“Wednesday?”
“I gather you haven’t missed him for the last couple days?”
“He was on duty.”
“I spoke to his unit. They said he left sick Wednesday afternoon. You didn’t see him?”
“No. Are you sure? You said presumed dead. He could be okay?” Ricky was trying to sound brave, but his voice cracked at the end. Sean wished he could go out there and stand by him. Ricky needed someone in his corner, now more than ever.
“It took some time to assess the scene and bring the truck up. I’m looking into the cause of the accident. I don’t think anyone could have survived.”
Ricky wasn’t talking, or he spoke too quietly for Sean to hear. It was a minute later when the detective said, “Are you sure I can’t call someone for you? A teacher or friend maybe?”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone!” Ricky’s grief turned to anger.
“You’re over sixteen, I can’t force you into custody, but I can get you a temporary place to stay in Canton if you don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“I said no! I just need to know what happened to Jimmy.”
Silence again. Sean strained to hear. “I understand,” Dillard said quietly. “You didn’t know he’d left duty?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you spoke with him?”
“Tuesday night. When—” Ricky hesitated. Something in his tone made Sean suspect he was lying. “When can, I mean who—what happens now?”
“You don’t have to make any decisions. I would advise you to talk to someone—a minister maybe, or your uncle’s boss. Someone will help you make the decisions that need to be made, but you have time. Do you know if your uncle had a will?”
Ricky didn’t say anything but he must have shook his head, because Dillard said, “I can call Chief Homdus for you. I know him personally; I’m certain he’ll help. Go through your uncle’s papers.”
“I’ll call him,” Ricky’s voice was rough and Sean suspected he was trying hard not to cry. He closed his eyes for a moment. He knew how Ricky felt. He hadn’t wanted his brothers, or sister, or anyone else, to see him cry after his parents were killed. He hadn’t wanted to be around anyone, especially people offering their condolences. He’d sat through their funeral like a stone, and as soon as they were buried, he bolted. Duke didn’t find him for nearly a week. Sean hadn’t wanted to be found, but when he was fourteen, Duke was better at tracking him down than Sean was at hiding. Today, Sean would know how to disappear.
What happened to Ricky’s parents? Why was he living with his uncle? Had he just lost the last of his family?
“Are you okay to be alone? I asked the chief not to say anything until I spoke with you. I’m pretty certain if you don’t call him, he’ll be coming by later.”
A few minutes later, the front door shut. Sean exited the bathroom and when he didn’t see Ricky, he looked out the window. The teenager stood in the driveway talking to the detective. Sean didn’t like this—what was Ricky saying that he didn’t want Sean to hear? He almost walked out to confront him and turn him over to the detective as an arsonist. But Sean couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. He’d had Duke on his side when he was an angry, grieving teenager; Ricky had no one. Sean couldn’t send him to juvie. It could force the kid over the line permanently. And by the body language, the detective gave no indication that Ricky was telling him anything related to Sean or the fire. Still, something felt unsettled, and Sean continued watching.
Detective Dillard drove away a few minutes later, and Ricky stared after him. When he turned toward the house, Sean saw his face, red and wet with tears, the anger that he couldn’t control. Sean knew how that felt. He’d cried once in front of Duke and hated that his brother had seen him so raw. He turned his head, giving Ricky a moment of privacy.
He glanced around the small, tidy house. The furniture was clean but worn, the sofa so faded and threadbare that Sean could tell that the pattern was small flowers only by the edges. It wasn’t a pattern a man would choose; in fact, though there weren’t any frills, the furnishings themselves had a feminine touch. He walked over to a well-stocked bookshelf in the corner. On the top was a photograph of a young pretty blond woman. As he picked it up, he heard the engine of Ricky’s Camaro.
“Shit!” He ran out the front door, but Ricky had already backed out. Sean was parked down the street to stay out of sight, and he wouldn’t be able to catch up. Especially since his leg still ached, and his short sprint out of the house sent searing pain up his nerves.
Sean limped back inside, scratching the outside of the stitches through his jeans. He put the picture back on the shelf, angry with himself. He’d known Ricky didn’t want to talk to him; the kid had taken the first opportunity to bolt.
Sean had a hundred questions for the kid, starting with the coincidence that the day Ricky set fire to the lodge and Lucy found a dead woman, Jimmy Benson called in sick and died in an alleged car accident.
Sean’s instincts drummed home that Ricky was in danger, but he didn’t know where to look for him. He glanced around the house. At least he had a place to start.
Sean started in Ricky’s room and quickly learned that he was a fairly tidy kid. His closet was packed to the ceiling with winter gear, books, shoes—some obviously too small for a teenager—and junk. His desk was cluttered, telling Sean he spent time there. He opened a letter from the College Board and was mildly surprised that Ricky had high SAT scores—nearly as high as Sean’s. He flipped through some old papers, all A’s, a couple of B’s. Good student, and there were letters from two colleges outside New York State that had sent him information about early enrollment.
There was no laptop or desktop computer in his room. Did he have one in his backpack or car? Sean searched the desk. Every drawer was cluttered—magazines, pens, junk. Except the only thing in the bottom drawer was a baby-blue box.
Sean hesitated only a moment before he opened the box. Inside were letters in flowery handwriting, and for a split second he thought they were love letters.
And in one sense, they were. From a mother to her son.
Sean felt uncomfortable reading the personal letters, all dated more than five years ago. But he quickly got the sense of why Ricky’s mom had written them.
She had known she was dying.
When Ricky was eight, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She wrote a letter every couple of months to her son. First, she had surgery. Later, the cancer returned and she started chemotherapy, but stopped after only one treatment. The tone of the last few letters changed dramatically.
The last one was dated December 2, five years ago.
Dearest Ricky,
I visited your father today. I know you will be angry. I’m sorry it has to be this way, more than anything I want to see you grow up, go to college, find a girl to love, raise a family. You are my bright light as I wait for my Lord to take me.
My time is coming. When you get this I will be gone. I love you more than anything on earth, and I will do everything to protect you. That is why I had to see your father.
I never lied to you about your dad. People say horrid things about him. Many of them are true. But he never hurt me, not once, and he loves us. With me, he was gentle and kind and sweet. Most people never saw that side of him. Forgiveness is not easy, harder I suspect for a twelve-year-old man. But I forgave your dad. I hope, someday, you can do the same.
My brother will be your legal guardian. I’ve already filled out the paperwork and your father signed it. Jimmy is a good man, loyal and trustworthy. He will do everything to protect you. Anything to keep you away from the Swains.
Your father told the monster that he would destroy her if anyone hurt you. He always said he had a card to play if he had to, and for you and you alone, he’s willing to use it. You need to understand what this means. If your father is forced to reveal the evidence he has hidden all these years, the monster will be locked up for life, but your father will be kille
d in prison as a traitor. He will do this because he loves you. He will do anything to protect you.
If I had any money, Jimmy could take you far away from here, give you a different name. But you’ll be safe here. There are people watching out for you.
I am not scared of dying, sweet son. I have put my soul on the mercy of my Lord. I know you will cry for me. My only regret in dying is not being with you. But do not mourn me. In Heaven, there is no pain. There is no suffering, no betrayal, no monsters. There is only pure love. As you read this, know that I am at peace.
Do not be sad long, my son. My love will be with you forever.
—Your mother, now and always
Sean read the letter twice, committing it to memory. Most kids who lost a parent didn’t have a letter.
For Sean, it had been so sudden he didn’t believe it. It felt as if his mother—both his parents—had been ripped from him. No good-byes, no apologies, no peace.
Sean pushed aside his anger about his parents’ plane crash and took a picture of the letter with his cell phone.
Sean skimmed the rest of the letters, but nothing revealed the identity of the monster she mentioned in her last letter.
Folded at the bottom of the box was her marriage certificate and Ricky’s birth certificate. Her name was Abigail Benson.
Her husband had been Paul Swain.
Ricky’s father was Paul Swain, a convicted killer.
Sean put the box back exactly as he’d found it and sent both Patrick and Duke a note about what he’d uncovered. Since Patrick was heading to Albany tonight, Duke could get answers faster, Sean hoped. The letter was written a year after Swain went to prison, and Sean suspected that what was happening in Spruce Lake today related directly to Paul Swain’s drug-running days.
There are people watching out for you.
Sean knew who had the answer to his questions. First, he needed to find Ricky Swain; then he’d pay a visit to Paul Swain.
NINETEEN
Lucy sat alone in the cabin and stared at the picture of Victoria Sheffield on Sean’s laptop.
She looked like the woman Lucy had seen dead in the mine. Blond hair, long and wavy, five feet six inches tall and one hundred thirty-five pounds. She’d been missing for just over four months, since January second, and if alive, would turn twenty-eight at the end of the month.
Lucy had seen the woman for only a few minutes. Was she now imprinting someone with a similar appearance? Could she trust her memory?
Victoria Sheffield’s file was sparse. She had been last seen in Albany, New York, but it didn’t list where specifically, nor did it state what she was last seen wearing or driving.
None of the other women had caught Lucy’s eye. The shape of the face different, the hair too dark, the nose wrong. But Victoria … Lucy was ninety percent certain it was her.
It would fit. She went missing in early January, could easily have been preserved in the mine without any decomposition, yet she wasn’t dressed for the weather. No visible sign of what might have caused her death, but she could have been suffocated, poisoned, any number of things that would leave no obvious external marks.
The Albany FBI office had issued the alert, which was odd—standard missing persons were usually issued by local law enforcement. She dialed the 800 number. As soon as she reported that she may have information regarding Victoria Sheffield, her call was transferred.
A minute later, a deep voice came on the line. “Ms. Kincaid?”
“Yes.”
“I’m the assistant special agent in charge, Brian Candela. You saw Victoria Sheffield?” His voice was gruff and to the point.
The number-two guy in the Albany FBI field office was taking her call, before an agent even verified her story? That alone told her this was an extremely important case for the FBI. Her curiosity was definitely piqued.
“Yes, sir. I believe so.”
“Believing you saw her and seeing her are not the same thing. Either you saw Agent Sheffield or you didn’t.”
Lucy sat up straighter. “Agent Sheffield?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the circumstances surrounding Agent Sheffield’s disappearance. Where did you think you saw her?”
“I’m on vacation in the Adirondacks, in a small community called Spruce Lake on the edge of the state park. On Wednesday, I was in the Kelley Mine outside of town and saw a dead body that matches Victoria Sheffield’s description. I reported it, but when authorities arrived the next morning, the body had gone missing.”
“Which agency did you report to?”
“Sheriff’s Department. I don’t think the responding officer took my report seriously. But I assure you, it’s not a prank. I’m an agent-in-training scheduled to report to Quantico later this summer.”
Candela asked, “Is there someone I can call to verify your identity?”
“Special Agent Noah Armstrong.” She gave Candela her training supervisor’s office line and cell phone number.
“Please hold.”
Lucy stared at Sheffield’s picture on the computer. She had been only a couple years older than Lucy. She couldn’t have been an agent for long.
What happened to you, Victoria?
Several minutes later, Candela came back on the phone. His tone changed just a fraction, a bit more cordial, but still brusque. “Agent Kincaid?”
Lucy’s heart skipped a beat. Technically she was an agent-in-training, not a special agent, but a small thrill went through her. “Yes, sir?”
“I just spoke with Noah Armstrong and he vouched for you, confirmed you are on vacation in Spruce Lake. Please tell me exactly what happened from when you found Agent Sheffield’s body until now.”
After Lucy related her discovery of a body down in the Kelley Mine, there was dead silence. Lucy went on, getting a bit nervous, but reciting the facts of the case kept her calm and focused. She explained in detail, finishing with the disappearance of Sheffield’s body.
“You mean to say the body was moved?”
“That’s the only explanation.”
“Did you photograph the scene?”
“Today I did, but when I found the body I honestly didn’t think of it. I was in the mine to rescue Sean, since he’d been injured.”
“Why did you go back down?”
“To look for evidence. As I mentioned, I didn’t feel the police had taken me seriously because the body was gone when they arrived.”
“What evidence?”
The conversation now sounded like an interrogation. Lucy told him what she and Sean found in the mine that morning and the reaction of the sheriff’s deputy. She concluded, “I used to work for the D.C. Medical Examiner, and I’ve been trained in evidence collection. I followed all protocols.” Except for the fact that she wasn’t supposed to be down there in the first place. “I understand that I had no authority to do so, but the deputy sheriff who responded essentially believed that I was making it up. I didn’t know when, or if, they would go back to the mine to search for her body. The mine is unstable and dangerous, according to Fire and Rescue. But I know what I saw, and I know someone went down after I reported her and removed the body.”
“Are you suggesting that someone in the local police department had a part in this?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out. This is a small town—by dinnertime, I suspect everyone knew there was a body in the mine.”
“And why didn’t you contact me immediately?” He sounded both angry, and upset.
“I didn’t know who she was. After her body went missing, my brother Patrick—Sean’s partner—pulled all the missing persons files for the Northeast that matched the description I gave him. She’s the only one who is close.”
“Close? You mean you may be wrong?” He sounded hopeful.
“I’m nearly certain it’s Agent Sheffield. But I was only with the body for a few minutes.” She didn’t want to give him false hope, but she couldn’t swear it was her.
“You said she could have been there
for months or days—explain.”
“I’m not an entomologist, so I’m really just making a guess, and I don’t like to do that.”
“You need to understand that no one has seen Agent Sheffield since December twenty-third.”
“The missing person’s report says January second.”
“She filed a report, via email, on January second, but no one has spoken to her in person since December.”
“She was undercover?”
“It’s a classified investigation, and as an agent-in-training I don’t think you have the clearance.”
She winced at his tone, but understood. A message popped up on Lucy’s screen. It was from Noah.
Call me when you’re done with Candela.
She said, “Based on the appearance of the body, I think she was frozen. Not in a freezer, but naturally, in the underground mine. No freezer burn or ice that indicates a mechanical unit was involved in any way, and because her body was flat—arranged that way, would be my guess, based on the positioning of her arms—I’m guessing she was down there prior to full rigor. Meaning, less than twelve hours after her death.”
“Was there any sign of a struggle or injuries?”
“No outward cause of death. No bruising around the neck to indicate strangulation—though, to be honest, I don’t know how or if freezing would impact her appearance.”
While she was talking, Sean walked in. He was about to speak, but saw she was on the phone.
“Send me the photos,” Candela ordered.
“Of course.” She had already downloaded the photos to Sean’s laptop. She zipped them into one file.
Candela gave her his email, then said, “I need the name and contact information of all people involved in the search for Agent Sheffield.”
Lucy typed everything she had in the email as she told him the same information. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch,” he said, then hung up.
Lucy turned to Sean. “Well, that was Albany FBI. ASAC Candela.” She shook her head, still trying to absorb all the information Candela did share with her. “I identified the body. Victoria Sheffield. She was an FBI agent.”
If I Should Die Page 14
