by Lisa Jackson
Which is what Maggie had told him. Was Ryan here in an official capacity with the District Attorney’s office, or for a personal reason?
“Sit down,” Locklear suggested, and Lucas slid into the vacant chair. She frowned, her eyebrows pulling together as she glanced at a file on her desk. The manila backing had yellowed, the newspaper articles within also showing signs of age.
“I’ve had the records pulled for the last fifty years, just to give me an overview of how many people have gone missing in that time.” She slid the file across to him. “Most everything is on computer now, but I wanted to see some of the original records. As you can see, it’s not a big file, the missing persons who’ve never turned up in all of Neahkahnie County.
“There are several men still unaccounted for, a fisherman from 1986, a hunter in 2001, and a nineteen-year-old hitchhiker in 2012. Then there’s the group who went missing all around the same time, just about twenty years ago.” She looked from one of the ex-stepbrothers to the other. “First up: Waldo Grimes.”
Lucas felt the muscles in his back tighten. Here it comes.
Locklear continued. “Grimes escaped while being transported from a prison near Salem. Big accident. In the hubbub, Grimes got away and was seen by a witness heading west and was supposedly lost somewhere in the mountains, but some people think he made it all the way to the coast.” She pointed to the file. “A woman reported seeing Grimes on a boat in the marina in Astoria, but if it was him, he slipped away. No boats reported missing.” She paused. “But you know all of this, don’t you? Both of you?”
Before either could even nod, she went on. “The other missing person was what everyone assumed was a runaway, a kid who worked part-time at the camp here that summer: Dustin Peters. Never returned from his workday at Camp Horseshoe. Picked up his check and never came home.”
Lucas remembered Dusty. At seventeen, he had a way with horses and dogs, probably all animals, and had been in charge of taking care of the small herd kept at the camp. With long hair and an easy smile, he was a calm kid, kind of a loner.
“Then we come to the females,” Locklear went on. “A total of four missing in the same time frame that I went through, a housewife in the seventies, a grandmother with Alzheimer’s in the nineties. Both too old to be our Jane Doe, we think, on first examination of the few teeth that were still in the skull. The ones who interest me are Eleanor Brady and Monica O’Neal, both of whom were counselors at Camp Horseshoe about twenty years ago.” She paused for effect, then said, “Which just happens to be the exact same time period when Waldo Grimes was on the loose. And Dustin Peters vanished.” She leaned back in her chair, and her eyes narrowed. “It’s also the time both of you worked as counselors at the camp.”
Lucas nodded. “We were there. And you’re right, two girls did go missing that summer.” He remembered all too vividly the fear, the panic of realizing both Elle and Monica had disappeared.
Beside him, Ryan looked out the single window as if finding the cloud cover suddenly fascinating.
“The presumptive theory at the time was that they had both been kidnapped by Grimes,” Locklear continued, “and when they or their bodies never were found, the case went cold. But now it looks like we may have found at least one of the bodies.”
“Too soon to tell,” Ryan pointed out, the first words he’d spoken. He swung his gaze back onto the sheriff.
“You’re right, but I thought I would point out what was happening to both of you. If it turns out that we find any evidence to suggest that the bones belong to someone associated with the camp, then each of you will have to be taken off the case. Conflict of interest.”
Ryan snorted. “You’re not my boss.”
“I’m sure the DA will be on board with this.”
“Maybe.” Ryan stood. “Until then, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.” Then without waiting for a response, he marched swiftly out of the room.
“Friendly guy,” Locklear observed, arching an eyebrow.
“You should meet his brother.”
“David. Already had the pleasure.” She hesitated. “He’s your brother, too.”
“Was. Stepbrother,” he clarified.
She nodded. “My problem isn’t with David,” she said, mentioning Ryan’s brother. “At least not today.” David Tremaine had more than his share of run-ins with the local authorities. While Ryan had, after a few false starts, finished college and gone on to law school, his younger brother had never left Averille and still worked on a ranch outside of town. They had a sister as well. Little Leah. Well, she wasn’t so little any longer, not at thirty. Leah was the one and only good thing to come out of his father’s marriage to Naomi Tremaine. Even if Leah still held a grudge and barely returned his calls. After all this time. His stomach soured a little as he considered his family and his damned guilt.
Sheriff Locklear continued. “You work for the department, and even though Ryan doesn’t think I’m his boss, I know the DA would agree that if the remains that we found belong to any of the people missing during the time you all worked at the camp, that would be a decided conflict of interest.”
“And?”
“And if it’s decided there was foul play involved and we find enough evidence to take a case to trial, you’ll be reassigned, as will he.” She pushed the thick file toward him. “This is all on the computer, I think. It happened about the time the department was converting to digital records, but in its very early stages, so we’ll double-check what’s in the system”—she motioned to her monitor—“against that. But before we start, is there anything you want to tell me?”
“No,” he said, picking up the old papers in their worn manila cover.
“Think about it.”
He stood and made his way to the door.
“Detective?” she called, and he looked over his shoulder. “You should know that a reporter from Astoria is asking questions.”
“A reporter?”
“With the Astoria NewzZone. Ever hear of it?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Small, online, kind of out-there news Web site, not affiliated with any newspaper. I think it’s pretty much just the reporter who serves as editor. It’s mostly a very popular blog. The reporter, Kinley Marsh, does in-depth stories germane to the area.”
“Kinley Marsh?”
“Ring some bells?”
He nodded slowly, but couldn’t quite call it up. “I’ve heard the name before.”
“She was a camper at Camp Horseshoe when the girls went missing and Waldo Grimes was on the loose, so she has a personal and unique interest in the case.”
“If there is a case,” he said, forcing himself to remember the girl who would now be around thirty. She’d been a gawky kid, her hair in a wild red tangle, her eyes always covered with glasses or clip-on shades, one of those pushy campers with a million questions.
“She thinks there is. Check it out. Online.”
“I will.” File in hand, he walked to the office he shared with Maggie. Their desks were pushed together, one facing the other in a room that was just large enough to accommodate them.
Maggie, coffee cup near her keyboard, was typing rapidly, her eyes on the screen. The rest of the fake walnut of the desktop was clear, aside from her phone and the computer monitor at which she was staring. “You don’t seem permanently damaged,” she said without looking up.
“Nope.”
“I thought she might tear you a new one.” Her fingers clicked with the rapid-fire accuracy of someone who had once been a court reporter.
“She must’ve calmed down. I’m still intact.”
Spinning in her chair, she retrieved some papers from the credenza stretched behind her and slid them across the expanse of their shared desktops.
He scooped up the papers before they dropped to the floor. “What’s this?”
“A list of everyone who was at Camp Horseshoe the year that Eleanor Brady, Monica O’Neal, and Dustin Peters went missing. The
ir names are on it as well, along with the counselors and people hired by your father to run the place. Everyone from the building maintenance people to the cooks, janitors, and ranch hands. I’ve compiled a list of the campers, too, and I’m trying to find out what, if any, company serviced the camp. Maybe you could help me out there.”
As he picked up the papers, she quit typing and looked up at him over the edge of her monitor. She was staring at him over the tops of her half-glasses, the ones she wore while on the computer. Her hair was a tousled mess of unruly brown curls, her eyes gold and keen with intelligence. A smattering of light freckles showed upon a face devoid of makeup, and her lips were thin and, often as not, tightly pursed as she was forever working out a knotty problem, just as they were now.
“How did you gather all this?” He held up the pages she’d sent him.
One side of that mouth curved up smugly. “Got my ways.”
It was true. She was a wizard on the computer and could gather information quickly, but this seemed impossible.
“You hacked into the camp’s files.”
She smiled, showing a dimple. “Dalton, you’re giving me far too much credit.” Gold eyes twinkled. “This isn’t the first time our department has looked into the case, right? It might be cold, but it hasn’t vanished. So I pulled up what we already had, updated the info I could, and voilà.”
“Good work.”
“I still need to find some more addresses and phone numbers. In twenty years, people have a tendency to move, marry, divorce, change their names, or whatever. But it’s a start.”
He scanned the computer printout, his gaze sliding down the list to pause at a familiar name. Instead of Bernadette Alsace, he found Bernadette Alsace Warden. So she was married. Of course. “A helluva start.”
“I’m hoping you might be able to fill in a few blanks.”
“Yeah?” he said, though deep inside he balked. The last thing he wanted to do was dredge it all up again. Now, it seemed, he didn’t have much of a choice.
As he sat down, Maggie said, “Before we go into the whole list thing, why don’t you tell me what you know.”
“I think it’s all in here.” He slapped the file that he’d received from Sheriff Locklear onto the desk. “I think you’ve probably already seen this.”
“Scanned it this morning.”
“As I said, you’ve been busy.” He couldn’t help the trace of acrimony in his words.
Folding her arms over her desk, she leaned forward. “I don’t want to reread a twenty-year-old statement from a scared kid who was probably hell-bent on covering his own ass or protecting his girlfriend or whatever. I want to hear it from you, as an adult. Now.” She raised her eyebrows, encouraging him. “What do you remember?”
He glanced at the names on the list, his gaze dropping to Monica O’Neal’s. Too much and not enough, he thought grimly. That’s what I remember.
CHAPTER 7
Camp Horseshoe
Then
Monica
RUN!!!
Terror chasing her, Monica flew through the open door of the old chapel. She stumbled down the rotting porch, took off racing across the clearing, and dove into the woods.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh. God! Tyler was dead! Dead! Someone had killed him, stabbed him in the back and left him to die alone between the rotting pews!
Why—oh, dear God, why?
And who?
Don’t think about that now! Just keep moving. Faster. Faster! Her brain urged her onward through the forest. She didn’t dare use her flashlight to light the way because she could hear whoever had killed Tyler racing through the darkness behind her.
Over the thundering beat of her heart, she could discern the heavy footsteps, the deep breathing . . . or were they her own footfalls, her own uneven, gasping breaths?
It doesn’t matter, just get away from him. Find help! There’s a chance Tyler’s still alive. Maybe you were mistaken. He was warm, wasn’t he? And the blood pooling around him, it was still flowing, wasn’t it?
She didn’t know, couldn’t think. She just had to keep moving, find a way to escape the monster who was chasing her. She heard branches snapping behind her and she sped forward, sweating, her legs beginning to burn, the darkness of the night swallowing her.
Arms stretched forward to avoid running into trees, Monica blindly hurtled her way through the forest. Branches slapped at her face, cobwebs clung to her hair, and she kept tripping on roots and rocks and sticks on her path.
Run, run, run!
Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.
Sheer panic forced her legs to keep driving forward even though she heard him, his footsteps pounding faster and harder, chasing her to the ground.
Move, Monica. Keep moving!
For a split second she considered racing to the cove, heading toward the roar of the sea to try to locate the path leading down to the cavern and the other girls, but she discarded the idea immediately. No, she’d be trapped there. A better, saner idea would be to run to the heart of the camp, wake Dr. and Mrs. Dalton, call the police. There were rifles at the ranch, she’d seen the reverend and his sons toting the weapons on occasion, at the threat of a coyote or bear, she thought. It didn’t matter. Not now. Monica just had to get to the camp headquarters where the director and his wife lived in a suite of rooms above the main office.
But was she heading in the right direction? How could she tell?
Slow down. Find a place to hide. Where you can catch your breath and get your bearings. If you don’t, you could be running in circles and find yourself trapped at the cliffs or even running into the maniac who’s chasing you.
Searching frantically, she nearly ran into a snag, a tree that had been snapped off in a storm and had left a huge, ragged stump that she sank gratefully behind. The tree itself was rotting as it lay on the forest floor. Shaking, she strained to listen. Where was he? Had he given up?
She held her breath, tried to still her racing heart. Did she hear footfalls? Or was that her imagination? A breeze was rustling the leaves and needles overhead, the branches moving slightly. The ocean was to the west and she’d definitely been running away from it. Good. Closer to the camp.
What had happened to Tyler? Who would want to kill him? Or her? What kind of monster was on the loose? She pressed her hands over her face, shaking. She’d heard rumors that a murderer had broken out of prison, that he’d been spotted heading west, that he might have found his way to this part of the coast; but why would he be here and why would he kill Tyler? She realized there was dirt or . . . oh, God, blood, on her sticky fingers. Tyler’s blood.
She almost screamed but bit it back.
Who would have thought she would experience this horror at a church camp? The very camp her father, when he hadn’t been smoking dope or drinking beer, had helped build as he’d been part of a framing crew that was responsible for the new church, not the old chapel where she and Tyler met, but the larger church and rec center. In fact, she’d been told her parents had met here one summer, that she’d been conceived here . . . how ironic was that given the fact that she had been so recently pregnant.
Tears filled her eyes and began to run down her face. The baby. Tyler. All gone. Her fanciful dreams of marriage, turned to dust. Tyler . . .
Brushing her tears away with the back of her hand, she searched the darkness, her gaze scouring the forest. Who knew how many ghosts haunted these sprawling acres now owned by the Dalton family and the church?
She heard no one.
Saw no movement.
Tentatively, she got to her feet. Her right ankle throbbed, but supported her. Noiselessly she pushed herself over the fallen log and edged past a thicket. If the sea was to her left, then . . . She bore right and found a path, a gap between the stands of fir and cedar, around clumps of salal.
The ocean was behind her, so surely she was heading toward camp. She began to jog through the trees, a pinprick of light winking in the distance as she ran. Her heart soared
and she increased her pace, veering as the path forked, altering her route, her feet finding the dusty path again.
Thank God!
Go! Go! Go!
She surged forward, her throbbing ankle and burning lungs forgotten. Now, finally, she could get help. Save herself. Save Tyler. Oh, please, please!
The light loomed brighter—a security lamp mounted high over the stable.
Yes! Less than a quarter mile away.
You can do this, Monica. You can!
She pushed herself, running faster, her lungs on fire, her heart feeling as if it might burst.
Oh, God, she was going to make it!
Tears of relief flooded her eyes as she forced herself onward, staring at the light, glowing ever brighter, seeing it as her salvation. A sob tore from her throat and . . . and the light disappeared.
The forest was suddenly black again.
What?
“No!” she cried aloud, as she blinked away the sheen of drops in her eyes and realized some illumination still existed, like an aura surrounding a huge, dark figure standing in the path in front of her.
She skidded to a stop, stumbling, falling to the ground. Her vision cleared and she spied a knife, held high, its wicked blade glinting in the security light’s glow. Frantic, she tried to scramble way, to backpedal into the darkness.
Her attacker leapt forward. On her in an instant. A gloved hand covered her mouth, pinching her nostrils, cutting off her scream.
No, no, no! This can’t be happening!
Flailing, she fought. Biting, swinging her fists, kicking. She writhed and flung her entire body, trying to wrest free.
Help me. Please, oh, please somebody help me.
But none of her blows had any impact on her attacker and her silent pleas went unheeded.
Slowly she was dragged away from the path, into the jet black woods, ever closer to the roar of the sea.
CHAPTER 8
Averille, Oregon
Now
Lucas
Lucas flipped on the wipers as he drove steadily south, Maggie in the passenger seat. He’d put her off for the time being. Didn’t really feel like getting into what he remembered and what he didn’t. He’d told what he knew twenty years earlier and it was in the report.
