Last Wrong Turn

by Amy Cross

  He glances down at his notebook for a moment, before turning back to me.

  “Mrs. Latimer -”

  “Where are they?” I shout, suddenly filled with a wave of panic as I sit up in the bed. “What did you do to them? Where are they?”

  Penny

  “What the hell do you mean?” I ask, snatching the map from his hands and taking a look. “I've told you this a million times already, it's right there! It's somewhere in that area, it has to be! We'd taken a couple of wrong turns near Wexham, but we can't have driven far, so it has to be in this area!”

  “Mrs. Latimer...”

  “You have to find that farmhouse,” I continue, turning to him. “My son is there! He's been kidnapped, he might -”

  Before I can finish, I feel a sudden sharp, throbbing pain in my back. Letting out a faint gasp, I let the map fall onto the table, and it takes a few seconds before I can breathe again. These little bursts keep coming, as if my body is worried that my mind might forget all my injuries. The truth, though, is that I'm in danger of forgetting anything. I just don't have time to worry about my body right now. All that matters is finding Pete and Hugh.

  “Paging Doctor Cano,” a voice announces over the hospital's speaker system. “Doctor Cano to post eight, please.”

  I've been in this goddamn hospital for five days now, and I feel as if the search for my husband and my son is just spinning its wheels. I need to get out of here and join the others, and make them do whatever it takes. God knows how they keep missing the farmhouse, but the goddamn place is out there and if they haven't found it yet, they clearly aren't very good at this.

  I can find the place again. I know I can.

  St. Stephen's Hospital, on the outskirts of Marpington, England.

  “We have every available unit working on this case,” Detective Palmer tells me calmly, although I can tell from the look in his eyes that there's a 'but' coming, “but these things take time. We have a helicopter scouring the area, it's been flying almost non-stop for the past week, checking the land and -”

  “So why haven't you found it?” I ask. “It's a farmhouse, with a yard, and there's this creepy little girl there! There's stuff in the yard, too, like... a truck, and old machinery. It can't be that hard to spot, even from a helicopter!”

  “We're doing everything we can,” he continues, “but I need you to dig deep and try to work out if there's anything else you remember, anything that might help us tighten the search area. To be honest, this isn't the first time we've had to look for this particular farmhouse, and...” His voice trails off, as if he's not sure how to explain the situation.

  “And what?” I ask. “What's so difficult about finding a goddamn farm? There are only so many that can be out there! Use infra-red cameras, or whatever the hell you need! They're out there!”

  I wait for him to reply, but I can tell now that there's something he isn't telling me.

  “What?” I stammer. “What's wrong?”

  “I need you to stay calm,” he says cautiously, “but... There was an incident about a year ago, where a young woman was found injured in the same car-park where you were found the other day. Her story, once she recovered, was remarkably similar to everything you've been telling us, but when we searched the area...” He pauses, before finally sighing. “When we searched, we were never able to find any sign of the farmhouse she described. To be honest, a lot of us doubted that what she told us could be true, until...”

  His voice trails off again.

  “Until what?”

  “Well, until you woke up at St. Stephen's and started telling us what had happened to you.”

  Reaching into his folder, he takes out a piece of paper.

  “This drawing,” he explains, “is based on the previous victim's description of the young girl. It was -”

  “Let me see,” I snap, snatching the paper from his hand. I flinch as soon as I see a drawing of the girl with the deep scar running down her face.

  “That's her,” I tell him. “That's the freak.”

  “Are you sure? Take your -”

  “Of course I'm fucking sure!” I hiss, shoving the paper back into his hands. “She's kind of distinctive, don't you think?”

  He hesitate for a moment. “I'm trying to help you, Mrs. Latimer,” he says finally. “We're on the same side here.”

  I open my mouth to tell him he's not doing a very good job, before finally sitting back and sighing. I know I'm starting to come across as some kind of crazy bitch, but all I can think about is Pete and Hugh out there somewhere, still trapped at the farmhouse.

  “I'm sorry,” I mutter, taking a sip of water. My heart is pounding. “I know you're doing your best, it's just...” I take a deep breath. “It's hard just sitting here like this, waiting for news. Half the time, I feel as if people don't even believe me.”

  “I believe you,” he replies.

  I glance at him. “Are you sure?”

  He nods.

  “It's all true,” I add. “I know it sounds nuts, but I swear, every word of what I've told you is true.”

  “Which leaves us with the question,” he continues, “of how we've managed to miss the farmhouse despite searching the area so extensively. To be blunt, Mrs. Latimer, I'm starting to think that even if that helicopter keeps flying for another month, it might not have any luck.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” I ask. Already, the anger is rippling through my chest again.

  “It means we need to try another tactic.”

  “You just need to tell your search teams to do a better job,” I continue. “That farmhouse can't have just vanished into thin air!”

  Feeling completely impotent, I get to my feet. “I'm coming with you,” I tell him.

  “Mrs. Latimer -”

  “Obviously you need my help,” I add, “or you'd have found the place by now.” I wait for him to answer, but he seems lost for words. “Unless you're suggesting the farmhouse can somehow magically hide itself away,” I continue, “in which case I think maybe you're not the right man to handle this case.”

  “I'll go to the media,” I continue. “Is that what it's going to take to force you to do your job? I'll go to the newspapers and tell them that my family is out there somewhere and that no-one's managing to find them. It's not like they can have vanished without a trace, I've told you where they are, so you just have to go and get them!”

  “Mrs. Latimer -”

  “Think about how the media will crucify you,” I add, with tears in my eyes, “if you screw this up. If you let my son stay even one day longer with that freak... God knows what she's done to him already. You have to find them!” I pause, feeling another ripple of pain in my side, and a moment later I feel a tear running down my cheek. “So I'm coming with you,” I continue. “I can find that farmhouse, I know I can, but I need to be with you in the field.”

  “Your priority right now is your health,” he replies. “The doctors -”

  “My priority is finding my husband and my son,” I say firmly, interrupting him. “And if you're too incompetent to get the job done, then it looks like I'll just have to get more involved.” Turning away from him, I start limping toward the door that leads back out to the corridor. “I'll tell them I'm leaving. They can't make me stay if -”

  Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in my ankle, causing me to stumble and drop to my knees. Grabbing the door-frame so that I don't fall flat on my face, I try to hold myself steady as a nurse hurries over to help me.

  “I'm checking out,” I stammer, even though I suddenly feel much weaker than before. “I have to go and show them where...”

  My voice trails off, and for a moment the whole room seems to be spinning around me.

  “I think we need to get you to your room,” the nurse tells me. “Then we can take another look at you.”

  “No,” I whisper, trying to push her away as I get to my feet. “I'm fine, I just need to get out of here.”

  I take a couple more stu
mbling steps forward, before losing my balance and falling forward. Crashing into the side of a trolley, I try in vain to hold myself steady. Suddenly slumping down, I slam hard against the floor and then roll onto my back, and when I look up at the nurse I realize my vision has suddenly become blurred again. I'm slipping away, but I have to stay strong, I have to get up so I can go and find my family.

  “I have to go to them,” I whisper, even though I can feel myself losing consciousness. “I have to help. They can't do it without me. I have to... I have to go and...”

  And then everything goes dark.

  Penny

  One week later

  I look up just as the helicopter swoops low and rushes over us. The sound of its blades is momentarily deafening, and I watch as it rushes off across the countryside on yet another search mission. Somehow, though, I can already feel in the pit of my belly that it isn't going to find a goddamn thing.

  “We're focusing on this area here,” Detective Palmer explains as he unfolds the map and places it against the side of his patrol car. “We've basically set up a ten-mile zone around Wexham, and we're scouring every inch of the valley between these two roads. I'm telling you, Mrs. Latimer, if there's a farmhouse out there, we'll find it.”

  “If?” I ask, stepping over to him. “Do you still think I'm making it up?”

  “Of course not, it's just...” He pauses, staring at the map for a moment as if he expects some hidden answer to come leaping out at him. “Let's wait and see what the helicopter crew finds in sector five. Based on the description you gave, I think that's a promising area to search.”

  “You've searched it five times already,” I point out.

  He opens his mouth to reply, but I can see he has no answers for me.

  “It's out there,” he says finally. “We'll find it. We have to.”

  Turning, I see that the helicopter is now just a distant speck against the gray sky. I can see a couple of figures against the horizon, continuing the search by foot, but somehow the entire police operation is starting to feel increasingly impotent. It's now almost two weeks since the car crash, and the farmhouse seems to have somehow folded itself away so that no-one can find it at all. I'm a rational person, not someone given to flights of fancy, but I have to admit I've started to wonder whether we're dealing with something more than just a farmhouse. Out here, far from civilization in the heart of rural Kent, it almost feels as if the rules are different.

  “Come in, base,” a voice says suddenly over the walkie-talkie on Palmer's dashboard. “This is Carmel. We're not seeing anything out here.”

  Palmer grabs the walkie-talkie.

  “Take another pass,” he tells the helicopter crew. “Keep looking.”

  “We've already -”

  “Just keep looking,” he continues, glancing at me with a hint of desperation in his eyes. “We've scoured every inch of the countryside around here, which means we must've flown right over the farmhouse and not seen it. Two people are still missing, and one of them's a newborn child. Giving up isn't an option.”

  Setting the walkie-talkie down, he seems lost in thought for a moment.

  “Maybe there's some kind of camouflage on the roof,” he suggests finally. “Some kind of sophisticated, military-grade anti-tracking capability.”

  “They're dirt poor,” I reply with a sigh. “It's just a battered old farmhouse.”

  “But if -”

  “They barely even have electricity,” I add, to really hammer the point home. “Just a little wood-burning generator. It was almost like stepping back in time.”

  He pauses, before nodding and turning to look back at the map. He's still searching for an answer, for a way to explain his team's consistent failure.

  “We need to try something else,” I tell him, as I see the helicopter turning around in the distance. “Nothing's working so far. We're not doing this right.”

  ***

  “This area here,” Palmer mutters later, as we sit at a table in the corner of the pub. It's dark outside now, and the search has been called off for the night. With his finger on the map, Palmer traces a large circle with Wexham more or less at its center. “This is the hotspot.”

  “What kind of hotspot?” I ask.

  “Over the past twenty years, there have been six car crashes that have involved the disappearance of passengers.”

  “Disappearance?”

  “Usually, all we find is the damaged car and the bodies of anyone who died in the crash. But then there's always at least one passenger who's missing, almost as if...” He pauses for a moment. “This is strictly off the record, okay?”

  I wait for him to continue, but he seems strangely reluctant.

  “This is just something that's whispered about from time to time,” he continues, “but it's almost as if someone gets to the crash-site before the police arrive, and removes anyone who survived.”

  “Like... scavengers?”

  “Officially, there isn't a problem,” he explains. “The hotspot is just large enough to fall into the jurisdiction of three separate police forces, which means the investigation has always been fragmented. Everyone tries to keep the situation from hitting the media, mainly because of the backlash we'd receive if people realized what might be happening. Trust me, this is not something that my colleagues like to talk about much. I mean, the idea of some kind of serial killer operating in the area, taking people from wrecked cars, is just too much for most of the force to believe.”

  “But you believe it?” I ask.

  I wait for an answer.

  “You do, don't you?” I continue.

  He sighs.

  “If you don't,” I add, “then why are you telling me about it?”

  “I'm keeping an open mind.” He points at another spot on the map. “That's the old Happy Eater restaurant that shut down years ago,” he continues. “Twice now, a survivor has been found there. You, and a woman just over a year ago. I think we need to assume that whoever's behind this, they can't be too far from that location. I think we can also assume that something must have changed. There never used to be survivors.”

  “What kind of serial killer lets people live?” I ask. “It doesn't make sense. I mean, that girl must know that survivors will talk, and that there's a danger they might lead the police to the farmhouse. Unless...”

  My voice trails off.

  “Unless she's extremely confident that the farmhouse can't be found,” Palmer suggests. He pauses for a moment, before taking a sip of beer. “The other problem is that from your description, it sounds like this girl is less than twenty years old, which means she can't have been responsible for the earlier incidents.”

  “There was an older man at the farmhouse,” I remind him.

  “So maybe he started it, and she's taking over.” He sighs, and a moment later his phone starts buzzing. “Great,” he mutters, “the boss wants a progress report. I'm going to have to step outside for a few minutes.”

  “I'll order food,” I tell him, as we both get to our feet. “Same as last night?”

  Palmer heads outside to talk to his boss, and I make my way over to the bar. To be honest, I feel too wired and nervous to eat, but I know I have to keep my strength up for Hugh's sake. Leaning against the bar, I grab a menu and try to find something that seems appealing, and then I glance across toward the barmaid, who's dealing with a couple of other customers over by the window. Turning, I look at the fire that's burning in the hearth, and for a moment the flames seem somehow mesmerizing. Night after night, Palmer and I end up in this pub trying to come up with new ways to find the farmhouse, and night after night we fail. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, we'll set off on another wild goose chase.

  The truth is, we're no closer to finding Pete and Hugh.

  “You're wasting your time,” a voice says suddenly.

  Looking along the bar, I see an old man sitting at one of the stools. There's a rifle leaning against the wall behind him, and a Jack Russell dog is sleepin
g contentedly at his feet.

  “I'm sorry?” I ask.

  “People have looked for that farmhouse before,” he continues, taking a sip of ale and then wiping his mustache clean. “No-one's ever had any luck. Those folk out there, they know how to keep themselves to themselves. You won't find them unless they want to be found, and why in God's name would they ever want that?”

  Seeing that the barmaid is still busy, I step over to the man. I'm sure he's just some local drunk nutcase, but at the same time I'm willing to listen to anyone who might be able to help.

  “Do you know who these people are?” I ask, still a little worried that he's trying to trick me. “The girl with the scarred face, and the old man, and the farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere?”

  “I don't know anything about a girl,” he replies, “but I wouldn't be surprised if someone's grown up out there by now. It's a bad business, is all I know for sure. Best left well alone.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  He seems hesitant for a moment. Checking over his shoulder, he seems worried that someone might overhear us talking. “That farm has been in the Clare family for generations,” he says finally, turning back to me. “Everyone knows there's something not right about them. They've been rotten for years. Generation after generation, the lot of them have been up to no good. They stopped coming into the local villages a long time ago, stopped going to church, on account of not being welcome. For a lot of folk round these parts, that's enough. Out of sight, out of mind. They can fool themselves into thinking the Clares are gone, but some of us know better. They're still out there somewhere.”

  “The Clares?”

  “Couldn't drown a flea in the gene pool in that family,” he mutters, taking another sip of beer. “Doesn't surprise me if they eventually had to start kidnapping to keep the line going. There's only so much of that business that one bloodline can take, if you catch my drift.” He takes another sip. “Some folk even say old John Clare made a deal with the Devil all those years ago, to keep the family hidden from the rest of the world. I don't believe that part of it, but you've gotta admit, they know how to keep themselves tucked away. If you ask me, they just kept themselves so isolated, eventually they drifted away from the rest of the world.”