by Kate White
I heard the fatigue and resignation in his voice. He may have once been the police chief, but he’d known Shannon’s family, and this was clearly personal for him. A part of me was still waiting for the other shoe to drop but there was no hint of that.
“You’re right. I’ve covered families that had to endure that. Do you know much about the center, by the way?”
“Not a whole lot. I got called up there a couple of times when I ran the force. A young priest drowned in the lake one morning, oh, probably fifteen years ago. Sad story. He apparently had a seizure while swimming.”
“Seems like the killer must have been pretty familiar with the place. Any theories?”
“You mean do I think it’s someone local? Off the record, could be. But we have a lot of repeat tourists, so it just as easily could be an out-of-towner who knows the lay of the land.”
“And what about the other victims—any thoughts there?”
“I’ve never seen the advantage of idle speculation. We need to let law enforcement do their job, and thanks to the resources at their disposal these days, we’ll know the identities soon enough.”
“Some people are saying it’s the two female campers who disappeared ten years ago.”
He smiled, but tightly this time, his full lips whitening.
“That would certainly provide well-deserved answers for their families. But like I said, I’m not one for theorizing before the facts are in. Besides, I need to let you get back to your omelet.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to come by. Do you happen to have a card with you?”
“I was just about to offer you one.”
He drew a wallet from his back pants pocket and produced a card before weaving back through the tables to his pals.
I finished my omelet, which was lukewarm by now and tasted like a rubber band. There was still an hour before I was due to meet Kayla, so I ordered a second coffee to go. I drove through the village to the southern tip of the lake, parked, and popped the lid off the cup.
It was sunny today and fairly warm, one of those Indian summer days Alice had alluded to. The lake was especially gorgeous, a deeper, more stunning blue than even the sky or the mountains that rimmed its borders. Above me to the right were the restored remains of Fort William Henry, which the British surrendered during the French and Indian War, an event captured so vividly in The Last of the Mohicans.
A horn blew, loud and long and guttural. I swiveled enough in my seat to see one of the big tourist steamboats, the Minne Ha Ha, push off from its dock, water gushing from the paddle wheel at the back.
Despite the scenic distractions, my conversation with Coulter stayed top of mind. Earlier in the week he’d seemed dismissive, and yet this morning he’d sounded like he wanted to pin me with the Rebel Alliance Medal of Bravery. The needle on my bullshit meter had bounced a couple of times while he was speaking—during those comments about the pointlessness of speculating—but maybe I was being unfair.
At exactly nine forty-five I set off for Queensbury, an area that, according to Google Maps, encircled the northern and eastern part of Glens Falls. I discovered ten minutes later that it wasn’t a classic town with a central business section but a sprawling area that at first glance seemed to consist of mostly theme parks, fast-food stands, and factory outlets. I found the dealership wedged between a CVS and a family-style Italian restaurant, on one of those four-lane roads that’s a feature of suburban sprawl.
I pulled into the lot a few minutes past ten. Though there didn’t appear to be any customers yet, I spotted a cluster of sales guys through the plate-glass window, all decked out in spiffy cobalt-blue shirts.
One of them approached me as soon as I entered, but I told him I was looking for Kayla. The second I said her name, a young woman crossed the floor toward me, dressed in a black leather skirt, black jacket, and a white button-down shirt opened at the collar to offer a fetching sliver of cleavage.
“You’re Bailey?” she asked bluntly, and I’d barely nodded when she announced, “Let’s take this outside.”
I followed her through the doorway to the far side of the lot, where she finally turned and faced me. She was pretty, about thirty, with olive skin and dark, shoulder-length hair worn in waves. Even with her jacket on, I could tell she was in great shape, that she probably worked out regularly.
“Thanks for seeing me, Kay—”
“Did you know when we talked?” she demanded. “That they might have found Amy?”
“The press conference hadn’t even started when I first called you,” I replied, dodging the question. “And they don’t know for sure yet whether it’s Amy and Page.”
“It’s them, I know it. Please tell me heads will roll.”
“Whose heads?”
“The heads of the cops who didn’t take it seriously.”
“Was it the sheriff’s office?”
“Yes, and the state police. But the guy who always seemed to be in charge was from the Lake George police. Something Cutter.”
“You mean Coulter? Hank Coulter?”
“Yes, that’s right. He let everybody think the girls just blew town.”
No wonder Coulter hadn’t been in the mood for speculating about the two missing women.
“You didn’t buy the idea that Amy went off looking for an adventure?”
“Without letting her mother or her friends know? Not on your life.”
“Why do you think Coulter was so quick to believe that?”
“Because this asshole Page used to date claimed she’d told him she was sick of the area and wanted to start fresh someplace else. I’m sure he said that to get even with Page for dumping him.”
“What’s the ex-boyfriend’s name, do you remember?”
“Pete Hannigan. You won’t find him around here, though. I heard he moved to the West Coast.”
“What about the girls’ family members? Do you know where any of them are?”
Kayla’s eyes glistened, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of the grief wedged beneath the anger.
“Amy never knew her dad, and her mom died a couple of years ago from a heart attack. I’m sure the stress finally got to her. But at least she didn’t have to go through this.”
“What about Page’s family? I read she was from Florida.”
“From all I know, her family’s still there. And for what it’s worth, I never liked Page. She was a mooch if you ask me, a real user, and she was always boxing Amy off from all her old friends. But Amy dug her because she seemed so cool. Page walked around as if she were Miss South Beach or something.”
She shot a glance toward the plate-glass window of the dealership, checking out what was going on inside.
“There were photos of Page and Amy in the Post Star. Is that how Page looked at the time, do you know? With long blond hair?”
Kayla squinted, “Yeah, the paper had an accurate photo. Why, because that other woman was a blonde, too?”
“Right. One more question. Were either Amy or Page Catholic?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just looking for anything that they could have in common with Shannon Blaine.”
“Amy wasn’t a Catholic. But she was spiritual, if you know what I mean. She believed in being good to people, and to animals. And even the planet. I have no clue about Page. From what I knew her main religion was worshipping herself.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “I should let you get back to work.”
“You know what kills me,” Kayla said, her voice rising again. “No one ever gave a flying fuck about Amy. But now that some soccer mom is dead, too, everyone’s in a tizzy.”
“It’s not fair, I know. But at least the police may finally learn the truth about what happened to her and find the person who took her life.”
“But if they’d cared enough back then to look for her, maybe she wouldn’t be dead.”
“If it’s any consolation, I care. I’m headed to the campsit
e now, the one where Amy and Page were going to stay. And to the bar they were seen in that night.”
“Good,” she snapped. “And then maybe you’ll see for yourself.”
“See what, Kayla?” Goose bumps had popped up along my arms.
“Amy’s idea of enjoying nature was keeping a cactus plant on her coffee table. It never made any fucking sense that she’d plan to spend a night in a campsite like that one.”
Chapter 11
KAYLA HADN’T BEEN KIDDING.
The small, wooded campground was on the eastern side of the lake, only ten miles from the village, and yet upon my arrival I felt like I was deep into the Adirondacks. The spot felt isolated, off the beaten path, though there were a couple of tents bivouacked amid the trees.
I wandered for a couple of minutes through the grounds, taking in the mossy, mushroomy scent of early autumn. As my feet swished through the dry leaves, it was hard to picture Page and Amy deciding to spend two days and nights here. Maybe Amy had developed a taste for the outdoors without Kayla knowing about it, becoming a girl who loved L.L.Bean gear and the smell of Sterno in the morning, but that didn’t gel with the images I’d seen of her and Page in the Post Star. With their cute clothes and blown-out hair, they’d looked like city girls biding their time upstate.
Even more improbable as a destination for the two women was Muller’s. The bar turned out to be a full twenty-five-minute drive southeast from the campground, situated in the tiny, not-very-picturesque town of Fort Ann. The bar itself, in a tired, three-story brick building, looked like a total dive.
I slid out of the Jeep, and in the distance to the east I could see a row of soft-hued mountains. Not the Adirondacks anymore. I was looking at the Green Mountains of Vermont.
I climbed the saggy steps outside the bar and swung open the door, letting the refrains of a mournful country-western song spill onto the porch. The lights were low inside, but I could see the place was mostly empty, except for a half-dozen guys on barstools, a couple with the tops of their butt cracks smiling rudely in my direction. The place smelled musty, with a top note of BO.
It took a minute for me to focus, and as soon as I did, I saw the bartender’s eyes flickering in surprise.
“What can I get ya?” he asked, moseying over.
I was briefly tempted to say “a cooties shot” but asked for a Bud instead. I figured being a paying customer would afford me an ounce of leverage.
The bartender thrust his hand in the cooler, yanked out a Budweiser, and set the bottle and a glass on the greasy wooden bar.
“I’ve got a question, too, if you don’t mind,” I said.
“Try me, and we’ll see how I do.”
By this point a couple of the dudes at the bar had turned their heads to investigate.
“I’m wondering if by any chance you’ve worked here for at least ten years?”
He snorted. “You mean ’cause the 401(k) plan is so damn good? Nah, I’ve only been here a couple of years.”
“What about the owner?”
“You doing an oral history on the town’s hot spots?”
I smiled again. “No, I’m trying to track down information on a girl named Amy Hunt. She disappeared ten years ago, after stopping here.”
The song about heartaches and regrets had ended with a long, woeful chord, and the place went deadly still. The only sound now was from the buzz of a neon beer sign above the bar. And I could have sworn I saw the shoulders on one of the customers tighten. There was, I realized, something vaguely ominous in the air, like the barometric pressure had suddenly nose-dived.
“The current owner’s had the place for maybe five years,” he said. “And the dude he bought it from is dead.”
“Have you heard about the case, though? Amy apparently stopped by with a friend around seven o’clock on a Sunday night.”
His lips parted for a split second and then pressed back together, like he was about to answer one way and then changed his mind.
“Nope,” he said finally.
I didn’t see any other options at this point. I thanked the bartender, setting my mostly full glass on the bar. Unlike Sheryl Crow, I didn’t like a good beer buzz early in the mornin’.
Back in the Jeep, I brooded over the scene in the bar. What in God’s name had Amy and Page been doing in such a dump—and so far from their campsite? If they’d wanted better action than watching chipmunks scamper around their campsite, why not head to a bar in the village of Lake George, which would have been about ten minutes from the campsite?
An explanation I couldn’t ignore: they’d come here to meet up with someone. And perhaps that person was responsible for their disappearance. He could have forced them into his car when they left the bar, though there were two of them and they reportedly had consumed only one beer each. But then what became of Amy’s car, anyway?
I was a few minutes out of town when my phone rang. It was Marc Horton, the former FBI profiler. I could tell from the Bluetooth sound effect that he was probably in his car as well.
I ran him through the case as quickly as possible, ending with the tip Alice had received about the stigmata-like cuts on the hands and feet of the victims.
“Freaky,” Horton said when I’d finished.
“I thought freaky was the name of the game for you.”
“Yeah, well, this one sounds especially so. Many serial killers desecrate their victims before or after, but in my own work I didn’t come across much religious stuff.”
“Would you guess the killer is someone with a religious obsession?”
“Might be. The marks must have a specific meaning to the person who did it, and he’s sending a message to someone. It could be that a clergy member abused the killer. Something going on in his mind about that experience eventually triggered him to move into acts of violence.”
“Could the killer still be a churchgoer today?”
“Yes, or he could have left because of the abuse. Or he might actually be a clergy member.”
Okay, I hadn’t gone to that place yet, but as soon as I did, Tom Nolan’s face flashed in my mind. I needed to factor Horton’s words in when I spoke to Nolan later and also find out what other clergy were affiliated with St. Tim’s.
“What if,” I said, the thought forming as I spoke, “the killer saw these women as martyrs of sorts? Or . . . even sinners who needed to be punished?”
“Anything’s possible, but remember, you might be talking simply about someone who’s mentally ill and has his own narratives going on, ones with no basis in reality. He could simply be hearing voices and think God is telling him to do what he did.”
To my dismay I heard Marc’s GPS announce that he’d arrived at his final destination.
“Do you need to go?” I asked him.
“Yes, but call me later if necessary. And keep me posted, will you? You’ve got my curiosity piqued.”
“Will do.”
“And, Bailey, watch your back, okay? You’re out there, he knows who you are, and you never know what can trigger one of these guys. Have you thought about asking law enforcement for protection?”
“Uh, okay, let me consider that.”
I probably wouldn’t, though. I didn’t feel like a target, and Killian needed every hand on deck to search for the killer.
I thanked him again before I hung up and took a different route back, picking up the Adirondack Northway until the exit for the village of Lake George. Five minutes later I was at St. Tim’s.
As I parked I caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man emerging from a side door of the gray stone church, and I scrambled out of my Jeep, thinking it might be Nolan departing the premises. To my surprise it turned out to be Cody Blaine. I watched as he strode toward the parking lot with eyes fixed on his phone. He’d probably stopped by to make funeral arrangements, I realized.
At last he raised his head and spotted me. We locked eyes, and he held my gaze as he crossed the blacktop in my general direction, aiming for his silver Lexus.
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” I said as he reached his car. Up close, his pale handsome face was an ashy shade of gray, as if grief and exhaustion had taken their toll. What was that phrase J.J. had used about him? Too cool for school. He certainly didn’t appear that way at the moment.
“Thank you,” he said. Fatigue bled into his voice, too, but there was nothing hostile in his tone. He hesitated, studying me. “Look, I should apologize for the other night. For confronting you that way. All I wanted was for people to help me locate my wife.”
“No apology necessary,” I answered, relieved that he wasn’t holding a grudge.
“Is it true that you were the one who discovered Shannon?”
He seemed to be working with bare basics the sheriff had shared with him, clearly too busy and distraught to be reading my posts now.
“Yes, with another reporter.”
“So you did what I asked that night. You tried to find her.”
“I wish I could take more credit, but I was only following a lead. I’m glad I did, though.”
“Do you have any idea at all who the caller was?”
“None, unfortunately. Whoever it was used a voice adapter.”
“The fucking bastard. I wish I could kill him with my bare hands.”
“Had Shannon ever mentioned the retreat center to you? Do you know if she’d stayed there when she was growing up around here?”
“I can’t recall it ever coming up.”
I nodded toward the church. “I know Shannon was a Catholic. Were you here to make arrangements for Shannon’s funeral?”
“Yes, though we don’t know when we’ll have her body back. It’s a never-ending nightmare.”
He looked off, momentarily distracted by a pickup truck roaring up the road. It would be rude to detain him much longer, but this was my chance to ask about a subject that wouldn’t stop gnawing at me.
