by Lisa Gardner
“Shhh!”
The urgency in her tone brings me around as much as my throbbing temple. She’s crouched behind a considerable boulder, peering at something before her. I’m lying in the dirt, where I’ve apparently been dropped like a sack of potatoes. My face feels wet and sticky. I touch my cheek gently. Not tears. Blood.
I have a vague memory of rocks falling and a rifle cracking. I’m not sure which of them got me, but at least I’m alive. Mostly.
I try to sit up. The world swims, then my stomach. Concussion, most likely. Kimberly has her .22 in her hands and is clearly on guard against some immediate threat. I’m going to have to do better than lounge at her feet.
“Knife,” she mutters, not a question, but an order.
I fumble around till I find my butterfly blade. I flick my wrist to snap it open, but my effort is so pathetic, I nearly drop the folded handles instead.
I register footsteps for the first time. Heavy and coming from the other side of the boulder where Kimberly has brought us—carried me—to cover. Someone is making a slow and stealthy approach. Stalking us.
This time, I snap my dragon-handled blade open successfully. The dark swims before my eyes, and I still feel the vague presence of Jacob pressing down on me.
The sensation brings me strength. I’m not a fresh-out-of-captivity survivor anymore, and Dream Jacob isn’t nearly as compelling as he thinks. I belong to me. And I came here by choice to help other people, including this hodgepodge team of investigators I’ve come to trust.
Now I’m going to have Kimberly’s back, as she clearly had mine. Then we’re both going home safely tonight. At which point I’m going to find Keith and spend more quality time exorcising demons.
The footsteps are closer. I’m not sure who’s on the other side of that boulder. I’m guessing, due to the relentless dark, that we are now in the mine. Kimberly grabbed me and made a strategic retreat. Had Walt turned on us in the end? Like father like son?
Except I remember the crack of a rifle, and Walt favored his shotgun.
Then I have an image of something else, Walt falling back in the grass, his chest stained red. That makes me remember a particular motel room, where I held a gun to his son’s head one moment, and felt the hot spray of blood and brains the next.
I wonder if Jacob had any idea when he snatched me off the Florida beach that he’d be dooming himself and his family. That one drunk foolish blonde, spinning on the sand to music only she could hear, would one day kill them all.
Kimberly grows tenser beside me. The sound of approach has stopped. Meaning our attacker is where? Right on the other side of the boulder, waiting for the rabbits to bolt? Or finding a ledge that would give him higher ground, the perfect sniper’s perch? He could shoot us dead in the space of twin heartbeats.
We should move. But to retreat would give up our position. Not to mention, I’m propped up like a four-day drunk against a boulder, and currently have just about as much coordination. We could go on the offensive, but how? The moment Kimberly pops up to fire her weapon, she’s exposed to return fire. And as for my knife, well, it really is stupid—a knife in the middle of a gunfight.
I have an idea. It’s not the best, it’s not the worst. It’s classical me, making the most of the resources on hand. I dig my fingers around in the dirt beside me till I find a decent-sized rock. Then I whack Kimberly against the leg till I have her attention. I pantomime my intent. If she’s dazzled by my brilliance, she certainly doesn’t show it. She shrugs, more like what do we have to lose?
Exactly.
Deep breath. My head hurts. My stomach churns. My heart . . . A piece of Jacob lives there; he’s not wrong about that. But he isn’t me, just a sliver of the past I’m finally learning to let go. All the more reason to survive into the future.
I toss the rock as hard as I can down into the dark void behind us. I aim for the wall on the other side of the tunnel, a long diagonal. There is a faint thump in the distance, nothing more.
Not enough for our stalker to take the bait.
So I grab another rock, then another and throw them in quick succession. One must hit hard, and the ensuing spray of pebbles makes just the right noise—two people scrabbling away in the dark.
The footsteps resume. Closer and closer.
Kimberly steadies her .22.
We both wait.
CHAPTER 41
D.D.
ONE MOMENT, D.D. SWAM IN a sea of black, disoriented. The next, her eyes snapped open, just in time to see a fire poker smashing down toward her skull for the second time. Instinctively she tried to raise her right arm, but the responding lance of pain took her breath away. She rolled to the side, just as the poker crashed against the stone floor next to her shoulder.
A fierce voice above her: “Die, dammit. Just die!”
Franny, the sheriff’s receptionist, loomed above her. The delicate gold cross still dangled around her neck, but the rest of her was barely recognizable. Her carefully styled ash-blond hair had unraveled into a mad scientist’s cap. Her pale blue sweater set was covered in dirt and soot, and a line of black smudge marred her hip where it appeared something had hit her. Some things remained the same, however. Her broad shoulders, surprisingly tall build, impressive upper body strength.
Fire poker, lifting back up.
Move, Sergeant, move.
Flat on her back, half in the tunnel, half out, and with a right arm that still throbbed angrily, D.D. was out of options. Continue worming frantically into the dark tunnel might give her cover, buy her some time, but . . .
Bonita.
What had happened to Bonita? She needed to protect Bonita. With a quick twist, D.D. jerked her torso through the passage door, into the stone chamber. Her arm said no, but the rest of her demanded yes, and she rolled beneath the giant oak table, hissing in pain.
Scream of outrage as Franny realized she’d just lost her target.
Don’t think. Don’t feel. Move.
D.D. popped up the other side. Her right arm was clearly injured. She could twist her wrist, wiggle her fingers, so maybe not broken, but currently useless for drawing her weapon. She knew something, however, that Franny didn’t: D.D. had suffered a major injury to her left arm years ago. And as part of her recovery, she’d taught herself to shoot one-handed, versus the required two-handed grip. She’d started with her uninjured right arm; then, out of sheer paranoia, when her left arm had recovered, she’d perfected left-handed shooting as well, so she’d never be at a disadvantage again.
The older woman glared at her now, her grip still tight on her makeshift weapon, but the vast table blocking her from her target. Franny narrowed her gaze shrewdly, obviously, just like D.D. moving on to plan B.
Kimberly had mentioned some things about the woman. She was tougher than she looked, a born survivor who’d had to rebuild her life after losing her newborn child, and highly skilled at overcoming obstacles. Which explained how determined the massive woman looked right now, staring at D.D. across the table, fire poker at the ready.
Shit.
Quickly, D.D. glanced around the room. No sign of Bonita. Hopefully the girl had headed upstairs and tucked herself someplace safe. Now, D.D. made a show of clutching her right arm, wobbling unsteadily on her feet. In a showdown of brawn, no way D.D. was coming out on top. Not against an opponent this large and aggressive. Which left her with . . . stalling. Buying time for Bonita to escape, for reinforcements to arrive, for D.D.’s field of vision to clear enough so she could successfully get off a shot.
“Why?” she asked. It didn’t require any acting to make her voice rough with pain.
“None of you should be here. We had everything under control!”
“Importing young girls for hired help? Organ donors? Sex slaves?”
“We offer only the best product to the best customers,” Franny answered matter-of-factly.
“No shipments of sickly immigrants for us. We take orders, and personally acquire what would best suit our clients’ needs.”
D.D. could read between those lines. Most human-trafficking operations involved importing container loads of girls who were then shuttled out to “massage parlors” and the like. Mass product for mass distribution.
Tucked this far north in the mountains, dozens of foreign girls would stand out. But specific individuals, brought in as housemaids till the right fit could be made . . . D.D. felt ill.
“But why? After everything you’ve been through . . . the loss of your own child . . . why kidnap someone else’s?”
“I didn’t lose him.”
D.D. stared at the woman. Franny smiled—it was not a nice expression on the woman’s face.
“I knew I had to give the baby up once he was born. Back in those days, it was the only option for an unmarried woman like me. Especially in a small town like this. Bunch of close-minded, judgmental asses. Looking down their noses at me because what, I was only a waitress, and a young, stupid, pregnant one at that. I heard their whispers. I took it. I told myself what must be done. But then, I held my baby in my arms. And I . . . I couldn’t do it.”
“You kept your baby . . . but told everyone he’d died?”
“I’ve always been smarter than people assumed.”
“You can’t hide an infant,” D.D. said.
“You can if the father is willing to take him.”
“Wait, who’s the father?”
Franny still had her poker raised in a batter’s stance, but with the enormous table lodged between her and D.D., they were currently at a stalemate. The older woman’s gaze, however, kept darting past D.D.’s shoulder. Expecting company? Bonita’s demon man? D.D. was killing time, looking for the right opportunity. Was it possible Franny was doing the same?
D.D. shifted slowly to the right, closer to the fireplace, where she’d have at least a partial line of sight on the gaping wooden doors.
“Who raised your son, Franny?” D.D. asked quietly, though she thought she might have an idea. Franny knew all about the taskforce team’s activities these past few days, being part of the meetings. But there was one other person who’d had a front row seat. Keith and Flora had included him, with neither of them being the wiser.
“Doesn’t matter,” Franny replied stiffly.
So D.D. said it for her: “Bill Benson, the owner of the ATV shop. He kept talking with Keith and Flora. And today, you said he was the one who came into the station and raised the fuss to distract the on-duty deputy. You two were in on it together. You told him when to arrive, when there would be only one deputy around. And while Deputy Chad dealt with Bill, you were the one who paid the visit to Mayor Howard. Good God, you’re behind all this. But why?”
“I love him. I’ve loved him most of my life,” Franny said simply. “And he loves me, too.”
“Then you should’ve gotten married. Raised your son together. Instead . . .” D.D. gestured with her good hand in the empty air. “You built an entire life out of lies.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Seriously?”
Franny frowned at D.D. Her gaze returned to the open doorway behind D.D.’s shoulder. No doubt about it, the woman was waiting for someone. Shit, D.D. thought again. Because even if she could shoot with her left arm, she could still only aim in one direction at a time.
“Bill’s married. His wife, however, isn’t well. Schizophrenia. Sad really. Most days Bill keeps her locked in her room.”
“Because that’s kinder than having her hospitalized?”
“Have you seen those places? Terrible. Just terrible.”
D.D. took another step to the right. Something was up. Franny’s willingness to talk, buy time of her own. D.D. could feel the impending threat. She just couldn’t see it. “So your married lover with a mentally ill wife raised your son. And you what, visited as a family friend, monitored your own kid growing up?”
“Aunt Franny,” she provided. “But my son figured it out, being such a smart boy. Not to mention he doesn’t look anything like that frail, haunted woman in the house. One day he wanted the truth. Bill and I gave it to him. Of course he was grateful to realize I was his mother, not the crazy woman locked in the rear bedroom.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure there was only one crazy woman in that house.”
“You don’t know anything,” Franny replied flatly.
“I know your son’s a monster,” D.D. countered. “Bonita drew him as pure evil. That’s the son you denied, gave away, then tried to reclaim. And now you excuse his behavior even as it grows worse? He killed those girls, didn’t he? Then Bill disposed of the bodies.”
“Martha needed a kidney. Bill and I were talking about it one night when Clayton was home. He said he could help.”
“He kidnapped girls to be human organ donors!”
“He ran a domestic services business in New Mexico. Lots of hired girls. It wasn’t too hard to see if one of them had the right blood type.”
“He was a pimp!” D.D. shouted. “And twenty to one, Bonita’s mother was one of his first victims.”
“He saved Martha’s life!”
“Except it didn’t stop there. He had a thing for girls. He liked to acquire them, he liked to torture them. Living in a small town, that might stand out. But if he imported them, shared them with others . . . Dear God, your son turned his violent obsession into a business, and you helped him!”
“This community needs him! Our town was dying. Businesses failing, good people on the verge of losing their homes. Clayton is smart. He saw the opportunity. He started supplying a cheaper workforce, which people certainly appreciated. Then there was a guest here, a guest there, who wanted extra services. Martha and Howard—well, they couldn’t very well say no, could they? And with the increase in offerings came more and more people arriving into the community, willing to spend money.”
“Such as Jacob Ness?”
“It was my idea to have Dorothea build the website, with its portal to the dark web, where even more important business could be done.
“Once word got out, well . . . The past ten years have been a boon for this community. Everyone has benefited. Everyone!”
“How many bodies are we going to find in the woods, Franny? How many!”
“We were doing just fine—”
“With Bill digging graves and you managing things in the sheriff’s department so no one ever connected the dots on all the girls who appeared and disappeared? You’re going to jail, Franny. And your son, as well as Bill, Dorothea, and every single person in this town if that’s what it takes. You’re all going down.”
The woman snorted. “Now who’s crazy? The sheriff and that young man aren’t coming back. Those tunnels go on forever. You need a guide. Not to mention, Bill is already closing in from the other side. I shut this secret door, and no one will be the wiser.”
“I will. And you’re in no position to stop me.”
Franny smiled. Again, it wasn’t a nice look on her face. “Clayton will take care of you. Right after he’s done with the girl.”
“Your son is here?”
“Way ahead of you.”
“That’s why Bonita ran.”
“She doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Franny,” D.D. said coolly. “You severely injured my right arm. It means you attacked a police officer. It means I can respond with deadly force.”
“With the table between us, I’m hardly a threat to you now.”
“And where are the witnesses to testify to that?”
The woman paused. She still held the poker, but for the first time appeared uncertain. Her gaze once more flicked to the open doorway. Looking for her son, waiting for her son. Which was why she’d been willing to talk as much as D.D.
But D.D. could
n’t afford to stall any longer. Not with this Clayton monster chasing Bonita.
D.D. raised her sidearm with her left hand. All those years of practice . . . She had nothing to doubt. Nothing to fear.
Her left finger on the trigger. Slight squeeze. She fired.
The bullet smacked Franny’s right shoulder. The poker clattered to the floor as the woman staggered back, clutching at her injury, surprise written all over her face.
“I would have aimed for your heart,” D.D. informed her, “if I thought you had one.”
The older woman collapsed to the floor, still staring at D.D. in shock.
“You won’t immediately die from that wound. Then again, without prompt medical treatment, plenty of things could go wrong. I suggest you start atoning for your sins sooner versus later.”
D.D. took a second to check out her right arm again, rotating it slowly, flexing her fingers. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but didn’t seem to be broken. Bone bruise maybe. Hardly mattered. She could handle the pain. She would do whatever necessary to keep her promise to Bonita. Now, she leaned over the table till she could look Franny in the eye. Already the woman’s brow was beaded with sweat, her body starting to tremble as shock set in.
“Hey, Franny,” D.D. said in her nicest voice. “I’m going to go find your son. And then, I’m going to kill him.”
CHAPTER 42
THE BAD MAN STANDS IN front of me in the stone room.
No, he’s sitting at my mother’s table, shoveling her home-cooked food into his mouth. He leers at me from between the elaborately carved twin doors, twisting his favorite blade.
No, he looms in the desert, firing a bullet through my mother’s throat.
He is now. He is then.
He is here.
And I’m just me: no gun, no knife, no magical powers. I can’t scream. I can’t run. I can only stand in place as he approaches.
The Bad Man and the older woman go together. And now, that woman stands over D.D., poker ready for a fresh strike. D.D. is on the ground next to the tunnel opening, not moving.
