The Girl and the Cursed Lake (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 12)

by A J Rivers

  “It does,” Dean nods. “What is this?”

  “It's a shoe the investigators found when they were searching the area for Violet. They thought it might belong to her, but her mother said it wasn't hers. Their father couldn't identify it. But Carrie Montgomery was absolutely insistent it didn't belong to her daughter."

  Dean looks confused.

  "What's wrong?" I ask.

  He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, then closes it again and reaches for the picture. He turns it around so he can look at it straight on, and his expression darkens.

  "Has the Bureau already contacted the rangers handling the case? Detective Fitzgerald, the park authorities, all of them?" he asks.

  "Yeah," I say. "Creagan told them I was taking over the investigation."

  He nods. "We need to go."

  "What?" I ask.

  "We need to go to the campground. You have authorization, right?"

  "Just let me pack. We'll stop by your place on the way."

  I head for the bedroom while Dean starts collecting the papers off the table.

  "You want to share what's going on with the rest of us?" Sam asks.

  I stop and turn around to look at him. "We're going to Hollow River Mountain."

  "You have all the evidence right here," Sam protests.

  "We need to see it. I need to be there.”

  "Emma, it's dangerous out there.”

  "Have those words ever stopped me before?" I ask.

  "I can't go with you," he says. "I can come in a few days, maybe, but not now."

  I cross the room to him again and cup his face in my hands to kiss him.

  "I'll be alright. This is what I do."

  "I know," he says.

  "Dean, I'll be ready in twenty minutes. We'll stop at your place and go to the campground in the morning."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “It's eerie up here,” I mention as we pull into the campground the next morning. “It looks as though it should be full of people.”

  “It should be,” Dean tells me. “It used to be. At this time of year, all these cabins would be reserved. There would be tents on the tent pads as well. There were always people. Day and night. Families would be down on the beach playing in the water. Sunbathing. Hiking. At night, they’d sit around campfires and tell stories. Drink beer and go skinny-dipping. It was never quiet.”

  “We don't have to do the skinny-dipping part, do we?” Xavier asks.

  “No,” I chuckle. “I don't think that's necessary to get the impression of the place.”

  “Good,” he says. “Not that I'm inherently opposed to the idea of nudity in water. After all, I do appreciate a good bubble bath. But you don't know what's in that lake.”

  "Fish, salamanders, maybe some algae," Dean shrugs.

  "The Kraken," Xavier says, staring out over the lake in the distance.

  "Oh, is that where we are now?" I ask.

  "You know how I feel about the potential existence of sea monsters," Xavier deadpans.

  "Yes, infinite potential for species and teeny human brains incapable of perceiving all existence, and whatnot. But, Xavier, that's not the sea. That's a lake," I say.

  "So is Loch Ness, but you don't hear Nessie bitching about the technicalities."

  "You know what? We're up here hunting ghosts. Why not throw some cryptids in there, too. If we have time after dinner, we'll look for the Yeti."

  Xavier's eyes snap over to me. "Do we get to hunt ghosts?"

  Before I even answer, he yanks his bag out of the back of the car and opens it.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He pulls out the ghost hunting tool he had with him during the live stream of the investigation.

  “Xavier, you didn't.”

  “Yes, I did,” he says. “I've actually been tinkering around with it, and I think I might have improved the technology a bit.”

  “Of course you have. Come on. We're burning daylight. Let's look around a little then go drop our stuff off at the cabin," I say.

  Dean's face is like thunder.

  "We're staying here?" he asks.

  "Not at the campground itself," I tell him. "There's an old ranger's house up the way a bit that they said we could use. It has electricity and running water. And apparently better reception. It should be a good home base for us for a couple of days at least."

  Xavier wanders by with the device, engrossed in whatever it's telling him.

  “Did you get in touch with Detective Fitzgerald?” Dean asks.

  “Yes,” I nod. “Actually, he's supposed to come up here tomorrow to talk to us. I get the impression he's not exactly thrilled to have the Bureau involved.”

  “He'll feel differently about the situation once Emma figures this out for him,” Xavier says with an encouraging smile, heading in the other direction.

  “I wouldn't bet on that,” Dean says. “Detective Fitzgerald isn't exactly the type of guy who likes help. He dug his heels into this investigation from the first day and has gotten a lot of flak for the way he's handled it. He's too emotionally invested.”

  “Why?” I ask. “That’s the one thing I keep coming back to. I don’t know why he’s so involved with this.”

  “I don't know,” Dean shrugs. “I haven't spoken to him since he questioned me sixteen years ago. I followed his investigation of the case for a while. It was weird. He kept that search party going for nine weeks. You never see that happen. And every year there was another case, he barreled in and took over from the responding officer. I don't know him well, but I can tell you he wants to be the one to solve this. He's not going to like your coming in.”

  Xavier goes the other way again.

  “Unfortunately for him, he doesn't have a say in that. I don't care whether he likes it or not. I'm not here for his approval,” I say.

  Xavier appears beside me and seems to be reading me with the device. His eyes lift to me and he lowers the device.

  "Bigfoot," he announces.

  "We've been here five minutes, Xavier. You did not find a Bigfoot."

  "No," he says, shaking his head. "This doesn't detect them, anyway. But if it did, I would be detecting a Bigfoot, not a Yeti."

  "What?"

  "You said we should go ahead and throw in a Yeti. But Yetis are only thought to exist in Nepal."

  "They aren't thought to exist at all," I say.

  "Depending on who you ask," Xavier says. "But if it's in Nepal, it's a Yeti. In Florida, it's a Skunkape. But for the majority of North America, it's a Bigfoot. Actually, come to think of it, in this area, it might be known as a Wood Booger. I'll have to check the dialect map.”

  "Thank you, Xavier."

  He nods and heads in the other direction again. I look at Dean.

  "Did he just say Wood Booger?"

  We explore around the campground for a few moments and the eerie feeling only increases. The entire space is too still, too quiet. All around us, there are memories flitting through the energy. This place once marked the days of summer fun and relaxation for countless families and couples and people who just came to be on their own. I understand why they didn't tear down the cabins or do something else with the land, but that doesn't take away the creepy feeling.

  The thirteen years since the campground was active have taken a toll. Most of the buildings around here were little more than rustic log cabins to begin with. The time, weather, and lack of use have started breaking them down. Some of the smaller buildings look as if the land is starting to reclaim them. Ivy and weeds are crawling up along the walls, and small trees have broken through the steps and the sagging porches.

  Fire pits that used to glow and roar each night are nothing more than holes surrounded by blackened rocks. Some still have remnants of wood in them. I wonder how many have actually sat dormant for the last thirteen years and how many have been used by the visitors who trespass this way.

  I walk up to one of them and crouch down to rest my fingertips on the
large, flat stone set in the middle. I remember from my days camping that stones like this hold on to the heat of the fire, so it burns better and can be used for cooking. I wonder if one of the victims used it.

  I close my eyes. I can almost see Violet sitting on what used to be seats made out of stumps and slices of trees that have come down in the woods. She's laughing as her parents toast marshmallows and try to convince her it's time to go to bed.

  Or maybe this was where the teenage friends their parents described as inseparable sat and told ghost stories, or the older ones drank bitter coffee and cooked cast iron skillets of bacon. At this moment, I want to believe in ghosts.

  I can understand the draw, the desire to be able to reach out and contact people who have been lost. To know that they're still there, or to be able to communicate with them. To have even the smallest chance of finding out what happened to them and why. Right now, as I stand here in this campground looking around at a sliver of life that's been simply blotted out, I know the appeal of being able to reach through whatever stands between us on this Earth and what lies beyond it.

  “Emma, let's go look in Cabin 13,” Dean says.

  I wince.

  “Sorry. You know what I mean.”

  “It’s fine.”

  I stand up from where I was crouched at the side of the fire pit and make my way to him. We walk up a narrow, overgrown dirt path to the cabin looming above on the top of the hill. It's one of the larger ones. I remember from both the case files and the investigation that it was one of the few that had been fully outfitted with some of the more modern conveniences.

  It barely looks upgraded now, as we gingerly climb onto the small porch. There's a heavy lock on the door, but it must not have been secured after Ken Abbott searched inside, because it hangs open. I open the door and we step inside.

  The first thing that hits me is the smell of neglect. It's a smell I'm familiar with. It's dank and humid. The mildew and the effects of nature are taking over again. Seeing the furniture still inside it is unsettling. This is the difference between closed and abandoned. It looks as though there was no planning, no preparation that took the cabin from a beloved vacation spot to a cast-aside testament to the horror this place saw.

  I don't have the need to scour every inch of the cabin the way Ken Abbott did. I'm not searching for the paranormal. I want answers.

  The inside of the cabin is dark, but just enough light comes through the broken shutters to let us navigate into the kitchen. The bag on my back holds a folder with the pictures of the scene from the day Violet disappeared and I pull it out so I can compare them to the way the place looks like now.

  “When the police came after Violet disappeared, there were a couple of breakfast dishes in the sink and a bowl in the middle of the table. It had the tops of some strawberries in it. There wasn't any alcohol in the refrigerator. No signs of struggle. No knives or any other sharp implements missing,” I say.

  “What about the bathroom?” Dean asks.

  We make our way through the small living area to the bathroom. I look at it and then back through the rest of the cabin.

  “It's so small,” I say. “Smaller even than I thought it would be.” I take out the picture of the bathroom the police took. “There's no medicine cabinet, so they didn't check for empty medication bottles or anything.”

  I step into the bathroom and something strikes me.

  “What is it?” Dean asks as I turn around a couple of times, repositioning myself to try different angles.

  “This picture only really shows part of the bathroom. They took it from right outside the door. I didn't notice until right now that there's something pretty significant missing,” I say.

  “What?” Dean asks.

  Xavier pokes his head in.

  “There's no bathtub,” he says.

  I nod. “I could have sworn the report said the mother was rinsing the bathing suits in a bathtub. Didn't she say that?”

  “This place was used for a few years after Violet disappeared. Maybe it was removed?” asks Xavier.

  “No, that doesn’t make any sense. Besides, I don’t see how it would have even fit into this tiny room.”

  “Could she have meant shower?” Dean offers.

  “That doesn't seem like a very efficient way to rinse bathing suits,” I tell him. “I mean, I guess she could have been, but if she was going to rinse something, she would do it in the sink. Which means she would have been standing right in front of this mirror and could have seen almost the entire living area in the reflection.”

  “But she said that she believed Violet was with Travis at the time,” Dean says. “If she was looking at that reflection and could see the living area, she would be able to see that Violet was in there, not with him. Which means, Violet wasn't in the living area. She really was out with Travis.”

  I don't want to say anything yet. I'm still trying to piece the little bits together and there's enough missing that they aren't falling into place yet.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let's go to the ranger’s house and get settled in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Once we’ve gotten all of our things put away at the cabin, Dean leads us through the woods on the path he remembers taking the day Violet disappeared. There are still gaps in his memory, but as he looks around, I see recognition growing at the corners of his eyes.

  “It's different,” he says. “The trees aren't the same. It's more overgrown. But this is where it was. This is where I was walking.”

  “And you heard the man in the woods?” I ask.

  “I saw him,” Dean nods. “Far ahead of me. Just a flicker of movement.”

  I follow him as he walks further. He points out where he first saw Violet walk past.

  “This is pretty far from the cabin,” I muse. “But she could have gotten up here. Which direction was she going?”

  He thinks for a second, then points.

  “That's in the opposite direction to the campground,” Xavier notes. “Where was she going?”

  “There's a waterfall over there,” Dean says. “It's small but pretty. To a four-year-old, it would be pretty amazing.”

  “Carrie Montgomery did say they had come to that cabin before. She had been going there since she was young and brought Violet every summer. She could have remembered seeing the waterfall,” I mention.

  “A four-year-old is very unlikely to have the concrete thought and long-term memory necessary to retain how to get from the cabin through this type of wooded area to a waterfall,” Xavier says.

  “And I doubt her mother would have brought her through this kind of terrain. Even if she did bring her to the waterfall, they would have gone down a path. Not through this dense section of trees where people don't seem to go very often. She must have just been lost,” I say. “She thought she was heading back to camp but was actually going in the opposite direction.”

  “She was going the other way when I saw her the second time,” Dean adds.

  “Show me where,” I say.

  The walk from where we are to the spot where he remembers seeing her again is longer than I expected. The time that would have had to pass between her being with her parents and being seen at each of the spots Dean identifies is building up. It seems to be too much. I don't say anything, but take note of it, remembering his memory lapses and knowing they might have altered how he saw things.

  “This is where they found the shoe,” he points out.

  I take out a picture and compare it to the area. There are definitely differences that come from the many years that have passed, but I can see that this is the same spot.

  “But you saw her over there?” I ask.

  Dean nods. “Yes. She was headed more in the direction of the campground. Not a direct path. More at an angle.”

  He gestures, showing me which direction he means. I follow his point with my eyes and nod.

  "Show me the cavern," I tell him.

  "It's not an easy hike fr
om here," he warns.

  "I'll be fine," I shrug. "Xavier?"

  "Just walk in front of me, and I'll walk where you walk," he says.

  "So, what you're saying is if there's anything dangerous, I'm going to get to it first?" I ask.

  "Yes," he says without hesitation.

  I have to give it to him. He's direct.

  Dean wasn't exaggerating when he said the hike was challenging from that spot. It takes more than an hour to get to the base of the rocks. I'm hot and exhausted by the time we get there. We take a few moments to drink from our water bottles at the base of the rocks before climbing up.

  It always strikes me as surreal walking into what was once a crime scene but now shows no evidence of it. This is the spot where a little girl was found, yet there's nothing to mark it. There's no sign or plaque. No old crime scene tape. Nothing that sets this area apart from any of the others throughout the woods.

  But it fits with the rest of the woods. Countless lives were lost here well before this was a national park. Not necessarily by any sort of nefarious means. Just families living out their lives here. And they are all but forgotten.

  “I don't understand the bones,” I say, standing in the back portion of the cavern where Elsie supposedly discovered the sleeping bag of bones.

  “What do you mean? They’re bones,” says Xavier.

  “Yeah, but they never actually showed the bones on the investigation special,” I point out. “The camera stays outside with Elsie when Ken goes in to look. Then when the camera pans back to him, it focuses only on him, not on the bones. That strikes me as really odd.”

  “Do you think they made it up?” Dean asks.

  “Maybe,” I say. “Or the detective is right, and he just spooked himself when he saw the sleeping bag of a hiker who came by. But why didn't they show it? And if he did see what he claims to have, where did the bones and sleeping bag go?”

  “Somebody must have come and taken them out,” Dean says. “That's the only explanation if they were actually there. You saw how long it took to hike up here.”

  “That's true,” I acknowledge. “But Ken and his crew took a much more direct route. Remember, that live-stream was going on while we watched. We couldn't see where they were walking, but we knew when they were at the cavern and when they got back to the lake. It didn't take nearly as long as the hike we just did. Somebody would have had to have known they were going back down to the campground and would be gone long enough for him to get the bones, replace them with another sleeping bag, and get away before he was seen.”