The Girl from Silent Lake

by Leslie Wolfe

  She grabbed a shovel from the garage and went to the backyard, deciding to find out once and for all. Rushing to the back of the yard, she stopped in her tracks, frozen, as the moonlight shone through the immense crowns of the willow trees, their silent shadows menacing.

  Dropping to the ground, she hugged her knees, rocking back and forth, sobbing hard. She couldn’t do it.

  She had to find out a different way.

  Forty

  Hilltop

  It was past dinner time when Elliot left the sheriff’s office, after having spent the afternoon chasing evidence with little to show for it. One of the most promising leads, the blankets, had transformed into a dead end, but not before taking precious hours of his time.

  He’d hoped the blankets the killer had used to wrap and bury the victims were a traceable item, considering the Native American motif, and the fact that he’d never seen that particular design before. He’d expected to track them down to a local weaver, maybe someone who lived on the reservation, someone who might’ve remembered the customer who bought several identical blankets.

  He’d shown the photo of those blankets to tribal elders and various Natives, both on and off the reservation, even to tribal police. No one had seen that particular model or heard of a weaver who worked custom designs. While most of them agreed the motif was of Shastan inspiration, others said it didn’t feel genuine. Whether he could believe them or not, that was a different story. At the end of the day, he stopped by Dr. Whitmore’s and asked him to send blanket fibers to the lab, to gain some idea as to where the blankets were coming from. That was the easy part.

  The difficult part of his day had been fielding everyone’s questions and having to tell them, “No, we haven’t found those kids yet. No, the FBI doesn’t know either.” The sense of powerlessness filled him with anger so raw it threatened to turn into rage at the slightest provocation.

  All that powerlessness, and Kay.

  Muttering an elaborate oath in his long Texas drawl, he pulled over in the Hilltop Bar and Grill parking lot. It was a popular watering hole for the local deputies, and he hoped by now everyone’s questions would’ve been answered by other cops. He only wanted to sit down somewhere, eat a burger and down a couple of beers, no questions asked. By anybody.

  He took the far-end stool at the counter and beckoned the bartender. Elliot wasn’t a regular, not in the truest sense of the word. In a small place like Mount Chester, everyone was bound to become known in such places, just because there weren’t that many options to begin with. Up on the mountain, near the ski resort, there were dozens of restaurants and bars, but here, in town, Hilltop and a couple of others were all he could choose from.

  “Heya, Detective,” the bartender greeted him, then quickly parked a coaster in front of him on the scratched and grimy counter. “What can I get you?”

  “Bud Light,” Elliot replied, “and a burger with fries, hold the onion.”

  “You got it,” the man replied, wiping his hands on his apron. He placed a sweaty, ice-cold bottle in front of him, then disappeared.

  Elliot took a sip, savoring the taste, then took a few more swigs. He kept his eyes fixed on the counter, avoiding everyone, but, unfortunately, not everyone was avoiding him.

  “Detective, what a pleasure,” a man said in a baritone, then followed up with a slap on his shoulder.

  He turned and saw the chubby Deputy Hobbs grinning widely.

  “Hey, Spence,” he muttered, returning his focus to the dirty surface of the counter.

  A couple of other deputies appeared out of nowhere, all seemingly entertained by something, with at least a couple of drinks in them by that time.

  “How does it feel to be on your own again?” one of them asked with a wink, and the others burst into laughter.

  Elliot realized he missed the structure of the Austin sheriff’s office, where deputies knew their place in the food chain and thought twice before getting too casual with a detective. But Mount Chester was rural and small, and the local sheriff’s office was more like a family, complete with rude kids, bullies and the redheaded child in the basement. Add alcohol to that mix, and Elliot wished he’d gone home instead, to cold cuts on stale bread and a shot of much-needed bourbon.

  He didn’t reply, hoping they’d go away, searching for better entertainment elsewhere.

  “Sorry, Detective,” Hobbs apologized, “these schmucks don’t know their place.”

  He waved away the apology, choosing to not engage.

  “But we do want to know,” Hobbs continued, “what exactly happened with you and Dr. Sharp?”

  A couple of snickers accompanied the question that Elliot initially misunderstood.

  “Nothing happened, damn it,” he snapped, before realizing they were asking where Kay was, not if he’d slept with her. “The boss took her off the case, that’s all,” he added, hoping they didn’t notice how defensive he’d got for a moment.

  The snickering continued, and so did Hobbs’s endless questions.

  “Why?” Hobbs asked. His round face was sweaty and looked pale in the fluorescent lights of the pub, his beady eyes restless. “I thought she was the best we could hope for, considering her background, given how she’s an FBI profiler, and all that.” He paused for a moment, but when Elliot didn’t reply, he added, “Is she coming back?”

  Elliot didn’t know, and that question had been on his mind all afternoon. After how he’d treated her, she wasn’t going to come back. He’d been an idiot; not once, but twice.

  He thought she deserved it, but what if she’d been telling the truth? What if her father had vanished sixteen years ago, and the killer knew the story of his disappearance? He’d asked around, after dropping Kay at the house, hoping he’d be able to forget how she’d stood there on the driveway, staring after him, probably wondering what species of moron Detective Elliot Young from Texas was.

  He’d asked around, hoping and fearing, at the same time, to learn that there was evidence or testimony to support how he’d treated her. He couldn’t make up his mind what was worse. The fact that he’d treated her like a suspect, based on the assumption that she’d been insinuating herself into the investigation to cover for her father’s unlikely killing spree? Or the fact that he didn’t believe his partner, a seasoned investigator and recognized FBI profiler, when she’d provided him with a reasonable explanation for what was going on?

  And why hadn’t he believed her, really?

  He downed the rest of the beer, and the bartender immediately replaced the empty bottle and put a burger with fries in front of him, filling his nostrils with mouthwatering scents of sizzling bacon and molten cheddar, but he remained indifferent.

  Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. That’s why he didn’t believe her. Because it was easier to believe he’d fallen for a woman who was bound to destroy his career one way or another, than be faced with the fact that it was his move now. He needed to let her know how he felt about her or walk away.

  Or, even worse, make a complete ass of himself and move to Alaska.

  He poked a fry with the fork but stopped midair. He wasn’t that hungry anymore, and Hobbs’s clique was as annoying as a dry, prickly burr under a stallion’s saddle. He glared at Hobbs for a moment, then said, “Do you think I could eat dinner in peace, Deputy?” He accented the word, dipping his voice in sarcasm. “Do I have your permission?”

  The laughter came to a sudden stop and the three deputies hurried away, Hobbs being the last one. “So sorry, Detective, we didn’t mean anything by it.” Then they were finally gone, leaving him alone with his warm beer and cold burger, the background noise of the place a distant, faint dissonance of chatter, laughter and the occasional drunken shouting against a curtain of old country music.

  He’d sworn to himself he’d never get involved with a woman on the job. He’d sworn it, and just as soon forgot all about the bitter oath he’d taken while packing his belongings and leaving his dear Texas in the rearview mirror, t
he moment Kay Sharp walked into his life.

  Another swig of now-stale beer reminded him he wasn’t actually involved with Kay. Only in his mind, wishing for it. But one thing was for sure. They had exactly zero chances to find that unsub without her. Zilch. Nada. Diddly-squat.

  Only she understood how that murderer’s mind worked, and the fact that she did was chilling, disturbing to a level he didn’t comprehend. She’d been the one who asked all the right questions, while he and the sheriff had been chasing shadows, not even getting close. Maybe Logan would reinstate her status, after he presented all the evidence he’d just uncovered about her father. The man hadn’t been seen in the past sixteen years, and, before vanishing, had stabbed his wife within an inch of her life. There was a warrant out for Kay’s father, for attempted murder, and that’s why he must’ve taken off that night, never to be seen again. And the killer somehow knew about it, and had decided to plant a knife with the man’s fingerprints to get rid of Kay, to cast a shadow of doubt over her.

  Because the unsub knew just how much of an idiot Elliot was.

  Because they were getting close to finding him.

  Because he was local, just like Kay had profiled. That’s how the unsub knew about her father, and how he’d managed to get his fingerprints. Where from, exactly, that was still an open question.

  He downed the remaining beer and walked out in the crisp, evening air, then rushed to his SUV. If he drove quickly, he could still catch Logan at his desk.

  He’d been less than a minute on the road back to the White House when he saw red-and-blue flashing in his rearview mirror. Maybe another unit was rushing to respond on a case, although the radio had been silent. He signaled right and slowed down, waving the other car to pass him. But the pursuing vehicle slowed as well. He pulled over and stopped, then flashed his lightbar for a brief moment, to let the other cops know he was on the job.

  They still approached, flashlights in one hand, the other on their weapons, ready to draw, as they would any other traffic stop in the dead of the night.

  They were California Highway Patrol officers, and they weren’t smiling. There was no hint of professional courtesy whatsoever.

  Almost an hour later, in total disbelief, Elliot found himself charged with driving under the influence and thrown in the back of the CHiP Interceptor, in handcuffs.

  Forty-One

  Judy

  She’d woken up with the dawn, then counted the minutes until eight thirty, when she learned that “Mr. Joplin’s not in the office yet,” in the words of a receptionist with an affected, nasal voice. Half an hour later, he was already in a meeting with a client and could not take Kay’s call.

  Of course, he couldn’t.

  Exasperation swelling inside her like the Pacific tides, she dialed the law office again, this time opting to leave a message. She made it short and to the point, and, instead of being truthful as to her intentions, she dipped a carrot in honey and advised Jacob’s lawyer that she was interested in pursuing the legal avenues of having her brother’s sentence reduced, and that she didn’t expect him to continue to represent him pro bono. Maybe good old-fashioned greed could get her a conversation with Shane Joplin.

  Once that was done, Kay reverted to her earlier activity, which was to study all the possible routes the victims might’ve taken from San Francisco to Mount Chester, trying to pinpoint where the unsub might’ve spotted them. For at least one hundred miles, they all took the same road, first on the northbound interstate, then on the winding, sloping mountain road.

  She’d identified a few places where the perpetrator could’ve stalked his victims, but one question was at the center of her thoughts. If he’d stalked them miles away from Mount Chester, and she knew that for a fact, because he’d tampered with their vehicles out there somewhere, how could he possibly have known they were headed to Mount Chester? From there, the state highway continued north to the Oregon border and beyond. And why was that important to the unsub?

  Those questions faded for a moment, while another gnawing mystery occupied her mind. Why was the killer setting her up? Why the knife? To make her back down from the investigation? To compromise her in the eyes of the local law enforcement? Or was he planning something else for her? If the unsub knew about her father’s resting place, he had her life in his hands just as he’d had Alison’s and Kendra’s, and he was about to tighten his grip and crush her.

  Well, she wasn’t going to back down, knife or no knife.

  In the absence of financial records, and refusing to give into the urge to call Elliot and ask him to come to his senses, she decided to take the road trip to San Francisco, carefully observing every detail, stopping at every diner and gas station, and showing photos of the victims. Maybe someone remembered something.

  She drove the mountain road to the interstate, counting the very few places the victims could’ve stopped. Katse Coffee Shop for one, but they’d already been there and talked to the owner. Yes, some of the victims had stopped there, but it seemed that by that time, their cars had already been tampered with. It had to have been farther south from Katse. How much farther, she didn’t know.

  A Chevron gas station, a small diner, and a Subway store returned zero information about the victims. No one had seen them, nor remembered anything about the women and their cars. Disappointed and increasingly wary with the passing of every minute, she stopped to yield to traffic before taking the interstate ramp.

  From that vantage point, a tow truck driving north at full speed caught her eye. There was something about the angle of its empty platform and the hardware on it, the discolored lettering on its door, familiar but also not really.

  She stepped on the gas pedal and, swerving to avoid a honking pickup, took the ramp and chased the tow truck. When she got closer, she recognized it. She’d played on it as a child, hung from its chains like a monkey, squealing and jumping off on a cracked driveway she remembered well. But it was weathered, the passing of time leaving rusty scars on its panels and peeling off some of the stickers. The arm with the clenched fist in a circle, the towing company logo, she’d remember that anywhere, as she would the name written below in bold, straight font, THE RIGHT HOOK. But the logo and writing were so discolored by the long winters and bright sunlight of the California mountain summers that they were barely legible. Driving parallel with the truck, she stared at the familiar logo, wondering. Could the unsub have towed the cars to San Francisco International Airport, but unloaded them before entering the parking structure, and only driven them inside the garage? That would explain the missing return trip from the cars’ navigation systems in a much simpler way.

  Occam’s razor never let her down. It made much more sense to assume that, than to imagine the unsub was that one-in-a-million person who knew how to override a car’s navigation history.

  She hit the brakes and took the first exit, then found a spot where she could stop safely and check her email. The videos that the SFPD Airport Bureau had sent included footage of the man as he’d walked out of the parking garage, heading toward the cluster of highway ramps that continued past South Airport Boulevard and connected the facility with Highway 101. Then, the video feed from the next camera, providing views to traffic entering the highway, didn’t show any pedestrian traffic.

  She pulled up the footage again and watched it carefully. The bulky silhouette of the man who’d driven Kendra’s Jeep into the long-term parking garage came into view, walking briskly along the side of the road. Then, in the next view, not a trace of him. She watched as the recording ran from the time code where the man exited the frame of the last recording, all the way to the end. Then she watched the last three minutes again, this time noticing a tow truck she’d missed before, barely visible in the lower, right corner of the screen, as it took the northbound ramp to Bayshore Freeway. Yet the image was too distant and blurry for her to be sure it was the same one, the tow truck flickering in and out of view within a fraction of a second.

  If the uns
ub had been driving it, he’d known exactly how to avoid the traffic cameras.

  She needed to watch the video on a larger screen.

  In a fearful frenzy, she returned home where she pulled up the video on her laptop and, with infinite patience, scrolled through that section of it frame by frame until she caught a partial glimpse of the truck. Unfortunately, no matter how carefully she examined every frame, the truck’s tag never made it onto the screen; only its bulky, blurry silhouette. Nevertheless, she printed it to have handy, wondering if it could be the same truck she remembered from her childhood.

  Printout in hand, Kay rushed to her SUV and sat behind the wheel. Then her hand froze, hesitant to start the engine. The man driving the tow truck she remembered so well had been the closest thing she’d had to a father, a better parent than her own flesh and blood ever was. There was no way that Roy Stinson, a kind and fun-loving man who used to bounce her on one knee, and his daughter and Kay’s best friend, Judy, on the other, could be capable of such heinous crimes. Fear coiled inside her gut like a snake, injecting its venom and chilling her blood.

  But it couldn’t be him, she realized as her panicked thoughts subsided, and she found the strength to draw air again. He didn’t fit the profile; first of all, he was over sixty years old; she remembered vaguely he was a few years older than her father. He wasn’t technically savvy, although he had access to the tow truck and had worked around cars all his life; he probably knew fifteen different ways to disable a vehicle without leaving too much evidence behind. But it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. She knew it with every fiber of her being.

  She typed a quick message to the SFPD Airport Bureau, indicating the date and time code where the tow truck was visible, and asking if someone could check the other videos to see if the same truck showed after all the other vehicles had been dropped at the garage. Hopefully, the SFPD Airport Bureau was unaware of her falling from grace with the Mount Chester sheriff.