by R. J. Noonan
“The Prince of Stafford Woods, right?” Was this a prank call? Prince Albert in a can?
Omak gave me a curious look.
“Hold on, Prince. I’m putting you on speaker.” I switched over the phone and pulled over to the side of the road. “So you’re Emory Vandenbos?”
“Please. The Prince. I got this number from the journalist Natalie Amichi.”
“And you’re calling from St. Benedict’s?”
“They let me use the phone here.”
It took a few seconds for my mind to catch up. “Prince, I’d really like to talk with you in person.”
“Maybe. I just wanted to give you a message for the legal beagles. Tell them to back off, and we’ll all come in. We’re coming in from the woods.”
* * *
We fumbled to pull everything in place for the arrival of the runaways. It seemed that Natalie had persuaded the Prince that it was time to disband the camp, and all the girls were willing to come out of the woods and get help.
“I don’t get it,” Omak said. “What did the Prince mean when he asked you to stop calling his mother?” During our phone call, the Prince had seemed rattled by my attempts to communicate with his parents. “Did you really speak with his parents?”
“I called and left messages, but they didn’t call me back.”
“Really?” Z grinned. “You told his mommy?”
“Who else can reel in a survivalist gone rogue in the woods?”
“I wonder if Vandenbos is coming in to avoid facing charges,” Omak speculated. “You heard him on the phone. He claims that he was a Good Samaritan, just helping the girls survive and escape worse fates on their own in the city.”
“From my conversations with Ellie, I think that’s a reasonable representation.”
“Well, right now, there’s no way we can promise the Prince immunity. But if the girls are all right, he won’t be charged with kidnapping. We have every reason to believe the girls are in that camp of their own volition.”
My first call was to Alma Hernandez at the hospital to ask for her help and advice. “The Stafford Woods campers are coming in this afternoon, and I’m not really sure what to expect.”
“No worries, honey. We’ll take care of them. How many do you think?”
“Four or five girls, and some boys, too.” The thought of these kids coming in filled me with hope. “I know they need to be taken in and processed, but we don’t want to scare them away again.”
“Okay. We’ll have a few social workers on hand. I’ll get some nice ones. And there’s a private facility—it’s called the Children’s Fort—that will take them in right away.” She explained that the Children’s Fort was staffed with medical doctors, nurses, social workers, and psychiatrists so that children who suffered trauma or abuse could be treated in a single facility. “At this facility, they videotape interviews with the kids so they don’t have to repeat their stories over and over again for social workers and police and whatnot.”
We discussed the need for our department to be copied on all interviews. “And I might need to talk with some of the kids to get more information on Kyra Miller or Emory Vandenbos,” I said.
I told her there would be a small police presence and an ambulance, just in case. “I would like to invite the Duprees as there’s a possibility that Emma is in the group. And I would like to have Ellie there. I think that would make the other girls more comfortable.”
“I agree. And little Ellie is going to be so happy to see her sister.”
“And it all needs to happen tomorrow morning at ten on the Jameson ranch. They’ll be coming in near the alpaca barn.”
* * *
Thursday morning, Z and I parked out by the Jamesons’ barn. Out in the corral, Blane was hammering away at a latch on the fence, and Eden was walking a bridled horse when we approached.
“Hey! Did you hear Andy got out?” Eden called to us.
“I know,” I said. “That’s good.” But maybe not so good for these two. Would they have to hit the road now?
“But he’s not coming back.” Eden didn’t have to shout now as she came closer. “I think he’s mad at the Jamesons. I’m not sure why. He said he’s going to stay with his girlfriend till they save up enough to get their own place. As far as he’s concerned, we can have his job.”
So it was very good news for them. “Do you want to stay here?” I asked.
“Hell, yeah!” said Blane. “This is a great place, and I don’t mind the hard work.”
“We were ready for a change,” Eden agreed. “But we’re not sure what the Jamesons are going to do. They haven’t offered us the job yet.”
“You might want to let them know you’re interested,” I suggested. “Remind them that you’ve been working here for a while. Negotiate a salary. Actually, speak with Martha’s assistant Talitha first. She might handle decisions like this, especially while the Jamesons are wrapped up in other matters.” Like the possible murder charge against Kent’s daughter.
Blane dropped the mallet and put a hand on the fence. “You don’t think they’d get mad about us asking?”
“I think they’d be relieved to have a smooth transition. But that’s just my opinion. Give it a try.”
“We should go together,” Eden said, reaching up to stroke the horse. “Tell her we’re like a package deal.”
“Yeah, we could do that.” Blane didn’t seem as enthusiastic as Eden—typical reluctant guy.
I couldn’t help thinking of Randy grudgingly agreeing to a coffee date and wriggling out of seeing me again. I had to push it to the back of my mind, but it still hurt to think that I wasn’t his first choice. Silly, but when were emotions ever rational?
Omak and a lawyer for Emory Vandenbos pulled up just before 10:00. Z and I stood with the other professionals lined up at the fence overlooking the alpaca corral. Alma was there with two other social workers, both young, both tattooed. Louise and Thomas Dupree spoke with Alma, trying to appear calm in a cloud of hope. Ellie Watson, delighted to see Eden and Blane, who she called Wolf, had joined them in the corral to get hands-on experience with the alpacas.
“They are so ugly, they make you feel sorry for them,” Ellie said, tentatively touching the flank of an ivory creature. “I love the way they follow each other to the poop pile.”
The tension at the fence was broken by some chuckles.
Omak hung back by the patrol car, keeping an eye on Elliot Steiner, attorney at law, who waited in the Mercedes. He’d given Omak his card and announced that he was there to represent his client, Emory Vandenbos. Omak was less than happy about it.
They appeared in a group, moving together in grungy clothes and beanies. They were so similar, I found it hard to distinguish one from another.
Then individuals emerged.
Morgan dropped her pack and came running to embrace her sister.
Guardian, tall, strong, and solemn, strode up to Alma and told her that his name was Shawn Wilkins, he was from Chicago, and he didn’t want to return there. When she asked his age, he said he was fifteen years old.
Louise Dupree let out a cry, and her husband’s hands quivered as he reached out to embrace his daughter. “Emma,” Louise cried, “oh, our dear Emma. We’ve missed you so much.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she responded, her face crumpling in tears. “I’m sorry, but I needed a change. Maybe it was stupid, but I had to go, and sometimes there’s no turning back.”
“You’re always welcome in your home,” her mother said, hugging the stiff girl. “Always.”
Thomas shook his head, but Louise kept hugging her daughter. I suspected their family would heal, though not overnight.
True went over to the social workers and talked with them. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were engaged.
I looked toward the trail; it was empty.
“Where’s the Prince?” I asked.
True turned back to me, a look of concern in her eyes. “He left early this morn
ing. Said he was going home. I promised him that I’d corral the others out of the woods. Some of us didn’t want to come in, but the Prince was worried that we wouldn’t survive the winter in the woods without him.”
Omak turned to the lawyer, who now stood outside his Mercedes. “Where’s your client, Steiner?”
“My client has no reason to come forward. He has acted as a benefactor to these young people, supporting them through their difficult times. They’re now safely delivered to you. My client is seeking opportunity elsewhere.”
“Meaning he’s flown the coop,” Omak said.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Z held up a hand. “Technically, your client is a suspect in this case.”
“There are no charges against him, and he’s broken no laws.” Steiner smiled. “Technically, he’s a free man.”
I turned to Omak. “What should we do?”
“Not much we can do,” he muttered, then turned to the attorney. “We’ll be in touch if we need to depose him. In the meantime, tell him I don’t ever want to hear that he’s living in Stafford Woods again.”
“It’s been a pleasure.” Steiner got into the car and drove off.
Alma assured us that everything was under control. “We’ll take good care of these kids . . . All these girls and a lost boy, too.” She winked.
I tried to feel a sense of relief as they boarded two vans. Some of the Lost Girls had been found. Some families reunited. Some would begin new lives. But for all the girls that had been found, other kids were still missing . . .
“Good on you,” Omak told us with a look of pride.
I tried, but I couldn’t force a smile. My job wasn’t even half done.
* * *
Z and I stayed at the ranch until after all the others left and then headed back to the precinct. Later in the day, there would be recorded interviews with the runaways to review, but for now we needed to leave Alma and her team to debrief the young people while we got back to work. Z contacted the Missing Persons Division and other organizations to update their records on the kids who’d come in today while I went through Lucy’s school records—bad grades but glowing reviews from teachers—and the report that had just arrived from the LA County Medical Examiner. The written report wasn’t surprising, but when I saw the list of toxins in Candy Jameson’s system, I took note. A lethal dose of GHB or Rohypnol had been found in her blood. They believed it had slowed her heart and lungs, causing death.
Had Lucy poisoned her own mother?
Just then my phone buzzed and I saw a text from an unknown number.
This is Lucy. Can we meet?
My heartbeat quickened as I told her yes and saved her number in my directory. Then I called her.
“How soon can you be here?” she asked.
I wasn’t supposed to be visiting the Jameson estate; the event at the ranch had been an exception to the rule. “I thought we could talk on the phone.”
“I didn’t kill Blossom or anyone else. But I know things. Dark, scary things.”
“Tell me. I’m listening.”
“Not on the phone. I’ll show you. But only you. No one else.”
It sounded like I was being set up, but it didn’t feel that way. With a look toward Lt. Omak’s office, I made an executive decision. “We can’t meet at your house. After yesterday, your father and Martha don’t want us trespassing.”
“Meet me in the woods. Park at the ranch and walk on the trail back toward the house. Halfway there, there’s a fork in the path near two grand ponderosas.” My palms were already sweating at the prospect of a solo venture into the woods again. Being a Mori meant I should have felt at peace with the forest—all serene and tranquil and Kumbaya. Instead, the prospect made my hands tremble. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
26
Considering what we knew about Lucy, neither Z nor I were happy at the prospect of me taking the trip alone. “But it’s the only way,” I said, and he made me promise to call in within the hour.
Twenty-some minutes later, I found Lucy waiting at the designated spot, hands on her slim hips, head cocked as if she were about to rumble with a rival gang. In her short fringed boots, silver jacket, and tights, with her slim shape and pixie haircut, she could have been Peter Pan beckoning me to Neverland. Hardly intimidating. But then again, some notorious killers banked on charm. She could be the female, teenage version of H. H. Holmes or Ted Bundy.
“Where would we be going?”
“Out in the woods. We have to walk, but it’s not far. Like, twenty minutes to get there.”
One-on-one it seemed safe, but there were other factors in the woods. Cold surprises. Solitude. And a dark, deep forest of fear.
“Promise me, no surprises.”
“Oh, you’ll be surprised,” she said, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “But I won’t hurt you. I’m not the person who does the hurting around here. That’s the part you guys have got wrong. I’m the one who’s always getting hurt.”
The flicker of pain in her eyes grabbed me, and I empathized with this loner of a girl caught in a dysfunctional family triangle—the famous, brilliant father who treated her like a pet and the stepmother who pretended to hold the family and fortune together but actually seemed determined to kick Lucy out of the mix. Did this impossible situation mold a girl already dancing with mental illness? Yes. Did it mean she was a killer? Not necessarily.
“Okay,” I told her. “Show me the way.”
* * *
Lucy’s throat was tight as she walked alongside the female cop. Laura Mori looked too young to be a police officer. If Lucy had met her under other circumstances, they might have been friends. The other day when Laura had come into Lucy’s bedroom, seeing Laura sitting among her stuffed animals, Lucy imagined the pretty Japanese girl there just hanging out, listening to music, painting their nails, and talking. Lucy liked the way Laura actually listened to what she said. The way she seemed to have a patient smile in her eyes. And how she didn’t yell when she got upset.
They could have been friends, but that probably wouldn’t have ended well for Laura. Most girls who were friends with Lucy ended up buried in the dirt.
Not that Lucy was sure about any of it. It was just a theory, a wild scenario that occurred to her over time as it became clear that someone had been digging in the clearing. Some people said that she’d inherited her father’s wild imagination. But from the way those cops had been talking and the way the bitch had pointed all the blame, it looked like they were going to arrest Lucy. Arrest her! Lucy hadn’t hurt anyone, but she wasn’t stupid, either. She saw the patterns of her friendships, the abrupt endings, the girls who, every last one, had dropped off the face of the earth. Why did all her friends leave—and where had they gone? Suspicious? Hell, yeah.
Lucy knew this was the only way to save herself.
“So I don’t know if this is nothing or something really huge, but it’s scared me for a long time, and then it sort of grew on me, and now—I don’t know. It’s not like I hang out with the dead. But then everything around us is dying or dead. But . . .” She grunted, annoyed with herself. “It’s all coming out like vomit. I hate when I don’t make sense!”
Laura was squinting as if there were some important speck in the panorama of tall fir and cedar, moss and fern surrounding them. “Maybe start at the beginning. Make it a story.”
* * *
Storytelling was nothing new to Lucy; keeping it real was the problem. Sometimes she confused reality with daydreams.
“Okay. Whatever. The first time I noticed the little patch of dug-up dirt, I was hiking with Darcy, looking for wildflowers or a place to smoke weed. I don’t really remember. But then we found this little nook that had a carpet of soft grass and little purple flowers. It seemed like a haven, a fairy cove. In summer it’s bordered by lilac bushes that smell supersweet. And there’s an opening in the trees overhead so sunlight breaks through. We thought it was a good place to chill, so Darcy spread out the blanket and we hun
g out.
“We were there awhile when Darcy noticed the loose dirt . . .”
Lucy could see Darcy, sitting there on a weather-smoothed boulder. Her curly, dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but little springs of curl popped out. The girls had to spend hours smoothing that hair with the iron to get it straight, and most times Darcy just let it curl up.
“Look at that patch of dirt. Someone’s been digging,” Darcy said.
“A little garden bed.” Lucy looked around nervously. “This part is state land, I think. Do you think there’s some creepy mountain troll watching us, ready to swoop down and protect his cabbage patch?”
“Right. Or maybe it’s an animal. You know how squirrels dig?”
“In an oval shape like that?”
“Why not?” Darcy paced along the patch of loose soil, surveying.
“Or maybe it’s a grave. Somebody probably buried their dog there.”
“A grave?” Darcy reached out in mock horror and grabbed Lucy’s arm. “Oh, God! Maybe it’s a body!”
Loving the hysteria, Lucy grabbed the blanket and the girls fled, screaming. Their shrieks must have swept from the wind-tortured hilltop to the park down by the river. Darcy vowed never to return to that spot. And she never did.
At least, not alive.
A month or so after Darcy had gone, Lucy was tearing through the forest in a snit. Talking to herself out loud. Crying off and on. The doctors told her to take the medication to keep from getting depressed, but sometimes a good cry helped. Besides, after a few months on that icky medication, it took not just the tears but the fun times and joy, too. She and Darcy had joked about the place being a secret burial ground, and Lucy felt connected to Darcy through the memory. She went off the path and trudged over to the grassy clearing to calm down.
The fresh patch of overturned soil stood out like a charred wound in the earth.
“Now there are two graves,” Lucy said to no one, though the meaning wasn’t lost in the silence. Two friends gone, two graves. Maybe a coincidence. Maybe her friends were fine, off having better lives somewhere.
When Alice left, things were different. At that point, the Prince and some of the others had moved to the woods from Portland, giving Lucy a new social life just beyond her back door. Besides, she’s been kind of relieved to have Alice out of her room and out of her life. That girl was lost in so many ways. Cool when she was stable, but most times she was strung out on drugs or all knotted up in desperation to find more. Lucy didn’t care so much about pathetic, druggy Alice.
