by Lisa Gardner
Instead, she made a show of keeping her right hand on the butt of her service pistol as she approached.
“Good evening,” she said with false cheerfulness.
The man didn’t put down his phone, just eyed her sullenly from beneath his helmet of thick dark hair.
“So as owner, you get the night shift?”
“My motel. My responsibility.”
Or, D.D. figured, he’d been ordered to keep an eye on the outsiders.
“I could use a recommendation for pizza delivery,” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Now, now, this motel is your responsibility. Meaning your guests are also your responsibility. I can’t believe you’ve been running this place for . . . how many years?”
“Twenty.”
“Without a single pizza delivery.”
“We’re a small town—”
D.D. leaned over the counter, got up close and personal so he could see the dead seriousness in her eyes. “Little man, don’t make me hurt you. Because the things I know how to do with just my thumb . . .”
The man glared at her. Finally, he reached out, grabbed some pamphlets from the desk in front of him, and slapped it on the raised counter between them. A brochure for a Dahlonega pizza parlor, with the promise of delivery to anywhere within thirty miles. Perfect.
“I could use blank paper and a pen. Printing paper will be fine. Any pen will do, though if you have colored markers, that would be excellent.”
“I don’t have colored markers.”
D.D. sighed heavily. Made a show of wiggling her right thumb.
“I have crayons. For kids. Activity packs.”
“How extraordinarily kind of you.”
More shuffling around on the desk. A small pack of five crayons was tossed on the counter. Then the man swiveled his chair toward the printer behind him and extracted the tray to grab paper.
D.D. picked up the crayons. She knew these packs from her own family’s attempts at dining out. When Jack was two, he used to eat the green crayon. Only the green. She and Alex had never figured out why. Now at the age of six, Jack had more self-restraint when it came to munching on wax. He wasn’t much into coloring, though, being on the active side. He did, however, enjoy a rousing game of tic-tac-toe while they waited for their food to arrive.
Again, she felt a pang of homesickness. Was she growing soft in her old age? Or maybe it was just that she was standing in a deserted motel, across from a man who’d already made it clear they weren’t welcome here anymore, and she had no idea if any establishment would accept them, or who in this small town they could trust.
They were outsiders. Cops always felt that way. But after a day at a mass grave followed by an early morning at a woman’s hanging, and now this . . .
Bonita hadn’t drawn a man. She’d drawn a demon.
D.D. didn’t like it.
The owner returned with a meager stack of paper. Maybe five sheets. She gave him a look.
“Passive-aggressive much?” D.D. asked.
“Please,” the man said.
And the way he said it caught her attention.
The owner licked his lips, glancing around the empty lobby. “Please, whatever you are doing. Just get it done. And leave. Just leave. It’s better that way.”
“Better?” D.D. pushed. “Or safer?”
The man just stared at her. “Please,” he repeated softly.
And if D.D. hadn’t been spooked before, she was now.
* * *
—
RETURNING TO THE ROOM—AND making sure she worked the bolt lock behind her—she discovered Bonita standing next to the bed, her long black hair dripping down D.D.’s T-shirt. Bonita had rolled up the sweatpants at the waist and the ankles. They were still big on her, though D.D. herself was hardly huge.
The girl trembled slightly when D.D. first appeared. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, as if for comfort. Immediately, D.D. felt terrible. She should’ve told Bonita where she was going. She should’ve . . . Many thoughts ran through her head. She barely knew how to parent Jack, let alone take on a frightened, damaged teen. She was going to have to proceed with more care.
“I ordered us some pizza. It will be delivered here. Are you hungry?”
Bonita shrugged.
“I also got us some supplies.” D.D. held up her hard-fought treasures. “Paper and crayons.”
Bonita’s whole face brightened. She stepped forward, taking the crayons from D.D.’s hand with near reverence. For the first time, D.D. could see the girl’s exposed forearms. One held an intricate pattern of scars. As if she’d thrust her fist through plate glass and cut herself in a dozen places. Except her hand was completely unblemished. Just her forearm.
It was a pattern, D.D. realized at last. Like lacework. A pattern that had been purposefully carved into the girl’s skin.
Bonita caught her staring. She quickly covered the scars with her other hand, still clutching the crayons.
“Do you like to draw?” D.D. asked at last, to break the ice.
Quick nod.
“I have paper, too. Not a lot, but I can get more.” D.D. crossed to the empty space on the TV console and set down the sheets of paper. There was no desk in the room. D.D. usually sat with her laptop in the middle of the bed. But Bonita didn’t seem to mind. She kneeled down in front of the console, a bit awkwardly with her right leg, then opened up the crayon pack.
She took out the crayons one by one, running her fingers up and down the entire length, exploring the paper wrapping, the sharpened tip. The girl liked to feel things, D.D. was starting to realize. Maybe because she couldn’t speak, she had become more tactile instead?
“Can you draw me a picture?” D.D. asked. “Anything you like.”
Bonita turned and regarded her for a long moment. Again, those dark eyes, like vast pools and impossible to penetrate. The girl was beautiful, D.D. thought. Even with the thickly ridged scar burrowing into her hairline and the droop of her mouth. Her delicate features and smooth almond skin stood out in contrast to the jagged scar. The mark didn’t make her less, but proved she was more. Stronger, tougher. A survivor, like Flora. If D.D. could break down the communication barrier, perhaps Flora could reach out to her. She ran a support group of sorts back in Boston. From surviving to thriving, Flora liked to quote.
Bonita looked like someone who’d learned the hard way how to survive. She did not know yet, though, how to thrive.
The girl turned her attention back to the first piece of paper. She picked up a crayon and got to work.
Her strokes were sure and fast. Definitely, the girl had experience sketching. Maybe the mayor and his wife had granted her art supplies as a reward for good behavior? Or she had secreted away crayons when no one was looking?
D.D. took a seat in the nearby chair. She let the girl have at it, using the time to check messages on her phone and wonder how the debriefing was going.
A knock.
D.D. glanced at the door immediately, her hand going to her gun. Then she realized Bonita stood in front of her. The girl rapped the top of the console again, demanding D.D.’s attention. Bonita held out the first piece of paper.
D.D. blinked her eyes in surprise.
It was beautiful. Bonita had filled the entire page with greens and blues and browns. A forest scene, D.D. realized. Or the essence of a mountainside. It appeared her new charge was an impressionist. Close up, the colors blurred together into an abstract swirl. Lean back, however, and shapes slowly emerged. Trees, bushes, maybe a running stream.
Then, holding the picture farther away, shadows. Between the trees, behind the bushes, tucked beside boulders. So many shadows. Again, D.D. felt a ripple of unease.
She found a wavy black column, pointed at it. “Is this a demon? Are all these shadows bad people?
”
Bonita shook her head. She gazed at D.D. sorrowfully.
The girl took the drawing back. She stroked her finger down one blur of black, then another. Her touch was gentle. Not angry, or fearful. Sad.
“Bonita, are those ghosts? Are those . . . other girls? Girls like you?”
A single, solemn nod.
D.D. stared at the picture again. She couldn’t speak. There had to be at least a dozen slender shadows tucked into the portrait. Maybe even more.
“Do you know what happened to Hélène?”
Head shake.
“But you fear for her.”
Nod.
“You think the demon has her. Is he the one . . . Is he the one who did all this?” D.D. pointed to the picture again, the dozens of dark lines interspersed within the beautiful shades of blue and green.
Another solemn nod.
“And your arm?” D.D. pointed, but did not touch the elaborate scarring. “Did he do that, too?”
Nod.
D.D. swallowed thickly. “How long? How long has this been going on?”
The girl shrugged. As if to say, how could she know such a thing? Or as if she had never known any differently?
“Can you draw me his face?” D.D. asked. “The man who did this?”
Bonita sighed heavily. She appeared genuinely distressed now. She picked up a crayon, then another. She gazed at D.D. pleadingly, as if she needed help, but D.D. didn’t know what to do.
“Just try,” D.D. said. “Do your best. Anything you can show me will be of help.”
The girl gave her a last look. More reluctantly, she kneeled down, got to work. D.D. sat back again. But this time she didn’t pick up her phone. She held Bonita’s first drawing and studied it over and over again.
This time when the knock came, she was prepared.
Bonita held out the new picture. Her hand trembled.
At first glance, D.D. was struck by a sea of roiling black. Hard strokes, swirling onto one another. More than just black. Reds, blues, and browns, but all topped by black again. She had layered the colors, probably had already worn the black crayon down to a nub.
D.D. held the picture farther away. Bonita visualized in terms of colors and moods, not details. Hence her reluctance to do a portrait, D.D. assumed. Because this wasn’t really a face of a man as much as a capturing of a spirit—violent, dark, oppressive.
A demon.
The rendering was very good at communicating fear, but not so helpful as an investigative tool.
D.D. lowered it to her lap. “Thank you for doing this. I know it can’t be easy.”
Bonita nodded. She had one hand self-consciously clasped over her scarred wrist, forearm turned in. Both maids had worn long-sleeved uniforms, D.D. realized now. She wondered what other damages they had to hide.
Whatever had happened to Martha Counsel, D.D. wasn’t feeling very sorry about it anymore. Nor did she have any sympathy for the mayor’s show of crocodile tears. Best she could tell, they’d both made a deal with the devil. Apparently, last night the devil had come to collect his due.
Reap what you sow, she thought. Except how did a demon man with a penchant for knife games and torture figure in to Martha’s illegal kidney operation?
They had learned much in the past twenty-four hours, but it still wasn’t enough.
Bonita had returned to the console. She was drawing again. Slower now. Her posture had changed. Her shoulders slumped, her black hair falling around her like a curtain. There was sorrow in every line of her body. If D.D. didn’t know differently, she would’ve sworn that the crayon was crying in the girl’s hand, weeping tears of wax across the page.
Blue, then red, so much red.
D.D. braced herself as Bonita finally rose, produced her third rendition.
A flowing river of blue into a sea of red. D.D. felt her throat close up just looking at it. Pain, suffering, and sorrow.
Bonita might not be able to talk, but her artwork communicated volumes.
D.D. took the paper, her fingers trembling. She held it back, let her eyes blur, then focus, then blur again.
The river of blue had a form. Slowly but surely, she could see it. A woman’s body in a blue dress, sprawled across the floor. Into the pool of red. Blood.
D.D. looked up. “Is this Hélène?”
Head shake.
“Is this what you’re afraid will happen to her?”
Another head shake.
D.D. paused, considered. “Is this another girl? Another maid?”
Nod.
“She died.”
Nod.
“You saw.”
Double nod.
“The demon did it?”
Head shake.
“Mrs. Counsel, Mayor Howard?” Head shake, head shake. “The cook?” Head shake.
D.D. pursed her lips, running out of ideas. Good God, how many killers were they talking about in this community? “But you saw her die?”
Nod.
“Recently?”
Vigorous nod.
“Past few days?” D.D. attempted.
Definite nod.
D.D. paused again. So they had another murder. This time of a maid from the B&B. But before Martha Counsel. So first a maid, then the owner. All in the past few days—meaning, right after the taskforce arrived.
She held this picture on her lap. She traced the blue form as gently as Bonita had traced the shadows.
If these pictures were to be believed, this town was a graveyard of young women. How many bodies now dotted these woods?
And how many killers? How deep did this kind of coercion run?
“Thank you, Bonita,” D.D. said softly. “I think now . . . I’ll check on our pizza. Then both of us need to sleep.”
CHAPTER 32
FLORA
KEITH AND I DON’T TALK on the way back to the motel.
Kimberly is behind the steering wheel. Night has fallen thick and dark, but staring out the window, I swear I see the outline of towering trees. The woods scream at night, Walt had said. I wonder if he knows more than he realizes. Or if he’s playing us completely with his crazed loner act and barn full of greens. Jacob had always been scarily clever; there’s no reason to think his father is any different.
Kimberly parks, and we walk inside the motel. Sitting at the front desk, the owner eyes us sullenly but doesn’t try to kick us out again. Which means Keith and I do have a room for the night. The same room, now, thanks to D.D.
Kimberly nods at us in departure, arriving at her door first. Her expression is distracted, her thoughts clearly a million miles away. Trying to find the missing maid, trying to make sense of two, possibly three graves—and oh yes, some dark, dangerous UNSUB, as the FBI liked to say, on the loose around town.
Maybe the motel owner wasn’t bowing to local pressure when he tried to evict us. Maybe he was simply trying to keep us safe.
Keith arrives at the door first. He unlocks it. We both step inside. Before the taskforce meeting, we’d just had time to pack up our stuff and throw it in this room. No sign of the promised cot, which doesn’t surprise either of us. Now we are confronted by a single queen-sized bed with two bags sitting on top. Keith’s is the silvery hard-case spinner that looks like it belongs on the space shuttle. Mine is a simple black duffel bag that’s clearly seen better days.
We are nothing alike. Keith has his upscale, sixties-retro-meets-cutting-edge-modern town house. I live in a third-floor walk-up high on old-world charm, short on space, and covered in bolt locks. He always dresses like he stepped out of a men’s clothing catalogue. I look like something a homeless person threw up.
Keith crosses to the bed. He lifts off both bags, sets them neatly on the floor.
“You must be exhausted,” he says.
I gaze at him. He�
��s steady. He’s solid. I don’t know that I can live in his world, but he has proven that he can hold his own in mine. Is that enough for a relationship? Do I even want a relationship?
“I’ll take the floor,” he says.
I don’t answer.
“Not a problem. You need your sleep the most.”
I don’t answer.
He clasps and unclasps his hands. I realize for the first time that he’s nervous.
“Sometimes,” I hear myself whisper, “I feel my entire life is about Jacob.”
Keith stills. “No. You were a person before him—”
“I don’t remember that girl.”
“You’re a survivor after him.”
“I am what he made me.”
“No, Flora. That’s the point. He tried to break you. Who you are now, you made yourself. You didn’t give up. That’s all you. Not one single bit of that is him.”
“Will you kiss me?” I whisper.
“Okay.” But he doesn’t move and neither do I.
“I don’t know what I will do. How I’ll respond.”
“You haven’t . . . since your return?”
“No. Others do. Others get over it. I . . . I can’t even stand my mother’s hugs.”
He nods, clearly thinking. He is always thinking. Do I love or hate that about him? I can’t decide.
He takes a step forward. Then another. A final stride and he’s right in front of me. Close, but not touching. I can feel the heat of him. Smell the soap of his quick shower before the meeting. I can see the faint lines bracketing his rich blue eyes, anticipate the silky feel of his hair.
He’s staring at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted. No one has ever looked at me like that. As if I matter that much. As if I am that worthy.
He’s not going to kiss me, I realize. He’s waiting for me to kiss him. Another act of thoughtfulness, I suppose. Let me set the pace. Put me in control.
I place both hands on his thin blue shirt. It feels cool to the touch and forms perfectly to his long, sculpted torso. This space-age fabric probably cost more than my monthly rent, I think, but then I’m happy he bought it, because it feels good beneath my fingertips, as if I’m already touching bare skin.
