Beneath Bone Lake

by Colleen Thompson

  A few moments later, Sam came through the door and told her, “Coast is clear, if you want…to come back out.” Distracted by the shoe-box-sized package he was holding, he stared down at its shipping label.

  “Forget what you ordered?” she asked.

  “Haven’t ordered anything I remember, and I don’t recognize this address.” He shook his head and set the mailer on the counter. “Probably one of those sample fishing gizmos these companies send me now and then. I’ll look at it later. Right now I’m making us some breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?” Ruby shook her head, confused. “I thought—I thought you were worried about someone seeing me here.”

  He glanced up at her. “Right now I’m more worried you’re going to keel over on me, Ruby. So sit down before you fall down.”

  “But I’m not—I couldn’t possibly—”

  He slapped the top of one of a pair of stools beside a speckled countertop. “Come on over here. We can talk while I cook. What we can’t do is make a decent plan on empty stomachs.”

  She’d been so braced for failure, so prepared for him to look out for his own interests, that she didn’t know how to handle the simple kindness she heard in his voice.

  When he went to the refrigerator, she dropped mutely onto one of the bar stools, where she watched him pull out a carton of eggs as if this were any other morning. As if Elysse weren’t dead and Ruby’s family held hostage.

  He pulled a striped bowl from one cupboard and began cracking the white eggs, one after another, their slimy yellow innards sloshing down.

  “I—I’m feeling really queasy.” She panted out the words, blackness fizzing at the edges of her vision.

  “Just turn away from me,” he said. “Look out the window and start talking. Tell me again about what happened last night. Tell me everything you remember.”

  She swiveled on the bar stool until she could see out the window above the sink. Her view was of the lawn and thick trees that had stood between their homes for decades. Touched by the sun’s first rays, the damp grass sparkled as plump blackbirds pecked industriously among its roots. Filling her lungs, she willed the dewy green to saturate her awareness, willed it to fill those hollows left by the desiccated tans and beiges of the desert.

  Yet inside, she remained arid and empty of emotion as she retold her story, beginning with the idling boat motor and the cigarette’s glow in the darkness and ending with Deputy Savoy’s arrival. As Sam cooked—she was vaguely aware of the scents and sounds that marked his progress—she went on speaking, feeling her soul peel back from the horror like a sunburn, exposing the raw flesh beneath.

  Outside, the grass and trees swam in her vision, and eventually, she grew conscious of the warmth and weight of his hand resting at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. When she stared at him, he jerked away—his expression of surprise turning into dismay.

  Clearly, he hadn’t meant to touch her. He was feeding her in the same way a man might toss scraps to a starving stray, but when it came to a personal connection…she’d seen the struggle written in his golden brown eyes. And she couldn’t blame him one bit.

  Turning from her, he dropped slices of bread into the toaster. “You said he wouldn’t let you speak to either of them?”

  “No,” she said, “and I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe he didn’t have my family with him when he called. If he was really in that boat nearby, he must have left them somewhere. Tied up, maybe, or locked someplace, or…” Or dead.

  Sam pulled a pair of plates from a cabinet. “What if he doesn’t have them? What if he never did?”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but the sense in his suggestion stopped her. Rubbing tired eyes, she allowed the thought to permeate her brain. “I guess…I suppose that’s possible. Since I found Elysse and he called, I can’t think of anything but what he’ll do to my baby and my sister if he finds out I lost the flash drive.”

  “What if—and this is one hell of a big leap, so bear with me—what if the phone call wasn’t spoofed, and your caller really is tied up with law enforcement somehow? And what if, knowing the details of your family’s disappearance, he decided to take advantage of the situation—to pretend he has your family to get you to give up the evidence?”

  “So why did he kill Elysse like that? To convince me it was all tied up with DeserTek?”

  As he buttered the toast, Sam nodded. “That and to leave you too terrified to do anything but blindly obey his instructions. To get you so off balance, you wouldn’t wonder about other possibilities. Such as why drug dealers would set up shop in your house.”

  Ruby sighed and set down her mug. “I can’t imagine what DeserTek could possibly have to do with that. Or why my sister would empty out our bank accounts.”

  As she explained what Wofford had said about it, Sam used his spatula to lift the fried eggs onto two plates. “Want to eat here at the counter or the table?”

  “Sam. I told you I can’t—”

  “Come on, Ruby. You’re asking me to violate the terms of my probation. I’m only asking you to eat.”

  She shook her head. “What? I’m not asking you to—”

  The heavy white plate clunked down onto the counter, and Sam put his own beside hers, then pulled forks and paper napkins from a drawer. “Maybe not in so many words, but you came here looking for help, didn’t you? To a guy who does computers, not guns. I’m the wrong McCoy for that. Or maybe it’s my criminal expertise you were after.”

  In his voice, she heard a sneering cynicism that instantly raised her hackles, a complete about-face from the compassion she’d heard and seen and felt only moments earlier. Was this his way of pulling back, of distancing himself from uncomfortable emotions? Or was it the jerk in him coming out of hiding?

  “What a load of crap,” she shot back. “I came over here to tell you about Elysse and warn you Wofford’s gunning for you, that’s all.” She glared at him even as it dawned on her that maybe, on some level, he was right. She had been praying for a miracle—and maybe, at least subconsciously, she’d grasped at the straw of his knowledge of technology in the hope that he’d be able to unearth some kind of clue.

  Rather than admit it, she used the side of her fork to cut into an egg, then took a tiny bite. Sam, too, started eating.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her between mouthfuls. “I still mean to help you. But it’s only because I have a vested interest in finding your family. Because I have no intention of getting this pinned on me.”

  “Fine, Sam.” She choked down another bite, not because he’d told her to, but because she needed to remain strong. Strong enough to trust a man she shouldn’t trust. “I’ll take whatever help you want to dish out for whatever reason you sling my way. And if the help comes with a side of attitude, so be it. Because I have more than a ‘vested interest’ in this. I have absolutely, positively nothing left to lose.”

  THINGS FALL APART

  Crying again. Zoe. Louder this time, slicing through the blurred dreams. Numb dreams where Misty still remembered how to smile. Where she hadn’t screwed up everything so badly that…

  The child’s voice was bird-shrill, probably complaining about watching the same DVD of Jasmine and Aladdin, celluloid companions who’d long since outstayed their welcome. She was probably sick, too, of living on cereal and water and the stark horror of forced isolation.

  Misty woke shuddering, guilt giving her the strength to fight free of the drug’s grip. Blinking in the filmy light, she looked around the living room. Checked to see if anyone was sitting in the kitchen or passed out on the couch.

  She spotted no one but knew better than to assume he wasn’t here. He might be sleeping in the second bedroom, although he’d left the radio playing in there as usual, emitting the muted murmur of male voices that formed the background noise of her dreams.

  Her breath hitched at the thought of what had happened the last time he was wakened, when he’d exploded out of that room….

  “Please, Aun
t Misty. Please talk to me.” Zoe’s voice edged toward hysteria.

  Fear cut the last threads of inertia. “It’s okay, sweetie,” Misty rasped, her throat so raw each word was agony. “I’m here. I’m awake now.”

  “Can I come out now? Can I? I have to go potty and the can’s all smelly and—”

  “Keep your voice down, Zoe.” Misty glanced back toward the other bedroom. “If he hears—”

  “The pink phone isn’t working.” Zoe sounded mad now. “I pushed the numbers like you taught me, but no one came to help me.”

  Misty blinked, heart pounding, and tried to recall tossing her cell phone into the depths of Zoe’s backpack. But those last minutes at the house had been so scrambled, so frightening, she had no clear memory of doing so—or whether she had gotten around to paying the overdue phone bill, much less charged the cell.

  But one thing was for sure. He would go crazy if he heard that Zoe had it. And like every four-year-old on the planet, she had no concept of how to keep her voice low.

  Misty managed a hoarse whisper. “You have to hide it. Hide it quick, or he’ll be very mad.”

  “I don’t care! I want to get out of here and I want my mommy and my kittens and…” The defiant little voice slid into tears.

  Just as Misty heard heavy footsteps from the front porch. Footsteps moving swiftly toward the door.

  C HAPTER FIFTEEN

  It is the same thing: killing, dying, it is the same thing: one is just as alone in each.

  Jean-Paul Sartre,

  Dirty Hands, act 5, sc. 2

  Sam watched with mixed emotions as Ruby drove away in the white Corolla, which Wofford had granted her leave to continue driving until Elysse’s stepbrother could be reached in one of DeserTek’s Iraqi compounds. Thinking of the exhaustion written in Ruby’s every motion, he thought, I should’ve made her stay and rest, never should’ve let her take off in that condition.

  But part of him had been glad to hear her argue that there was no time to waste. For one thing, she was right; for another, he needed to plan his actions carefully, and his logic short-circuited whenever he glimpsed the heartbreak in her eyes.

  It hurt almost as badly thinking about her daughter—Aaron’s daughter—scared or injured or bound or even dead along with Misty, almost as badly as it hurt to think about Elysse’s death. He hated, too, hearing himself lie by telling Ruby he would only help her for his own sake. Standing by the window, he told himself he was a grown man, long past the days when he’d been just another freaking foster kid with his nose pressed to the glass. Forever looking in, but never quite belonging, always longing for the love, the goddamned trust, that Aaron Monroe had claimed as his birthright.

  Son of a bitch. Could it be true? Had his recent legal troubles sent him sliding backward, regressing to a place where he coveted the woman and the child simply because they had belonged to the “brother” who’d betrayed him?

  “Bullshit.” Sam’s outburst spooked the dog, who tucked her tail between her legs and slunk toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, come on, you big baby. C’mere, Java. It’s okay, girl.” He followed her into the room, where he caught the adolescent Lab consoling her bruised feelings with her front paws on the counter.

  “Down from there. No, Java.” He grabbed her collar and pulled her head away from a leftover piece of toast. Before he could drag her from the treat, her tongue shot out, quick as any bullfrog’s, and she snagged and swallowed the bread down without chewing. But Sam considered it progress that at least it had been actual food this time. Only two weeks earlier, she’d eviscerated one of his down pillows and—for reasons he could not begin to fathom—gulped his watch whole.

  Mission accomplished, Java dropped down onto her haunches, then cocked her head as she eyed the package Sam had left on the counter nearby. Figuring she might still be hungry, Sam stepped between her and the item and then turned to stare at it as well.

  The box was ringing, its sound muffled but steadily rising in volume. A cell phone, unless he missed his guess. But who on earth would be sending him such a thing, and who mailed an activated cell phone anyway?

  He grabbed a knife and slit open the package but paused, wondering if this could be some kind of setup. What if someone, maybe the DEA guys who had been here, wanted him to violate the terms of his probation? What if they, or maybe Wofford and her deputies, were poised to “happen by” with another warrant after intentionally putting a forbidden item in his hands?

  Stupid to worry about such a possibility, he decided, when he’d already given Ruby cash to buy a laptop. Besides, if the authorities wanted to set him up, there were a thousand ways that they might do it, from planted drugs to a fabricated “journal.”

  By the time he pulled the cell phone, an inexpensive disposable model, from the shredded cardboard used to cushion it, it had stopped ringing. He checked out the phone itself. There were two “Missed Calls,” both listed as “Unavailable.”

  He pulled out the packing material in the hope of finding a note of explanation or an invoice. Instead, he heard the light tap of something plastic against the countertop. Tail wagging, Java tried to horn in, but he pushed her head away and scooped up the thin black case. Only a few inches long, with a tiny flashing green light and a small exterior antenna, it had to be a GPS tracking device, one inserted in the package to allow someone to remotely keep tabs on when this package arrived.

  Once more, the cell phone started ringing. This time, Sam answered, his curiosity outstripping his caution.

  “McCoy here,” he said.

  “About damn time,” a husky female voice responded.

  “Sybil?” Sam broke into a wide grin and thanked God for his former partner, who had clearly decided to risk calling on his sometime “associate” for help. Sam had never actually met the hacker who helped out when “extralegal” methods were the only means of protecting their clients’ interests. More than likely, Luke, who claimed to have known her for years, had never met her personally either, for “Sybil” was as notoriously shy of direct contact as she was bold in terms of riskier endeavors.

  Electronic contact, however, was another story, as long as a potential client came recommended and was willing to abide by her precautions to the letter. And as long as her fee was deposited in an untraceable offshore account.

  “So what can I do for you?” she asked, sounding impatient as ever, probably annoyed that Luke had called in a personal favor and distracted her from whatever moneymaking mayhem she was currently into.

  Her attitude changed once Sam explained his situation, including those portions he’d prefer to leave to someone with her expertise—as well as her complete lack of regard for the finer legal points.

  “So let me get this straight,” she rasped. “You’ve got a badass big-time contractor who’ll stop at nothing to get back its property, no property to give back, drug dealers, DEA, ATF, and locals all involved…”

  “Could be some FBI, too, considering the missing child.”

  “The FBI…” she echoed.

  With a jolt, Sam remembered Sybil’s history with the bureau, her starring role, courtesy of one grainy photo and a whole lot of conjecture, on an episode of America’s Most Wanted. Since then, he’d heard she’d become lower profile and more paranoid than ever. Had he screwed up entirely, scaring her off by reminding her of the danger?

  Instead, she laughed, a sound that sparkled like glassy shards in sunlight. “I am loving this already.”

  He hoped that meant that she was glad to get the chance to once again run circles around her federal adversaries. And not that she had figured out a way to sell him and Ruby out to either the authorities or—worse yet—to a company with pockets as deep as its collective morality was shallow.

  Because whatever the debt the mysterious Sybil owed Luke Maddox, Sam had always suspected that her first and foremost loyalty was to padding her offshore account.

  After a certain point, not even caffeine is enough. Ruby nudged past that
point some thirty miles north of Dogwood, when the car drifted onto the road’s gravel shoulder and jostled her awake.

  Crying out, she fought to keep the Corolla from running off into a drainage ditch bordering the tree-lined road. For an instant, she had no inkling of where she was, no idea who had put a thick, green forest in the middle of an Iraqi desert.

  Heart ricocheting around her insides, she slowed, then stopped the car along the grass just off the shoulder. From the two-lane highway, the driver of a van honked as if to scold her, but continued on its way while other passersby ignored her.

  Ruby unwound her clenched hands from the wheel and slapped at her cheeks to rouse herself—as if the surge of adrenaline hadn’t been enough to do the trick. About a quarter mile ahead, she caught sight of a long-closed lumber company, a familiar landmark that told her she was less than halfway to her destination, a city of about fifty thousand. Though she was afraid the kidnapper might call her back at any moment, she and Sam had agreed the cash purchase would attract less attention in a larger community than Dogwood.

  She would also attract less attention if she didn’t get herself killed on the way. To help wake herself, Ruby walked around the parked car while she sipped from the can of Coke Sam had offered before she’d left.

  “Come on, Ruby, you can do this. Not for Sam or for yourself. For them.” As close to the edge as she felt, she couldn’t bear to say the names of her missing loved ones. What she could and did do, however, was to climb back inside the car and crank up one of Elysse’s retro-rock CDs. Though she tried to focus on the beat rather than the blaring lyrics, Pat Benatar’s “Love Is a Battlefield” pounded its message through her defenses, leaving her in tears before she reached her destination.

  “If anyone asks, you have no idea where I’ve gone,” Sam said as Paulie Hammett, standing just outside the restaurant’s delivery door, held out a set of keys he’d asked to borrow. “Maybe on an overnight fishing trip with an old client. All right?”