Bitter Falls

by Caine, Rachel

  I know that he marks the gun I’m wearing as I straighten up; I see the flash of awareness that I could have pulled it, threatened him into spilling her location. The fact I didn’t has to be a point in my favor.

  We don’t shake hands. I just leave. I head straight to my car, get in, and call J. B. Hall. She picks up on the second ring. “Gwen? Everything okay?”

  “Yes. I made contact with the preacher, and I may have something. You can look at landline phone records, right?”

  “Not officially.”

  “But realistically?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I need the destination number of the next call that comes out of Gospel Witness Church. And an address or location, if that’s possible.”

  Because the pastor’s comment that Carol didn’t have a phone had come too fast and too emphatically, and the last thing he’d done before I left was dart a quick, unintentional glance at his clunky desk phone. Simple to put together. He is going to warn her.

  J. B. says she’ll pull some favors, and I back my rental car out of the church’s parking lot. I don’t go very far, just a block down, and I take a spot in a convenience store space that faces the street. The pastor’s car—a big, white, boxy thing that must be twenty years old—emerges. The pastor uses turn signals; I approve, makes it easier for me. He passes me, and I maneuver out of the lot and onto the busy street in his wake. His car’s going to be easy to follow. It stands out like a shaggy dog in a road full of sleek cats.

  We’ve gone about four miles by my odometer when my phone rings. I put it on speaker. “Hey, you’ve got Gwen,” I say. I’m not surprised it’s J. B.

  My boss says, “I’m texting you the number he called. It’s a burner phone, though. It’s going to take time to get the data on location from my source; it’s an, ah, extralegal use of legal software. Technically okay, if you squint, but she doesn’t want to get caught doing it either. Not without a warrant.”

  “I’m on the pastor,” I tell her. “He knows something. It’s possible he’ll lead me to her.” I tell her in quick sentences about what I’ve learned from Remy’s parents and about the mysterious Carol. I’m still behind the pastor’s car, shielded by two vehicles between us. He drives cautiously and obeys the speed limits. Useful, for my purposes.

  “Is it remotely possible this kid ran away with Carol? That he’s living with her and somehow keeping her safe?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her. “But it’s more than we had. I’ll be in touch, I think the pastor’s coming to a destination.”

  He is, but it’s his home; I recognize the car parked in the small driveway as another that had been in the church parking lot—the son’s ride, most likely. That one has a bumper sticker that says UNDER GOD surrounded by the red and blue of an American flag. Makes it extra easy to spot. I park and watch a moment, in case there’s something interesting to see, but there isn’t. Through the handy picture window into the dining room I can see food being set out. Three place settings, so Carol isn’t hiding here.

  Something’s making my breath come faster, sweat prickle hot on the back of my neck, and for a second or two I don’t even know what it is.

  Then I blink, and I see a house of similar lines superimposed over this one. A normal house on a normal street. A broken exterior wall to the garage with a wrecked vehicle jutting out of it.

  My normal house. My normal street in a normal Kansas town.

  And a dead girl hanging from a wire gallows in the exposed garage, the day all that ended. All those years spent in that house, living next to a monster, not knowing what was going on under the same roof. Making dinner. Setting the table, just as this woman’s doing.

  I flinch and gasp and close my eyes. I have coping mechanisms for these flashbacks, and I use them, slowing my racing heartbeat and gearing myself down from the blind horror and panic that never, ever quit being fresh. I press my shaking hands down on my thighs. Past is past. Put yourself here, now. Feel the air. Take in the smells. Listen. Be here.

  The overwhelming sense of being trapped slowly fades. Panic recedes. And when I look again, it isn’t my house, it isn’t my dining room, and the three people sitting down at that table are not my family. There isn’t horror hiding behind that wall, or if there is, it’s not mine to endure.

  I check my text messages. J. B. has sent me the number that Pastor Wallace called. I know I should wait for J. B. to get that tracking data; it might—might—send me in the right direction. Or, if he’s told the young woman to run, I might lose her altogether.

  On balance, I feel a real and urgent need to act. So I dial the number. Roll the dice.

  A woman answers. “Hello?” She sounds young and tentative, and also worried.

  “Don’t hang up,” I say. “I’m a friend, Carol. I know you’re afraid. Let me help you.”

  I half expect her to hang up, but she seems to hesitate. Then she says, “You’re the one the pastor talked about.” She has an accent, but it isn’t from Tennessee. Sounds more northern states to me. Maybe even as far as Maine or Vermont. “The detective?”

  “Yes,” I tell her. “My name is Gwen Proctor. And I can help, if you’re in trouble.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” she says. “Nobody can help me.”

  “Maybe I can.”

  “He’ll never let that happen.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she says. She sounds quiet now. Resigned. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I got out. I can’t ever get free. I thought I could, but . . . it’s never going to work.” I squeeze my eyes shut and listen desperately for any environmental clues. I hear a babble of voices in the background. An indistinct PA announcement. A metallic squeal.

  I sense she’s about to cut me off, and I quickly say, “Carol, can you tell me what happened to Remy? Where he is?”

  Silence. Silence for so long that I think the call’s dropped and she’s vanished into the air. But then she says, “Remy’s with the saints.”

  Click.

  But I heard enough. I can guess where she is.

  She’s at the bus station.

  14

  GWEN

  I’m taking a shot in the dark as to which bus station. She could have been at a regional stop, but if she wants to get out of town, Carol will be at the main Greyhound bus terminal. I’ve made it a point to know the city, since I do a fair amount of work for J. B. around here. I race across town, driving far more recklessly than Pastor Wallace would have approved, and I pull into the bus station in just under thirteen minutes, which isn’t bad.

  But if Carol was about to board a bus when I called, it’s too late.

  I head inside. There’s a sign on the doors of the station that guns aren’t allowed, and I approve of that, but I don’t have time to retreat and secure my weapon, and leaving it in a rental car’s glove compartment isn’t a great idea anyway. I make sure my coat conceals it and stroll inside. Or try to. The station is a fairly new construction, all glass and steel and open areas that ought to seem spacious but don’t, because it’s crowded with people and bags. Bus travel generally doesn’t draw in the first-class passengers, so most often it’s duffel bags, battered old suitcases, and backpacks. Lots of people who seem exhausted and dispirited.

  I spot Carol because she’s sitting close to a group of Amish or Mennonite travelers; the women are in neat, long dresses with aprons and bonnets, the men in uncomfortable-looking square suits with beards bristling down over their starched shirts. Carol almost blends in, except that she lacks a bonnet. She’s a young, pale woman wearing a long-sleeved white blouse with a bow tied in front of the high neck, no jewelry or makeup, a long, straight dark-blue skirt. Waist-length dark hair. She’s got a fairly new-looking backpack with her, and for some reason it strikes me as . . . wrong. I’m not sure why. Yet.

  She’s scanning the room like her life depends on it, evaluating every person who comes into view. She looks me over and moves on; I’m not what she’s af
raid of spotting, clearly. Good. I was worried she’d run at the first hint of my presence.

  I get all the way through the crowd. There’s an empty seat across from her, and I take it. Her gaze still searches the entrances until I say, “Hi, Carol. I’m Gwen.”

  She shrinks back on her bench, crowded next to an older Amish woman, who turns, clearly concerned about her. That’s better than Carol bolting, but not by much. I don’t want a public incident, especially since I’m carrying a gun. That’ll get me arrested.

  I quickly hold up both empty hands, palms out. Surrender, and placation. “I’m sorry I startled you,” I say, and smile. “Honest, I’m here to help. You’re looking out for someone, but it isn’t me. Right?”

  Carol slowly relaxes. The Amish woman says, “Are you all right?” and gives me a doubtful look. “Should I get help for you?”

  Carol has big, dark eyes. Doe eyes. I can see why a young college-age man would be so drawn to her; there’s a real vulnerability there, a fragility that would appeal to someone who has an instinct for protection. And predators, I think. Melvin would have loved her. Just as I appealed to him, coming to him as an innocent girl fresh from a religious home. Looking at this young woman, I see myself, and I want to shake her and scream at her to wake up.

  “I’m okay, thank you,” Carol says, almost in a whisper, and the Amish woman settles back but keeps a stern eye on me. I make damn sure I keep my body language correct and unthreatening. “You’re the one who called me.”

  “Yes.”

  Carol shakes her head. Her satiny curtain of hair shimmers as it moves. “I can’t help you.”

  “But you can tell me what you know about Remy,” I counter. “That’s all I want. I swear. I just want to find him for his folks. They’re suffering, Carol, and I know you don’t want that for them.”

  She looks down. She’s a willowy, tall young woman, graceful. Long-fingered hands that are reddened and roughened, as if she’s recently done hard work as a cleaner. Short, plain, strong fingernails. Her head snaps up as the speakers above us announce that a bus for Pennsylvania is ready to board, and I know I’m about to lose her. The Amish are getting up, gathering their things. She’s going with them, or at least getting on the same bus.

  The backpack she’s holding still bothers me. It’s got faded stickers on it for University of Tennessee football. She doesn’t strike me as an alumna.

  I nod toward it. “That’s Remy’s backpack,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

  She looks shocked. “I—he gave it to me!”

  “When?”

  “When I told him I had to leave,” she said. “I should have gone. I would have, but then . . .”

  “Then Remy vanished?”

  She doesn’t blink, doesn’t nod, doesn’t answer at all. Then she just stands up.

  “Who’s after you, Carol?” I stand up, too, and her paranoia is catching; I scan the crowd, looking for trouble. Lots of motion, and no obvious threats. “The same people who took him? What happened to him? Did they question him to find out where you were?”

  “He’d never tell,” she says.

  She turns and walks away. I move up to go with her. I don’t have a whole lot of time. This boarding line is long, but the second I get to the agent collecting tickets I’ll be done. She’ll be beyond my reach. “Carol, please. Please, I’m asking you to give me something I can use. You know what happened to him, I can see that. Remy tried to help you. And something happened to him. Just give me a place where I can start looking for him, that’s all I need!”

  We’ve moved up two feet in the line by the time I finish saying that. Carol’s clutching Remy’s backpack like it’s a life preserver in a thrashing ocean. She’s crying, I realize. Silent tears, racing down her cheeks and dripping on her blouse. She hastily wipes them away and shakes her head again.

  Then she suddenly dashes for the bathroom. I hesitate, not sure if she’s trying to actually escape or wanting me to follow her. She doesn’t look back. I take the chance anyway. Worst case, I can claim to be needing the toilet.

  Carol’s waiting by the sinks, jittering from one foot to another.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Look, maybe . . . maybe I can tell you a few things. Thing is, I don’t have any money for another ticket.” She wipes tears from her face and takes a deep breath. “And I don’t want you knowing where I’m headed either.”

  “So you just want me to hand over cash? No, Carol. That won’t happen. Not here.”

  She blinks. “Then where?”

  “I’ll take you to a restaurant,” I tell her. “Buy you dinner. Get you a room for the night. And I’ll buy you a plane ticket to anywhere you want to go in the morning, plus enough money that you can disappear for good. All you need to do is tell me about Remy and what happened to him. Deal?”

  She’s silent for a moment before she says, “You’re going to be sorry you ever got into this. Because it’s bad.”

  I don’t doubt that for a second.

  We head outside, and I’m alert for any sign she’s about to bolt, but the lure of what I’ve offered seems to have a magnetic attraction for her. I don’t try to make small talk; she doesn’t seem the type.

  My rental car is behind the bus station, in a parking lot that’s an adjunct to the full, busy one; we walk toward it, and I notice that there’s a dilapidated RV circling the lot, restlessly looking for a place to park.

  Carol suddenly grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop. Her grip is so tight it hurts. “Have you got a gun?” she asks.

  “Even if I do, I’m not going to start anything in a Greyhound parking lot,” I tell her. “What’s the matter?”

  She nods toward the RV. It’s sun-faded, the kind of antique that nobody wants. It probably dates from the mid-1980s, at best. I’m surprised it’s still running. She pulls me off to the side, beside an overflowing dumpster, and I try not to breathe in the reek of garbage and urine. Carol doesn’t seem to notice. Her attention is all focused on that RV. “They found me,” she says. “Oh, Lord help me.” Then she turns an angry, narrow stare on me. “They found me because of you. Stirring things up.”

  “Who are they, Carol?”

  She doesn’t answer. The RV cruises the lot, doesn’t park, rambles on over to the next lot. When it finally pulls out onto the main road again, she says, “We have to hurry. They’ll come back.”

  I don’t know what she’s thinking, or who she’s afraid of, but one thing’s for sure: she’s not bluffing. We race to the car, start it up, and I tell her to get down out of sight.

  I pass the RV going the opposite direction, and when I try to read the back license plate in the rearview, it’s useless. They’re Tennessee plates, but dirty and mud-splattered, and I can’t make out anything but an M.

  The interior’s completely hidden by tinted glass.

  We keep moving. I hold my speed down to just below the speed limit, and look for the RV to follow us.

  It doesn’t. I watch for several blocks before I tell Carol we’re in the clear.

  “We aren’t,” she says, but she climbs back up into the passenger seat. Her shoulders are hunched, her hair a curtain that hides her face. “I need to go. Now.”

  “We have a deal.”

  “We had a deal,” she says. “But they’re here. Looking.”

  “And if they’re chasing us in an RV, they’re going to be damn easy to spot,” I tell her. “There’s no sign of them now. We’re okay. How about that food? You still hungry?”

  She stares straight ahead for a long time before she finally nods.

  Then she folds her hands and starts to pray.

  At dinner, she wolfs down buttermilk fried chicken like it’s her last meal. She’s chosen a seat near the back, by the kitchen, where she can watch the entry doors. It’s not by a window.

  High vigilance. I understand that impulse. I’ve had it for years.

  I wonder how often she gets real food. There’s a certain way she hovers over the plate, like she’s guarding it.
People who’ve been starved do that. Maybe it’s a consequence of how she’s been living. Or maybe it’s worse than that. She’s not giving me much, and she doesn’t talk other than to say yes or no or can I have that butter.

  When she is finally filled up and sits back with a sigh, I pay the bill and hustle her back to the rental car. Still no sign of the RV. There’s a good selection of hotels around the airport. I choose the Best Western, which seems like a low-profile destination, and check us in. One room. One key, and I keep it. I make sure to park the anonymous rental car in the covered garage, backed in so the license plate is invisible. I’ve always hated the Tennessee rule that says front license plates aren’t required . . . until now. It makes this a whole lot easier. If whoever’s in that RV wants to check every white rental car in Knoxville, they’re going to have a long job of it.

  I have that weird déjà vu again as I lock the door behind us; the room’s nice enough, but it’s another anonymous, temporary shelter. So many in my history that it’s disorienting. I got two beds. Carol sits down on one of them, testing the mattress and running her fingers wistfully over the clean covers. She bounces tentatively on it, as if she’s forgotten what a bed feels like.

  “What’s your real name?” I ask her. She doesn’t look at me. She keeps smoothing her hand over the sheets.

  “Hickenlooper,” she says. “Carol Hickenlooper.”

  I don’t believe her, but I let it go. Something’s nagging at me, but I can’t put my finger on it. “If you want a shower, go ahead,” I tell her. “I’m fine.” I’ve brought in my small suitcase, and I unzip it to take out my laptop from the front pocket. I set it out on the small work table. The young woman practically jumps at the chance for the shower; she takes underwear and clean clothes—another plain shirt and long skirt, from what I can see—out of the backpack and goes into the small, clean bath area. I hear the click as the lock engages.