Snow Creek: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller (Detective Megan Carpenter Book 1)

by Gregg Olsen

  “I’m going to put a note on the door that we’re away for the rest of the summer.”

  “Good idea, Regina.”

  “I try. Besides, we used to love sleeping up here anyway.”

  Amy smiled as Regina lifted her onto a mound of straw she’d fashioned into a bed in the loft of the small barn they’d built so many years ago. It was like a homecoming of sorts. Memories of those early days were magical. The best years of their lives.

  She put Amy to bed and went down to the kitchen in the house and wrote out a note.

  Reminder: Amy and I are out of town traveling with our friends in their RV. Jared is taking care of the animals so no worries. We’ll be back in September or thereabouts.

  Love, Reggie and Amy

  The way Regina saw it as she stuck the message on the front door, the ruse would buy the sheriff enough time to find the answers to what happened with the truck without trampling on their privacy. They had made their own world, and the outside was not invited in.

  Especially law enforcement.

  Regina peeled back her thoughts two years, to the last time she left the farm in the woods for town. She remembered how she felt. Alone. Strange. Different. She walked the streets of Port Townsend in a daze. It was as though she’d never been there. An alien. Everything and everywhere was so loud. So irritating. She wondered why she needed to be party to a stranger’s phone call as a young man passed by yacking about some woman he’d “boned” the night before, bragging that he’d already ghosted the “skank.” It made Regina grimace. A mother whisper-yelled into her phone about her child’s latest tantrum and how she was at her wits’ end and wished she’d adopted a Korean baby instead of a Russian one. A man in his seventies stopped in front of a girl, not more than twenty, selling seascape paintings and proceeded to tell her in no uncertain terms that the colors she had selected clashed.

  “I don’t know if you’re going for realism or kitsch, but either way, you’re way off,” he said.

  It was missing the mark. Unnecessary. Everyone seemed to trample over each other’s privacy as if they’d been invited to do so. Amy would hate the way it was out there. She really would. Regina knew that was truer than anything she could measure as she gathered supplies. She hoped that it would be another two years before she needed to make the trip to PT.

  She ordered a mocha with whipped cream, and an avocado and cream cheese sandwich from a downtown deli. With each sip of the mocha, each bite of the sandwich, she vowed it was the last she’d have from another’s hand. She and Amy were self-sufficient. More so every day. They had a robust vegetable garden. A flock of chickens for eggs and meat. Goats provided milk, cheese and meat. They even grew their own wheat in a field behind the barn. Before she closed the trunk, she surveyed the results of her shopping trip, things that she and her wife couldn’t raise or grow but needed.

  The list was quite small, yet in its own way, crucial—olive oil, cornmeal, tissue paper, some plastic piping, and a box of activated charcoal.

  Satisfied, she snapped the trunk shut.

  Regina started the car and turned on the radio. Seattle news filled her ears, and its droning newscaster made her resolve to leave the world behind even stronger. She pressed the pedal with the ball of her foot and watched Port Townsend’s pretty Victorian homes—painted ladies of every conceivable hue—and the façades of its quaint brick and stone downtown buildings fade from the rearview mirror.

  Regina caught her own image just then. She cocked her head. She looked good. Tan, fit. Her eyebrows could use some shaping, though Amy didn’t complain about them, so why should she worry? Even her dead eye didn’t eat away at her sliding vanity. It was devoid of any expression, but so what? Her other eye was full of life. Full of hope. Wonderment, even.

  You only need one eye to see the world clearly. To see what matters most.

  Regina Torrance never felt better in her entire life.

  She rolled down the window and allowed the soft sea-scented breeze flow over her face.

  Life was so good.

  No more drama.

  Regina crawled under the covers. Amy was asleep. It passed through her mind that something was physically wrong with Amy, but she didn’t let the thought take root. It was too much for her. She’d done everything she could to help her recover from whatever it was that had been ailing her. For a time, she thought things were getting better. She prayed on it. She whispered in Amy’s ear that there was nothing that could keep them apart, not sickness. Not anything worse.

  We belong together.

  Amy murmured and stirred.

  Regina whispered some more.

  “I want to make love with you. My tongue misses you. Wants to taste you. Make you writhe like it’s the first time we’ve ever loved each other.”

  There was no response for the longest time. Finally, Amy shook her head.

  “I’m sorry. I love you. I don’t feel like that right now. Kiss me. Hold me. Touch me. I’m not ready for anything more.”

  Regina leaned over and kissed Amy’s cheek. Every night had been like that for a very long time. Regina told herself that it didn’t matter, that loving Amy any way she preferred was good and if there was a barrier at the moment, in time they’d cross it. Real love prevails. The world survived only because of that singular truth.

  The morning after staying in the barn, Regina went about her regimented routine. The only deviation were the thoughts in her head. She wondered if she’d done the right thing. If she’d have to pay for her deeds or if Amy would be made to pay. She patted her favorite goat.

  “We’re safe, right?”

  The goat looked at her with her devil-like eyes.

  “That’s enough out of you,” she said.

  She finished in the barn, collected the eggs from the coop and walked over to the firepit to examine the ashes for the umpteenth time.

  It was clean.

  We’re safe. We’re all safe.

  Eleven

  It was no real surprise when Jerry called me from the coroner’s office. He’d received the preliminary reports from the pathologist.

  “We’ve got a homicide.”

  What else could it be?

  “Cause?”

  “Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Dr. Andrade suspects the claw end of a hammer. Skull had tool marks from the blow. Besides the fracture, of course.”

  “That’s brutal,” I say. “Anything on tox?”

  “Too early.”

  “How about prints?”

  “They pulled palms, but the fingertips were burned pretty bad. Nothing there.”

  “Just the fingers?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Some burns on the face too. Andrade thinks a blowtorch was used.”

  “Torture?”

  “Likely post mortem.”

  That’s a relief, I think. Getting beaten with a hammer is beyond belief, using an acetylene flame on a woman is the stuff of slasher films.

  “Still processing the truck,” he says. “More on that in a day or two. Pretty backed up down there. We’re lucky they processed her as fast as they did. We have two rape kits that have been on ice there for almost six months. Prosecutor pushes, but they’ve got so much backlog and not enough staff.”

  “That’s an excuse,” I say. “They spend their money where they want to. Guess rapes don’t mean as much as new highway projects.”

  “And murders,” he adds. “Those still move the needle down there.”

  I can feel where this is going and it’s all my fault. I opened the door. Jerry is on the edge of a rant about government waste. I shift the conversation back to the murder victim.

  “Send me all you’ve got.”

  “I already did. One step ahead of you, Detective.”

  I go on to the county server, enter my credentials and password. In my folder I find a pdf of the reports from Olympia. I get the printer humming and head down the hall to the coffee room. Sheriff is pressing the button on the candy machine when I ar
rive.

  “Damn thing never works,” he says.

  “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  He ignores my remark.

  “How’s Snow Creek doing?” he asks.

  “Printing out the coroner’s report now. Give me a bit to absorb it. I’ll swing by later.”

  He nods, and I take my coffee and leave. I can hear him back at the machine as I return to my desk.

  I read through the report page by page. Dr. Andrade’s words tell a complete story, yet it’s his photos that really hold my attention. The victim’s burns had to be post mortem. They were so clear, so precise. I flip through them one by one. The face. The arms. The back of the head. When I get to her feet, I do a double take. I pull the photocopy a little closer. I can’t be sure, but it appears that the victim is missing a toe.

  I see no mention of that in the report.

  Gulping some coffee, I dial Dr. Andrade’s office.

  He’s on the line right away.

  “Doctor, there’s a discrepancy in your report. There’s no notation—that I could find—that indicated the woman had a missing toe.”

  I hear him tapping away on his keyboard. A pause. Maybe even a sigh. Hard to tell over the phone.

  “Missing baby toe on the right foot, yes, yes,” he says.

  “It’s not in the report, Doctor.”

  “My bad,” he says with obvious regret, before throwing an employee under the bus. “I have a new transcriptionist and he has missed a few things. Not terrible, but not great either.”

  I wonder why people don’t just admit their mistakes.

  People like me.

  “Post mortem?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “Not at all. There was scar tissue where the toe should be. Jane Doe lost her toe probably as a child.”

  “What else did he miss?”

  “The back of her heels collected some soil. It’s on the photographs, but not in the report.”

  “She was dragged?”

  “Likely.”

  “She was only 122 pounds. Not that heavy.”

  “Dead weight though. It’s not easy.”

  I’m exasperated yet also intrigued.

  “Will you amend your report?” I ask.

  Long pause. Everyone in three counties knows he hates amending anything. He’s right. Always. Never, ever wrong.

  “All right, Detective. I’ll do it. Just for you.” His tone carries a hint of sarcasm.

  Do it for the victim, I want to say. But I don’t. Instead, I thank him and hang up.

  Later as I head for home, I stop in to brief the sheriff.

  He’s up to his neck with paperwork. He looks up with those kind eyes and gives me a nod.

  “How’s the carpet case moving along?”

  “Not much to report. Ms. Wheaton never had a driver’s license. Nothing from the DMV to help figure if the victim is her. Maybe one thing: She was missing a toe on her right foot. Kids didn’t mention that. I’ll round them up tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good,” he says, lowering his wire frames. “How are you doing, Megan? You stressed?”

  Tony Gray does know me. What I allow him to know. He’s seen something on my face that I didn’t hide from him. Or maybe couldn’t. It’s true I’m stressed. I guess, with the Wheaton case, things that I’d forgotten, suppressed, have come at me with a vengeance.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just need to confirm our vic and find her husband.”

  Twelve

  Back in my kitchen I rifle through my completely subpar pantry for something to eat, though I’m not really that hungry. The photos of Jane Doe have worked as an appetite suppressant which would be some kind of benefit if I were overweight. But I’m not. The indignity of murder doesn’t stop at the point where life ceases to exist. It’s a continuum. The victim from Snow Creek was treated like trash. Disposed of. Like she was nothing. Killers like hers invite others to enjoy the impact of the crime. The kids who found her. The team that investigates the crime and goes home to their wives or sisters with the picture of what happened to Jane forever in their consciousness.

  And then the line becomes a circle when the loved ones learn what happened.

  I know all of that.

  I’ve experienced all of that.

  Now I wonder if that little tape recorder and the box of tapes had been a good idea. It’s brought me back to a time and place that I’ve wanted to forget yet can’t. I look around for something stronger than wine, but in reality, I’m not much of a drinker. I should be. I have reason to. I should be a raging alcoholic by now. No one would blame me if I were. Sure, they’d feel sorry for me.

  If they knew.

  Only three people know the sum of everything I’ve done. Hayden, Dr. Albright and me.

  A few like the sheriff know the end of my story, not the beginning. As I swallow my wine and stare at the box, I hope more than ever that no one knows the middle. That’s the part that makes me question who I really am.

  And why I did what I did.

  My hand swipes lightly over the tapes. They are numbered by date. I take a deep breath as I pull out the one from my second session with Dr. Albright. I remember thinking at the time that she had the kind of effect that suggested she was a genuine do-gooder, not some poseur there to enjoy the troubles of others, as though what unfolded during each session was only about entertainment.

  I take a breath and press the button.

  I hear her calming voice reminding me.

  Dr. A: Rylee, you know I’m recording you, right?

  Me: Yes. I know that. What are you going to do with the tapes? I was thinking about that after our first, ah, session.

  Dr. A: They are only for me. They won’t be played for anyone else. Someday, when the time is right or when I die, they’ll go back to you.

  Me: Okay. I guess.

  Dr. A: Last session we talked about how you found your father—stepfather—and how you and Hayden made it to the waterfront of Port Orchard. Put me there, Rylee. Tell me what you remember.

  Me: (short pause). Okay. It’s silly but I still remember this seagull fighting with another, smaller, shorebird over a French fry on the bench beside me and Hayden. The fight was occupying Hayden’s attention, which was good. I remember hugging him. Telling him we would be all right. I put my arm around his shoulder, feeling his bones underneath his dark blue hoodie and the clean T-shirt we exchanged for the bloody one I buried in the woods.

  Dr. A: Your brother means a lot to you.

  Me: (crying) Everything. He’s small. He’s been my baby since the day my mom brought him home. He trusted me. I would have done anything I could for him. I didn’t nuzzle him or hold him. I wanted to. We’re not the touchy-feely kind of brother and sister.

  Dr. A: Put me there. What did you see? How did you feel?

  Me: We watched a green and white Washington State ferry chug through the choppy waters to the dock in Bremerton. We sat in silence as the cars unloaded. Feel? Scared and empty inside, but I didn’t show it.

  Dr. A: You wanted to protect your brother.

  Me: Yes and no. It’s just the way I am. I once saw a girl get hit by a car and I didn’t even yelp. I was ten and back then my name was Jessica. I know it’s dumb, but I loved that name. I remember watching a green Honda Civic smack into that girl in jeans and a pretty pink top. I didn’t even flinch. I didn’t go to her. A lady standing next to me by the side of the street where it happened must have thought that my nonresponse was a result of shock, but it wasn’t anything like that.

  Dr. A: What was it?

  Me: When you have to pretend that you’re someone or something that you’re not you get pretty good at concealing emotions. Reactions, my dad used to say, are for amateurs.

  Dr. A: Are you hiding your feelings now?

  Me: Do I look like it, Doctor?

  Dr. A: Sorry. Please go on, Rylee.

  Me: Maybe we shouldn’t do this. Maybe it won’t help me.

  Dr. A: I can’t promise anything. I b
elieve it will. I believe that it will help you move forward. Your past has a hold on you in ways you might not even understand. Please, go on.

  Me: Hayden kept saying that maybe our dad wasn’t dead. He was hoping. And I went along with his hope, just for him. But not for long. I knew we had to get out of there. We had Dad’s credit cards, some money, and even my mom’s driver’s license.

  Dr. A: Her license?

  Me: Right—a duplicate. Hers. It puzzled me for a minute then I figured it out. I knew the credit cards were useless. They could and would be traced. I knew the eighty dollars we had would run out. And I knew that we didn’t have anyone we could trust, Doctor. (pause) Trusting anyone was against our family’s rules.

  Dr. A: I understand. Trust can only be earned.

  I remember thinking about that exchange. I was unsure of Karen Albright back then. I still am.

  I continue listening. I told her about the trip to the drugstore to buy hair dye and scissors. Gum for Hayden; how, all the while, I remember thinking we needed a place to stay.

  Dr. A: Tell me more about your family, the rules you mentioned earlier.

  Me: It sounds silly. We weren’t in some cult. I mean, don’t you have to have other members besides just us? We were isolated. If I hadn’t attended a public school, I wouldn’t have had any idea of what the world was like.

  Dr. A: That must have been very hard for you.

  Me: When you don’t know anything different, whatever weirdness your parents put into your life seems normal. Your normal. You know what I mean?

  Dr. A: I do. Did, for example, it seem normal to your parents? The rules?

  Me: When I think about it, it’s hard to say. Even now. I can almost see the look on Dad’s face when it was time to leave whenever we were on the run. His anxiety. The way his eyes narrowed and sweat collected at his temples and he’d withdraw a little. He was worried that we’d be found.