When You See Me

by Lisa Gardner

  The shadow, growing darker . . .

  “She calls me Bonita. Did you name me Bonita?” My voice is urgent, frantic. Any moment the door will explode open. Any second, the Bad Man will appear again.

  “You have always been bonita to me. Muy bonita.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’m still with you. I’m always with you. But you know that, chiquita. For everything that is lost, something is gained. Your words are gone, but you have other gifts in their place.”

  She smiles. Wipes her hands on her apron. Before I can get up. Before I can fly across the room and wrap my arms around her waist.

  The door slams open.

  The Bad Man appears.

  Now we are outside, my mother kneeling on the red earth. She does not cower or beg. There is no pleading this time as the Bad Man looms before her. Her voice is simple and composed as she tells me, “Run.”

  But once again, I can’t do it.

  “Chiquita. It’s okay. For everything that’s lost, something is gained.”

  The Bad Man levels his weapon.

  Now, I’m the one who begs. “Let her go. Take me. I’ll be your servant forever. Just take me.”

  “She must pay,” the Bad Man snarls.

  My mother merely smiles at him. She appears serene as she says, “I do not repent. I would do it all again. They deserved the chance I gave them. And you will never get them back. I am but one. They are many. So do what you must. We both know, in the end, I won.”

  A howl, like the coyotes in the distance, except worse.

  “Chiquita, run.”

  “No!”

  “Remember, for everything that is lost, something is gained.”

  The Bad Man’s finger squeezing the trigger. My mamita, staring right at him, daring him to take her life.

  “I love you,” I cry out frantically.

  “I know, my chiquita. I know.”

  Then the trigger is pulled. The bullet explodes. I’m too far away to protect her. I can only watch as the bullet rips through my mamita’s pale white throat.

  Except suddenly she is no longer my mamita.

  It is the blond lady detective, pitching forward into the red, red earth. It is Hélène, it is Stacey, it is girl after girl after girl.

  And the Bad Man is not snarling anymore; he is laughing darkly.

  “It will be your turn next,” he tells me. “There’s no one to save you anymore.”

  “I will save myself,” I tell him.

  Which only makes him laugh harder.

  “I am Bonita and I have my mother’s love and my sisters’ pain and we will burn you to the ground!” I try to sound fierce.

  He doubles over with mirth. “You know what outruns even fire, Stupid Girl?” he says as he straightens.

  I shake my head.

  “A bullet.”

  Then he reloads the gun and very calmly aims it at my head.

  “Chiquita, run,” my mother whispers in my ear. And I feel her again, wrapped around me like a warm embrace. Chiquita and mamita, our pack of two. She is mine and I am hers, always.

  Which makes it all the more agonizing when the bullet slams into my temple and tears me away from her again.

  * * *

  —

  I WAKE UP SHARPLY. THE clock reads six A.M. Dawn still an hour away. I’m surprised I slept that long, especially on a bed that feels so soft and foreign. I take a moment to get my bearings. The strange room with a sharp chemical smell. A sound of gentle snoring across the way. The lady detective, who has appointed herself my new protector.

  I listen for the sound of footsteps in the hall. The Bad Man coming. Then I close my eyes and simply feel for him. My mother is right: For everything lost, something is gained.

  This motel is not like the house. It does not sigh with pain, shift restlessly in discontent. It is just a building. Maybe it’s too young to know any better. Maybe it hasn’t encountered enough human horror to know how to mourn.

  I do not feel the Bad Man. I don’t feel anything at all.

  I climb out of bed, cross to the console. I have two pieces of paper left. I snap on the lamp. I pick up my crayons, and with the image of my beautiful mamita in my mind, I draw and I draw.

  Red earth. Black hair like a river. Brown eyes soft as an embrace. I draw my mother’s love. Then, I draw her pain.

  “No, chiquita,” she whispers at my shoulder.

  But I keep on going. Pouring our story onto the page. No longer dreaming. Now completely wide awake.

  Which is why I’m the one who hears the screaming first.

  * * *

  —

  THE BLOND DETECTIVE BOLTS OUT of bed. One moment she is snuffling in her sleep, the next she is upright, yanking on her clothes, grabbing her gun from the bedside table.

  “Stay here,” she orders me. Then she’s gone.

  I hear more noise now. Footsteps, hammering down the hall.

  “What is it?” The FBI lady’s voice.

  “I don’t know. Flora, stay with Bonita.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Dammit.”

  More screaming, shrill and high pitched. The voices and footsteps pound down the hall.

  I rise to standing, place my crayons on the console. Then I do as the detective did. I pull on my clothes, open the door, and I follow, slowly, painfully, down the hall.

  I encounter the first person in the lobby. It is the motel manager. The one who said we must leave last night. He’s staring out the glass doors in horror.

  He glances over at me. “Do not go out there,” he says.

  But he doesn’t know all the things I’ve seen.

  I limp my way forward. Resolute, even as I feel the silver shimmer of my mother dance in front of me.

  Outside, the sun has just broken above the horizon, bathing the parking lot in rosy color. A crowd of people has gathered. I make out the detective, the FBI woman, Flora who carries a knife, and the man who is always beside her. There are others. Hotel guests roused by the noise. Strangers passing by. I have no idea.

  Then I look up, and what I see finally stops me in my tracks.

  Hélène. Poor, scared, lovely Hélène. She is still wearing her maid’s uniform. And now her body dangles lifelessly from a tree planted at the edge of the parking lot. I have a sense of déjà vu. Blue running as a river into a pool of red.

  He has cut her. Blood drips down her hands, both legs. It is not enough for him to kill. The Bad Man, he likes to destroy first. Until when he goes for the final blow, his victims lift their chins in gratitude.

  Beside me, my mother is very still.

  I look around the parking lot, but I don’t sense him. He came. He staged this gruesome scene. He left.

  “I’ll call Sheriff Smithers,” the FBI lady is saying to D.D.

  “We need to cut her down.”

  “The ME won’t be happy about that. Destroys evidence.”

  “I know, but this isn’t just about the murder of a young woman. This is a message.”

  “Another hint we should get the hell out of town? Because frankly, the more bodies that drop, the longer we stay.”

  “No,” D.D. says, turning to the FBI lady. “It’s a message to the locals. Look what happens if you talk to us.”

  “Shit,” the FBI lady murmurs.

  “Bonita can communicate with pictures. She can’t do a literal rendering of our UNSUB’s face, but she did reveal another girl had been killed at the B and B, probably the day before Martha Counsel.”

  “Good God, and where is that body?”

  D.D. looks around. “It’s a big, big mountain range, with how many hundreds of miles of trails?”

  Flora has moved closer to them. “I can cut her down,” the woman says softly. She is holding her fancy knife, wit
h an intricately carved pattern that both fascinates and repels me.

  “I’ll help,” D.D. says. “It’s important to preserve the knot for forensic analysis. We’re going to need a ladder.”

  “I can hoist Flora up on my shoulders,” Flora’s companion says. “Then she can lower the body down to you.”

  “We need to get this circus under control,” the FBI lady mutters.

  “We need to find the motherfucker who did this,” D.D. states. She turns and spots me. Her eyes widen. She looks around frantically, as if the Bad Man is here, as if he’ll see.

  But I already know he’s not. He is gone; Cook is gone. It’s just Hélène and me. Again.

  I hobble forward. I ignore the detective who is hissing at me to stop. I ignore the gawkers who are staring at a woman who was never my friend, but my sister in pain.

  I move till I’m right beneath her body. Till I can look straight up and see what he did to her. Poor Hélène. Beautiful Hélène who was so afraid. If she hadn’t fled the kitchen yesterday. If she’d just stayed with me.

  I stretch up now. I don’t mind the blood. I have seen it, cleaned it, felt it running down my own wrist. Blood is nothing to fear. People are.

  I place my hand gently on Hélène’s bare foot—all I can reach.

  And I promise her, as I have promised the others, I will not rest, I will not retreat.

  I’m going to kill the Bad Man. I don’t know how. I’m weak and gimpy and small. I don’t know knives the way he does. I’ve never held a gun. I have no idea how to fight. I’m just me. Wordless and helpless.

  But I do have one thing on my side. I don’t care if I live or die. What future is there for me, really? I don’t need to survive. I just need to take him down with me.

  For my mother. For myself. For all of us.

  I will make him pay.

  CHAPTER 34

  KIMBERLY

  KIMBERLY PROWLED THE MOTEL RESTLESSLY. While the ME and his assistants had arrived to whisk the body away, she’d grilled the lodging owner relentlessly.

  Were there cameras?

  Yes, but they captured activity only at the front door, not at the edge of the parking lot.

  Had he heard anything, registered any kind of disturbance?

  Absolutely not!

  But the man had been sweating profusely. Their UNSUB’s tactic to intimidate the locals was clearly working.

  She went at the man for another ten minutes, then gave up. He was too terrified to speak.

  The maid’s death tore at her. She’d talked to the woman just yesterday. Had agreed when D.D. said they needed to get both Bonita and Hélène out of the inn. Yet somehow, while Kimberly and Sheriff Smithers and D.D. were all still in the establishment, Hélène had been taken. Whisked away right under their noses.

  Goddammit.

  This case had started out as an exercise to bring closure in a fifteen-year-old missing persons case. Now? They had bodies dropping everywhere, and Kimberly couldn’t shake the feeling it was all her fault.

  The motel’s glass doors opened. D.D. entered, her expression a mirror for Kimberly’s own. Behind her came Bonita, her face pale but otherwise composed. The girl had known Hélène, but she didn’t appear grief-stricken, just grim.

  Next came Flora, Keith, Sheriff Smithers. That was enough for Kimberly.

  “Meeting. D.D.’s room. We need a new plan of attack.”

  They all filed wordlessly down the hall, leaving the rattled motel operator in their wake.

  D.D. held open the door to the double room. No one spoke till she closed it and bolted it behind her. Even then, Flora crossed to the window, peered out intently, then shuttered the curtains.

  Siege mentality, Kimberly thought. Yet wasn’t that exactly what they were in?

  “We can’t keep reacting to whatever the hell is going on in this town,” Kimberly began.

  “Damn straight,” Smithers said.

  The sheriff wasn’t looking good natured anymore. Or exhausted or overwhelmed. Or for that matter, guilty or shifty. He appeared pissed off, which was good. In Kimberly’s experience, angry cops got things done. It was one of the reasons she respected D.D. so much.

  “Keith has an idea,” Flora spoke up.

  Kimberly stared at the computer analyst. He flushed slightly, then straightened his spine and launched into a lecture on criminal enterprises, the dark web, and the key roles of the local cabal they had not yet identified but given the required skill set, they might have a shot at locating.

  No one spoke right away. Kimberly was thinking hard, as were D.D. and the sheriff. Flora kept peering through a slight crack in the curtains, as if their UNSUB might magically appear on the other side of the window. Or was lying in wait for them there.

  Only Bonita appeared composed. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Flora. No, Kimberly realized a moment later—gazing at the silver handle of the butterfly blade peeking out of Flora’s boot.

  Kimberly turned to the sheriff. “I’ll buy Keith’s analysis. The FBI’s bread and butter is organized crime, and Keith’s right—they function along the same lines as any large business enterprise. Given that, let’s start with our so-called mastermind. Always best to cut off the head of the snake. Who are key influencers and leaders around here?”

  The sheriff rocked back on his heels, considering. “Mayor Howard,” he supplied at last. “But to look at him yesterday . . . man’s genuinely distraught. Plus, he’s got no motive to order the murder of his own wife, especially given her own level of involvement.”

  “Did you check on him this morning?” D.D. asked.

  “Nah, came straight here when I heard the news. But I visited his cell around eleven last night.”

  “How’d he look?”

  “Like a broken man.”

  “I don’t think he’s our mastermind,” Kimberly said. D.D. and the sheriff nodded their agreement. The mayor’s emotional response yesterday had been too genuine.

  “What about our UNSUB? Our mystery killer?” Kimberly turned to D.D. “You said Bonita drew a picture.”

  The girl looked up at the sound of her name, then went back to her study of Flora’s boot.

  D.D. crossed into the second room, returning momentarily with three drawings in one hand, and a lone drawing in the other. She held out the first three, kept the fourth.

  The rest of them gathered around to study.

  “I’ll be damned,” the sheriff said first. “If that ain’t a picture of pure evil, I don’t know what is.”

  Kimberly had to agree. In terms of specific features, the coloring didn’t help them. In terms of sending a shiver down her spine, however . . .

  “I never thought to draw Jacob,” Flora murmured softly. “But if I did, it would be something like that.”

  Kimberly moved to the second picture. Blue into red. It took a moment to get it. D.D. was right: Bonita was a gifted impressionist.

  “That’s another maid,” D.D. supplied. “She died right before Martha Counsel. Bonita saw it, but said the demon didn’t do it.”

  “The cook?” Kimberly glanced up at Bonita.

  The girl shook her head.

  “Do you know this woman’s name?”

  Nod.

  Kimberly thought about the files she’d discovered in Martha Counsel’s office. One had a name, but was empty. “Stacey?” She attempted to remember. “Stacey . . .” She couldn’t quite get the last name.

  Two quick nods.

  Kimberly pursed her lips, then sighed.

  A sharp clap. They all glanced up. Bonita clapped again.

  “What is it?” D.D. asked.

  The girl was frowning, moving her hands. She clearly had something she wanted to communicate, but didn’t know how to do it. Finally, she pointed at Flora’s boot. The butterfly blade. She wanted the knife. />
  “Are you sure?” Flora asked her.

  Curt nod.

  Flora appeared skeptical, but she pulled out the folded up blade and handed it over. Bonita took a moment to examine it. She shifted it from hand to hand, clearly feeling the weight, then traced the intricate dragon design etched across the surface.

  “She’s very tactile,” D.D. volunteered.

  Apparently, D.D. was doing a good job of bonding with her new charge. Now, Bonita tried to pry open the closed sides with her fingernails. She was frowning hard, one corner of her mouth pinched.

  “Give it back. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Bonita reluctantly relinquished her new toy back to Flora. With a flick of her wrist, Flora transformed the instrument from a closed fan to a deadly knife. Bonita’s eyes widened in appreciation. She took the blade back, closing her fingers around the handle gingerly.

  “The blade is sharp, do not cut yourself,” Flora ordered.

  The girl glanced at her, then looked up again to make sure everyone was watching. Slowly, she placed the knife just above her thigh. Then, with a short, violent jerk, she pantomimed slicing open her leg.

  “Someone cut open the woman’s femoral artery,” D.D. said.

  Nod. Bonita held out her hand again. This time for the drawing. Kimberly handed it over, still confused.

  Bonita’s fingers danced gently over the form she’d colored in blue. Then she tapped the image once, and gazed at them expectantly.

  “She cut open her own leg,” Kimberly filled in softly. “She killed herself, that’s what you’re trying to say.”

  Bonita nodded sadly.

  “To escape them,” Flora said, because she of all people would know.

  More nodding.

  “Do you know what happened to the body?” D.D. asked.

  Nod.

  “Is she in the woods?” D.D. gestured to the remaining drawing, which Kimberly now realized was a mountainside filled with subtle slashes of black lines.

  Shrug.

  D.D. turned to Kimberly. “Those black lines, they all represent other deceased victims.”

  “But . . .” Kimberly couldn’t speak. There were dozens of them. The sheriff and the others crowded close, inspecting the image, as well.