. Most of the names are from the summer, when Niche is busiest. Then weekends in the fall, that sort of thing.”
“So our ‘ghost’ tourists are arriving with everyone else. Blending in.”
“Correct.”
“Across multiple lodging establishments?”
“Also correct.” The agent hesitated. “Though it’s worth noting we didn’t get any names from the Mountain Laurel inn. They claimed their computer system didn’t go back far enough. I’m wondering now . . .”
“If you did have access to those records, just how many more ‘ghosts’ that would add to the list,” Kimberly finished for him.
The agent nodded.
“What would draw dozens of people to one small town each year, all operating under fake names?” Kimberly asked slowly. She looked at the sheriff, but it was Keith who spoke up.
“Human trafficking, drug distribution, illegal organ transplants or other medical procedures,” he rattled off. “Maybe even a pornography ring, though most of those perps prefer to stay at home with their computers. A sex ring, on the other hand, that would do it.”
Kimberly stared at the computer analyst. “Thanks,” she said finally.
“In all of those scenarios”—Keith leaned forward, clearly warming to his topic—“the constant is that Niche is serving as the hub. The participants come here, using fake names, then go home again. Given the amount of tourists passing through, they have the perfect cover, right? A stranger spending the weekend hardly stands out. While the location of Niche—tucked up in northern Georgia, where you have drive time to four bordering states as well as easy access to Atlanta and a major airport—makes it ideal. Finally, the small size and limited economy makes it easier for coercion. Pay off your neighbors, threaten them into silence, either works. Frankly, I’m surprised more quaint mountain towns aren’t used for illegal enterprises.”
Keith sat back. Sheriff Smithers rubbed his face. The poor man looked like he was about to keel over, while in the back of the room, tall, built-like-a-brick Franny appeared positively faint. She was clutching the delicate gold cross she wore around her neck and shaking her head slowly, as if to ward off words that couldn’t possibly be true.
