by CJ Lyons
"Ah no, ma'am. Not in my line of work. Didn't seem fitting. So everyone calls me Bob."
"Deputy Bob."
"Just Bob is fine, ma'am."
"Then I'm just Jenna."
He smiled, dipped his head. "Yes, ma'am. I mean Jenna."
"You worked the original New Hope case four years ago."
He looked away, swept a finger across his brow as if expecting to find a hat there, glanced across the room to the hooks beside the door where a lonely tan Stetson hung. "I'd just started with the sheriff's. But I wouldn't say I 'worked' the case. More like accidentally fell into it."
"What happened?"
"Well, ma'am, I'd only been patrolling on my own without a training officer for a few weeks. Which is why they assigned me this side of the county. Nothing much happens except the occasional traffic incident. Except that day the sheriff himself—this is the old sheriff, Sheriff Dobbs, you understand—gave me a special assignment."
"What was that?"
"Seems a woman was trespassing on the Harding’s property. Got Mrs. Harding all upset. And her husband, well, he's a bigwig down in Washington, and about the richest guy around these parts. When he's upset, the sheriff and county commissioners, they get upset. So now it was my job to escort this woman to the county line and make sure she didn't return."
"And the woman was?" Jenna asked, although she had a good idea.
"Luc—er—Special Agent Guardino. Ma'am."
"So you all had no idea there might be something going on here in New Hope?"
"No, ma'am. See, all we knew was something bad happened to Mrs. Harding when they still lived in DC. Felt bad for her. But it was years ago and far away. You think Kurt Harding would have gone to all that trouble to build her that fancy house up on the mountain? Bring her here if he knew those terrible things started right here in their hometown? Talk about bad luck."
Jenna didn't believe in luck. Good or bad. She made a note to check out the Hardings' history growing up in New Hope.
"There's no way Kurt Harding could have been involved? The killer could have had an accomplice." Maybe that was who had sent the letter. Angry with Lucy for not giving him due credit for the New Hope case.
"Lucy thought of that. Checked him out even after everyone else said the killer died. Well, asked me to, since she was officially off the case by then. But he had alibis."
"So Harding was the only victim with any ties to New Hope?"
"That we knew of at the time. Until we found Rachel Strohmeyer. See, the Strohmeyers are Mennonites from down the valley and Rachel had met an English boy—that's what they call us—while working at her folks' produce stand. College kid from Penn State. Liked to come up here and go spelunking. Real smart boy, knew everything about rocks and geology and prehistoric times. But her parents didn't approve. Anyway, when she vanished, they just assumed she'd run off with him. We looked for her, but she'd just turned eighteen, so…"
"You didn't look very hard."
"Wasn't anywhere to look. No clues at all." He shifted his duty belt, redistributing the pressure points from the various equipment. "Wasn't until Lucy got Kurt Harding all riled up. Folks talking again about what happened to Mrs. Harding back when she lived in DC. The FBI being here and all, that got folks really excited. Then someone overheard Lucy talking to the sheriff—the old sheriff, not the new one—about her theory there were more women all taken by the same man. Rumors began spreading… Well, that's when I escorted her out of the county. Except we didn't actually make it."
"Because you found Adam Caine and learned his mom had been taken."
"Right. At first no one thought they could be connected. Something that happened in DC three years before and Mrs. Caine being carjacked? Sounded crazy. Leaving the boy as a witness, taking her in daylight, it seemed so desperate. Not very smart. And Lucy said this guy was real smart. But anyway, you know the rest. How Lucy and Adam found the cavern entrance and saved those girls and Mrs. Caine, God bless her, died along with the killer."
Way too pat, Jenna thought. And the Caine abduction—desperate was an understatement. It felt different. Melodramatic. Like a magician's patter diverting your attention away from what was really happening. "The killer. You've no idea who he was?"
"No match to the fingerprints we found in the van. Lucy was the only one who could describe him at all, and she didn't get a very good look. The boy was about in hysterics. We couldn't find any missing person reports that matched and no one ever came forward saying they recognized him. Not around here, at any rate. The press flashed the composite drawing all over, but nothing ever came of it."
"What's your theory?"
"Me? I don't know. Sheriff—the new sheriff, old one was voted out not long after—says same as the FBI. Someone found the caves but wasn't local, just smart enough to come here when he needed to use them. I heard they searched other areas with natural cave systems. Down in Virginia and Tennessee. Thought he might have a few hideaways scattered all over."
Possible. Not caves though. He'd make each location special, she imagined. Or maybe Lucy was influencing her imagination. But the living victims had described different locations where they'd been kept prisoner. So if he was smart enough to have several lairs, why not just flee when Lucy began asking questions?
There was something about New Hope. Something that made it different. Important to him. She could almost hear Lucy's voice in her head. Wasn't at all sure she liked it there.
"Hey, Bob. Think I could take a look at the file myself?" She flashed him one of her best smiles, the one that got guys to buy her drinks wherever she went.
"Of course. Let me set you up with the computer. You just make yourself at home, Jenna."
An hour later, fueled by Bob's coffee and snicker doodle cookies he insisted she try, she realized just how messed up a case can get when the press and brass got involved. There was a ton of data and evidence—everything documented in triplicate. But most of it meaningless. Especially when you looked at the big picture and took into account Lucy's original profile. Which no one had bothered to do.
Too busy reassuring the public a heinous killer had been removed from this earth.
She was certain there were other agendas at work as well. Kurt Harding was a high-powered lobbyist and did his best to keep the story, and his wife's part in it, quiet.
Plus, she had to admit, the official story that the New Hope Killer—the only New Hope Killer—died in that cave four years ago, could very well be the truth. They had no idea.
No proof. No body. No way to identify the killer other than Lucy's description—which could have fit half the male Caucasian population—and a few smudged fingerprints in a van stolen from a Hagerstown shopping mall. Victim statements vague and contradictory. And reluctant.
Several of the living victims identified through DNA found at the crime scene had never reported their ordeal to the police. Out of fear, a desire to protect their children, and just plain old denial.
Two women who had reported their abduction and imprisonment to their local law enforcement never even had their rape kits tested or their cases adequately investigated. An officer in Virginia made a notation that one victim's story was so outlandish and unbelievable, he considered her emotionally disturbed and advised her to seek psychiatric help.
The killer had been taking women for at least a decade. And they had nothing concrete to identify him.
No wonder the brass had been so eager to brush over the fact they had no idea who he was and focus on the fact that he was dead.
Or so they hoped.
After reading the final victims' statements, Jenna wondered if Lucy was wrong. Maybe the New Hope Killer did have a partner. It just seemed too much for one man to accomplish on his own.
From the other survivors' statements, the Unsub had also used abandoned houses, packing containers, even an old church to hold his victims. Maybe he created a dramatic ending to his New Hope operation to keep authorities from looking further—maybe h
e, Jenna's living Unsub, killed his partner down there in the dark? Then the Unsub simply moved on, changed his MO enough that he didn't twing their radar.
Which probably translated to no more surviving victims. Not if he wanted to completely cover his tracks this time. So no more trophies.
The hairs at the back of her neck stood as she remembered what Lucy said about the killer using his own children as trophies.
She dismissed the feeling. Just the draft as Bob opened the door and entered, checking on her.
"So, what do you think?" he asked as if assuming she'd take one look at the case file and be able to answer all the unresolved questions. She held up her coffee cup—well, actually it was his coffee cup—and he hustled to refresh it.
Jenna leaned back. Technically, Lucy's old case had nothing to do with Jenna’s current one. Except… How totally awesome would it be if she could answer all those questions? Put to rest the speculations once and for all? Her supervisor would love it. The USPS riding to the rescue, succeeding where the FBI failed.
It all hinged on the partner, her guy, being able to kill the man Lucy saw without revealing himself. Could someone have been down there in the cave with the killer and Marion Caine without Lucy knowing it?
"Bob, how'd you like to go for a drive? Maybe show me this Echo Cavern, so I can see for myself?"
He leaned back on his heels, scrutinizing her. "Suppose I could walk you through what little we found there." He pulled a small MP3 player from his pocket. "I downloaded the victim's statement. The college girl found with Rachel. Wasn't sure if you wanted to hear it."
"Thanks. We can listen on the way." Again with the hackles on the back of her neck, warning her this was so not a good idea. But maybe she'd find something Lucy missed. The chance was too good to resist.
Chapter 11
Marion Caine's grave was as neglected as her house. Weeds and straggly long grass grew between the memorial stone and the trimmed grass along the footpath as if the caretaker couldn't be bothered to do more than swipe the lawnmower's blade across it. Dead leaves and pine needles clung to the stone, caught in the crevices in the granite marker.
It wasn't anything fancy. A cube shaped block of local granite. Her name. Date of birth. Date of death. That was all. Nothing to indicate how she died or even the fact that her body wasn't anywhere near this plot of dirt. Instead it was somewhere below the mountain, stolen by the underground river that cut through the limestone. Maybe someday bits and pieces of her skeleton would be washed up along a stream's bank or fished from a reservoir fed by underground springs.
Four years ago, Lucy would have wished for that. If only to give Adam and Clinton Caine something to bury, to center their grief on. But now, kneeling in the damp earth, tugging weeds, and brushing away the detritus covering Marion's stone, she doubted retrieving any piece of Marion would help.
From the police reports on Adam, it seemed as if Adam and Clint hadn't moved on so much as fallen apart.
The thought made her regret last night's argument with Nick. Crouched on her heels so the wet wouldn't seep through her slacks, she called Nick on her cell. The reception was weak, enough so his voice faded in and out, drowned by waves of static.
"Did you find him?" Nick's words fought through the crackle. "If you did, can you tell your people to go away? They're making my patients edgy."
Given that some of Nick's patients were former special ops and they all suffered from PTSD, that probably wasn't a good thing. "Sorry. Not yet."
"What? I can barely hear you."
She stood and paced between the graves, trying to find better reception. "I said, I haven't found him yet."
Nick's reply was a blur of static. "Megan wants to—party—Danny's—team—"
"You mean the soccer party tomorrow night? I already told her no. She'll be the youngest there and I don't—"
"I can't hear you—Lucy, you still there?"
The line went dead. Lucy glanced at her phone. No bars. Which also explained the nine missed calls. John Greally wondering why she hadn't shown for her psych eval. She pocketed the phone, reminding herself to call Nick from a landline when she had the chance.
John and the shrink could wait. She already knew what they'd say. Words like accountability, inappropriate attitude, career suicide.
She spotted movement at the far side of the cemetery. A tall man, skinny, sandy colored hair, jeans, black leather coat. He walked as if instead of growing up being told to stand up straight, he'd learned to hunch over, curling his spine to make himself look small, unnoticeable.
Adam. She moved forward to meet him, then stopped. Best to give him time alone with his mom first.
He didn't act like he noticed her, yet she thought he did. His gait quickened a bit, and when he reached Marion's stone, he knelt in the mud and snow with his back to her. Even kneeling, he seemed taller than she remembered. Certainly taller than his father, Clint. Clint was maybe five-ten, brown hair, brown eyes, one of those average looking guys you'd never notice in a crowd.
At fourteen, Adam was already beyond average. Not handsome, he was too lean and hungry looking for that. But he was almost Nick's height, six-one. Gave off the same kind of vibe she'd seen in prisoners doing hard time: as if their bodies were frozen in a never-ending state of apprehension, shying away from the danger surrounding them. Hard to believe this was the same boy she'd known four years ago.
His hands were naked in the cold. He pressed both palms flat against Marion's stone. Lucy was glad she'd cleared it off. His shoulders hunched even farther, head bowed so low she thought he might hit the top of the grave marker.
The wind rolled down off the mountain and swept through the cemetery, taking aim at Lucy's open parka, making her shiver and shove her hands deep into her pockets. She was tempted to zip it shut, there was no threat here, but she didn't want to risk disturbing Adam with the movement.
Finally, just as her toes went numb with cold, he turned to her.
"Agent Guardino?"
Lucy looked up, surprised at his use of her title and surname. She'd always been Lucy to him. He stood, weight unevenly balanced as if torn between running away and staying put, hands clasped in front of his belly, holding something in. Scared. The kid looked scared.
She covered the distance between them in a few steps. As she moved, so did he, edging sideways to place Marion's stone between them.
"Hello, Adam."
"You here alone?"
"Yes." His expression filled with despair and she knew it wasn't the answer he wanted.
"Can I ask you a question?" His voice as tight as his hands were knotted. He didn't meet her eyes.
"Of course." No, Hey, how ya been? Last time I saw you a monster killed my mom and we both almost died. Lucy waited to see where he led.
"You told me once you have a little girl about my age?"
"Megan. She just turned thirteen." If he was the letter writer—and Lucy was now more convinced than ever he was—he already knew that.
The air between them stuttered with the force of his inhalation as he gathered his breath. "Go home, Agent Guardino. Be with her. Don't let anything bad happen to her. To you."
The last came out in a snuffling half-sob. Lucy couldn't help herself. Stepping around the stone, she gathered the almost-man into her arms and hugged him as fiercely as she would Megan. "It's okay, Adam. Everything is going to be okay."
Lucy never made promises she couldn't keep. Hell, she wasn't even sure what she was promising him. The words just flowed and she couldn't stop them.
It was the wrong thing to say. Adam pulled away, knuckles swiping at his cheeks, gaze chiseling the memorial stone. "Please, leave. I need to find my dad. Go home, Lucy."
She wasn't family, couldn't take the place of a father. Still, it gnawed at her that she couldn't comfort or help him. Poor kid had been through so much.
He stood there braced against the stone, fists clenched at his sides—still holding in whatever fourteen year old boys kept to
themselves. Lucy wondered if Megan would be like that in a year. She hoped not.
"Goodbye, Lucy."
He said the words but didn't turn away. As if testing her. Daring her to leave—or stay. She removed the letter from her pocket. Extended it to him. He shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"I know you wrote it, Adam. Want to tell me why?"
<><><>
"One minute I was puking my guts out behind a frat house and the next I woke up in the dark…" The girl's voice trailed off. The recorder picked up a small, desperate snuffling sound. "Dark. It was so dark. I thought I'd gone blind."
The UNC student's voice wove its way into Jenna's mind as she listened while Bob drove them to the original crime scene.
"I was naked. It was cold. Hard stone, floor I guess you'd call it. Too rough to be manmade. And the echoes. Every little sound ambushed you from twenty directions at once. He—he handcuffed my hands. Behind me, at first. Later he didn't bother. But when I first woke up, they were behind me and the collar… God, I hated that collar. More than the chains or the handcuffs. It was so heavy. Cold. Dead. Made me feel like I wasn't human. But I was. I kept trying to tell him that. Told him about my parents and my brother and sisters and what I dreamed of doing with my life."
A pause accompanied by the rustling of tissues and a few sobs.
"He didn't say a word. Not at first. But I knew he was there. Felt him breathing, watching. I cried and screamed and pleaded. Until finally I just…stopped. Couldn't make another sound. I lay there on the cold stone and waited for what would happen next."
They turned off the paved road and bumped onto a narrow gravel one.
"That's when he threw water on me. He'd been behind me all that time. It was cold, so cold. Not as cold as his hands sliding over me, making sure I was wet all over. I begged—God, I don't even remember what I said—anything I thought might make him think twice. Nothing worked."
The murmur of a man's voice asking a question.
"What happened next? He—he laughed. Not a word to me. Just laughter that echoed and roared and hurt more than if he'd hit me. But then it got quiet. Except for this humming noise. God, how I hated that noise. But the first time, that first time, I didn't know what it was. But I knew it was bad. I tried to run. Ran as far as I could until the chain jerked me short and I slipped. He rolled me over, face up. Then he straddled me. I felt him getting hard. He kept rubbing himself against me. But all I could see was this tiny light. Buzz. It turned from red to green. Then it touched my breast and the world turned to fire."
