by Rick Mofina
Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O…
Kate and Vanessa were in the backseat. They were both wearing their necklaces. It was a happy time. Their foster father, Ned, a bus driver, was at the wheel, beside him, Norma, his wife, a secretary. They were on vacation, singing and marveling at how the mountains were so close to the road you could almost touch them as they formed sheer rock walls shooting straight up so far you couldn’t see the top.
It got darker and cooler in the shadows of the mountains. Kate remembered Norma telling Ned to slow down each time they’d passed a road sign warning of falling rocks. She remembered that when they came to a great valley the car started making a noise, Ned saying how they’d stop in the next town so he could take a look at it.
They were about ten miles east of Golden, British Columbia, where the Kicking Horse River intertwines with the Trans-Canada Highway.
And on his farm he had a duck…
Suddenly Ned’s swearing, turning the wheel…bang…Norma’s screaming…they’re flying—how could that be—flying, spinning…off the road…the world is rolling upside down…the car’s crashing into the river…sinking…everything’s in slow motion…the windows breaking open…cold water rushing in…holding her breath…Ned and Norma screaming, struggling underwater…dark…the dome light’s glow…the car’s upside down…roof banging against the rocky riverbed…the strong current pushing the car…Kate unbuckles her seatbelt…unbuckles Vanessa’s…grabbing Vanessa’s hand…lungs bursting…pulling her out…they’re out of the car swimming…nearing the surface…the current’s sweeping them downriver…numbing her…her fingers loosening…Vanessa’s slipping away…her hand rising from the water, then disappearing… VANESSA!
It all happened here, right here.
Kate had stopped her rental on the shoulder, stood next to it and stared at the river, listening to its rush. It was here. She checked the photographs in the timeworn newspaper clippings, checked the highway’s curve, the rock formations near the river—Three American Tourists Killed When Car Crashed Into River…
Kate didn’t remember much of the aftermath. Images blurred by police, rescuers, flying back to Chicago with a young social worker who cried with her, the memorial services for Ned, Norma and Vanessa, a grief counselor and more foster homes.
And the nightmares.
Vanessa’s hand.
They dragged the river where they could. They used divers and dog teams, search groups and a helicopter, to scour the banks but found nothing after five days of searching. Vanessa’s body may have been wedged in the rocks, they said. It may have been washed up and dragged into the wild by wolves, cougars or a bear. All were possibilities.
Kate was the lone survivor.
Why did I survive? Why me?
She squeezed the flower stems tight as she carefully made her way to the river’s edge. One by one she dropped flowers into the flowing water, watching each of them twirl downstream.
Please forgive me, Vanessa. I’m so sorry I let you slip away. Why couldn’t they find you? I have to know what happened. I can’t go on like this. Are you dead? Are you here, somewhere? Or did you somehow survive? Where are you Vanessa? What happened?
Kate studied the river and scanned the vast forests and glorious mountains. She sat on the bank. It was beautiful, peaceful and spiritual. She didn’t know how long she’d been there when her phone rang.
Surprised that she had service here, she looked at it, thinking it might be Nancy with Grace returning her call.
The number was for Newslead in Manhattan. She answered.
“Kate, Reeka at the office. Can you talk?”
“What is it?”
“The Associated Press has just moved a story out of Rampart, citing unnamed sources, saying that additional human remains have been found in what police suspect are multiple murders at a remote barn site. Kate, why didn’t you alert us to this?”
“What?”
Kate’s mind raced. Reeka’s nerve! More victims! Was Vanessa one?
“Why didn’t you advise me of this, Kate, given your involvement?”
“You wanted me fired for my involvement, Reeka.”
“You’re still a Newslead employee.”
“But you wanted me fired. You said there was no story there.”
“Obviously things have changed.”
“What do you want from me?”
“This is poised to become a huge story and we can’t let our competition beat us on it. I want you to tell me all you know so I can pass it to our bureau people in Rochester and Syracuse.”
“No.”
“What did you say?”
Kate hung up and stared at the river.
CHAPTER 22
Calgary, Alberta
It was a mistake to hang up on Reeka Beck.
Probably a fatal one given Newslead’s plan to cut staff, Kate thought while driving back to Calgary, still stinging from the call.
Damn, Reeka had a lot of gall. But it’s no surprise. She resents me.
Maybe it was Reeka’s queen-bee syndrome. Kate had encountered it before with women in other newsrooms. Or maybe it was because Reeka regarded her as a gutter-girl-slut, a lowly community college grad.
Well, to hell with her, calling the way she did to attack me. She had it coming and I’m too tired to think about her right now.
It was late.
Kate had driven across Alberta and halfway back in one day. She’d uncovered more about Vanessa’s case and relived a nightmare. She was exhausted, anguished and now that more human remains had been found in Rampart, even more fearful that the woods around the barn had become Vanessa’s grave.
Kate pushed the thought from her mind as she drove, noticing how fast the sky had darkened after the sun set in the mountains. Her loneliness grew in the twilight but it left her when she stopped at a diner in Banff. She’d managed to reach Grace before Nancy put her to bed. The sound of her daughter’s voice as she told Kate about her day was soothing.
“I hope you can get me a present from Canada, Mom.”
Later, while preparing to leave the diner, Kate received a text from Chuck, which launched a terse exchange.
We need to talk over the phone in the am.
OK. What time? she responded.
Eight. We’ll call you.
We?
Reeka and Ben will be on the call.
This was serious. Ben Sussman was an executive editor.
I’m in Alberta. I’ll send you my hotel number.
Alberta?
Yes.
Fine. That’ll be 6 a.m. your time.
Kate drove the rest of the way to Calgary grappling with a million concerns. You’re tired. You’re not thinking clearly.
Besides, so much was out of her control.
At the hotel she’d put in a wake-up call then went to bed plagued with terrifying dreams of a woman burning alive in a blazing barn; a hand rising from the river; all to the melody of E-I-E-I-O, until a phone started ringing and ringing.
Someone should answer it. Why doesn’t somebody get that phone?
Kate opened her eyes to a torpid fog and answered her wake-up call.
She showered, made strong coffee, got dressed, went online and scoured news sites for the latest on Rampart. The case was attracting national attention. Bloomberg, Reuters and the Associated Press had all moved new stories on the mystery surrounding the discovery in Rampart and speculation there were more victims.
Kate had checked the status of her morning return flight when her room phone rang.
It was Chuck, on speaker with Ben and Reeka.
They got right to it.
“There’s a major news conference in Rampart tomorrow morning,” Chuck said. “We’re getting beat on this
story. We need to own it. We’d like you to send us all you know on the case ASAP. We need an exclusive hook. Ray Stone will write a setup piece today and Michelle Martin from our Syracuse bureau will go to Rampart and cover the conference.”
“No.”
“No?” Chuck muttered something, then said, “Are you refusing?”
“Yes.”
“Insubordination given your situation puts you on thin ice, Kate.”
“Kate, Ben Sussman here. Why are you refusing?”
“I want the story.”
“I understand your personal interest,” Sussman said, “concerning your sister’s tragedy, and our hearts go out to you. But, as you know, to put you on the story violates our policy. You’d be using your position for personal gain, which is what got you into trouble in the first place.”
“What personal gain? Our job as journalists is to seek the truth. As far as my sister’s concerned, that’s what I’m doing, seeking the truth about her. I’d be serving readers.”
“Kate, it’s not that simple,” Chuck said.
“Hear me out. You all know that we’ve had staff produce work, good work, in which they used their position for personal gain. Our feature writer in Atlanta wrote about her daughter’s terminal illness and cracks in the insurance system. One of our financial writers did a first-person series about how his relatives were victims of subprime mortgages. I could give you other examples.”
“You make a valid argument,” Sussman said. “But your case is a bit more complicated.”
“That’s right,” Reeka said. “Kate, the distinction with your case is that you broke the law and could still be charged for trespassing on a crime scene.”
They had her against the ropes and had hammered her with the truth.
She didn’t know what to say.
A long silence passed before Chuck said, “Kate?”
“It’s funny,” she said. “I’m nearly fired for using my position for what you deem ‘personal gain,’ when Newslead is leaning on me to use my position for its corporate gain. Do you see the irony in that?”
“The fact is, Kate,” Reeka said, “the police could bring those charges back on you at any time.”
Kate shut her eyes and felt Vanessa’s hand slip from hers, saw it shooting up from the river, saw it disappearing.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m guilty of trespassing on a crime scene and taking pictures, but I’ll give you some context. For twenty years I’ve lived with the guilt of my sister’s death. For twenty years I’ve lived with the fact that her body was never found. Then Rampart police call me, telling me they’ve found a necklace at a crime scene identical to one my sister had. Can you imagine for one second what goes through your mind? Yes, I was overwhelmed, yes, I broke the law. I’m human and that was my mistake, but keeping me off this story, especially now, will be your mistake, because no one is going to give more to it than me. I’ll go full tilt for you. So you can keep me off the story, you can fire me for insubordination. I’ll go to AP, Bloomberg and Reuters. Maybe they’ll be interested in what I’ve found out on my own up here. Being journalists, I’m surprised you didn’t ask.”
Now it was the editors who went silent for a long moment.
“Stay near your phone,” Chuck said. “We’ll get back to you.”
Kate hung up, cupped her hands to her face, then got busy. She went online and sent Grace an email of a picture of bighorn sheep she’d seen in the mountains. She checked flights again. After she’d started packing, her room phone rang.
It was Chuck.
“You’re on the story. Get to Syracuse tonight and touch base with the bureau and go with our bureau photographer to Rampart in the morning for the news conference.”
“Okay.”
“What can you give us that’s exclusive?”
“That it appears that my sister may have survived her crash and was abducted from Canada to become a victim in Rampart. I have elements that point to that scenario.”
Chuck took a second to absorb that.
“All right, I want you to file a setup piece that includes that exclusive angle.”
“Do you want it first person?”
“No, write it news style and we’ll attach a disclosure disclaimer to your piece, clearly stating your relationship. We’ll do it with anything you write that’s relevant to the case.”
“All right.”
“I want it by 5:00 p.m., New York time, today. Looks like you can fly from Calgary to Chicago with a connection to Syracuse. You can write on the plane and file from O’Hare, if you don’t have Wi-Fi in the air. We’ll cover all costs as you now are officially on assignment.”
“Thank you, Chuck.”
“If you screw up, Kate, it’s your job.”
“I know.”
“And mine.”
CHAPTER 23
Rampart, New York
“I just finished reading your story, Kate. It’s incredible.”
Jay Raney, Newslead’s chief photographer at the Syracuse bureau, pocketed his phone and introduced himself to Kate in her motel lobby. He was a soft-spoken man in his late thirties with a few-days-growth beard. As he helped her with her bags and led her to his Ford Escape, she contended with her overriding fear about her sister.
Were the newly discovered human remains Vanessa’s?
Was today the day she’d find the truth?
They headed north on Interstate 81 for Rampart and that morning’s news conference. After some small talk—they’d discovered they had mutual news friends in Ohio and California—things fell quiet and Kate worked as the miles rushed under them.
Her flight back had been smooth. She’d slept well and was energized after talking with Grace on the phone earlier, before Raney arrived. Now, with farmland flashing by her window, Kate concentrated on her laptop, starting with a message from Chuck.
Pickup of your story was very strong, he had said. Keep us out front.
Scrolling through the rest of her messages, Kate came to a new one from Elliott Searle, the retired Mountie.
With regard to the partial plate, look for an article in one of the Denver papers, within a month of TDM’s disappearance. It mentions the plate.
Kate began searching the databases for the Denver Post and Rocky Mountain News. The Rocky had folded in 2009, but its stories were archived. Each paper had small wire items about Tara Dawn Mae and the search for a missing Canadian girl, but none mentioned the plate.
She responded to Searle. Can’t find it. Maybe you’re unclear. If you have the article, why not just give it to me?
At the time, the information in the article was leaked by US law enforcement and ruffled some feathers up here. The story’s there. Keep looking. You have to find it.
It was frustrating that some cops were so weird that way. Kate knew they didn’t want to be accused of giving out anything contained in case files but would point you to public information. She continued searching before asking Newslead’s news library for help, just as her phone chimed with a text from Reeka. We’ll need to see your story within an hour of the news conference ending. The sooner the better.
Kate rolled her eyes, replying with, Okay. Thank you.
* * *
After they’d arrived in Rampart, Raney drove them to the town hall where the news conference was to be held.
They got there twenty minutes before things were to start. The parking lot and street were filled with TV trucks and news cars from Watertown, Rochester and Syracuse; radio stations from Plattsburgh and Potsdam; newspapers from Ogdensburg and Massena.
“I bet AP, Reuters and Bloomberg have people here, maybe even the Post and Daily News, too.” Raney grabbed his gear from the back.
Inside, they showed their credentials to a man at the reception area.
He slid a clipboard to them.
“Sign in, then go to the right, end of the hall.”
About two dozen news people, along with a dozen or so police types were in a large meeting room. TV cameras on tripods lined the back like a firing squad as operators made adjustments. Local reporters in folding chairs gossiped; others talked on phones or were making notes.
At the front of the room, four solemn-faced men took their places at a table heaped with recorders and microphones with station flags. To the right was a tack board bearing enlarged photographs of Carl Nelson, John Charles Pollard, Bethany Ann Wynn and Tara Dawn Mae, from the time she’d vanished.
Staring into Tara Dawn’s face jolted Kate.
That’s Vanessa up there. Now, after what I’ve learned, I believe in my heart that’s her. All these years…stop…you don’t know that she died here…
As Kate grappled with her anguish and anger she spotted Detective Ed Brennan standing against the wall with his partner. Brennan gave her a slight nod and she tightened her hold on her pen.
“Is everybody ready?” One of the men at the table spoke, allowing for several reporters to approach them and switch on their recorders.
“Thank you for coming, especially those from out of town. I’m Captain Dan Kennedy, with the Rampart PD. We lead this investigation and we’re supported by a number of agencies, some of which are here. To my far right, Lorne Baker, Riverview County Sheriff’s Office, Max Insley, the New York State Police and to my left, Emmett Lang, with the FBI out of Syracuse. I’ll read you a summary of the case, then we’ll take a few questions.”
“At this time, our investigation into the deaths at the state property known as the old burial grounds leads us to conclude that the individual known as Carl Nelson did not die in the fire at an abandoned barn, as first suspected. We believe that Nelson murdered Bethany Ann Wynn, after keeping her in captivity for three years. Nelson also murdered John Charles Pollard and staged the scene to make it appear as though he had taken his own life.
