by Andrew Mayne
“I don’t know. As a kid, I thought it might be like a crime movie, where she saw something she shouldn’t have. Now? I don’t know. I couldn’t imagine anyone hating her.”
“What did your father say?”
“Nothing. We don’t exactly have a close relationship. Maybe he mentioned something once about her going to shoot up with a junkie boyfriend. But ask anyone here that knew her and they’ll tell you she wouldn’t have just left me here like that. Not unless it was against her will. I mean, who would leave a kid here, all alone?”
“I don’t know, Robert. I don’t know. But I’ll look into that.”
It’s not an empty promise. But to get to the bottom of it, I need to start at the beginning of Sarah’s darker life—and possibly where she first encountered the killer.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
HOMESTEAD
Julie Lane greets me at the door with a warm smile on her worn face. There are a few traces of gray in the dark hair she wears pulled back in a turquoise band, making estimating her age difficult.
From the late 1960s to the early ’80s, she and her husband ran a foster home out here on this farm at the edge of Red Hook. Her large house, set against the Montana mountain backdrop, is surrounded by tall fir trees that stand out in the otherwise flat grazing land.
“Mrs. Lane, I’m Theo Cray. We spoke on the phone? I’m doing some research on Montana history.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She opens the door and ushers me in.
A faded-orange couch sits in a living room that seems trapped in time from the 1970s. About the only modern concessions are a flat-screen television and an iPad with a crossword puzzle on it.
I take a seat on the couch next to her easy chair. “As I said on the phone, I’m doing some genealogy research and wanted to talk to you about some of the children that came through here.”
“Right. To be honest, I don’t know a whole lot about where they came from. We had all kinds of children here. White, brown, Indian, mixed. It didn’t matter. We just wanted to give them a good home, and we did the best we could.”
I want to jump right in and ask if any of the children were potential homicidal maniacs but have to ease my way in.
“What were their ages?”
“We specialized in teens. Troubled teens, as my husband used to say. But they were good.”
“No behavior problems?”
She laughs. “They were teenagers. They all had behavior problems. But it was just acting out.”
“I see. Do you remember a girl by the name of Sarah Eaves?”
Lane’s expression changes for a moment; then she makes a small shake of her head. “No . . . not really. Maybe? Was she one of ours?”
“She was here in the early ’80s. For two years, until she left home. She ended up not too far from here.”
“Possibly. Perhaps if I saw a picture?”
I show her a photo Sarah’s son gave me. “This would have been her around twenty.”
“Yes,” she says after a looking at it for a while. “I remember her now.”
“Do you remember anything about her?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. Like I said, I don’t remember all of them. So many faces. You know how it is.”
It’s quite obvious to me that this woman is holding much more back than she cares to say.
“I just spoke with her son. He was quite interested to know what his mother was like as a child.”
“Her son? Sarah had a boy?”
The way her face lights up at the mention of a baby and the way she said “Sarah” tells me she’s much more familiar with her than she’s let on.
“Yes. Nice guy. He gave me the photo.”
“May I look at it again?”
I hand it back to her. She cradles it with both hands. “How old is the boy?”
“Thirty-two.”
Lane looks to the side as she does the math. “Oh. That young?” There’s something about her tone that indicates she suddenly lost interest. She hands me back the photo.
Why would she have been more interested if the boy was older? Would it be because she might have thought she knew the father?
“Did Sarah have a boyfriend?” I ask.
Lane’s eyes narrow. “We didn’t allow that kind of thing. Girls lived upstairs, and the boys stayed in the bunkhouse by the barn.”
“Right. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“We were very strict here. My husband, Jack, didn’t spare the belt, for the boys or the girls.”
I’m now getting a creepy vibe. As much as I don’t want to cause Mrs. Lane discomfort, I’m afraid I might have to push to get more information.
“Do you know why Sarah ran away?”
“No,” she replies harshly. “She was troubled. Always causing problems. Getting the boys stirred up. Jack did his best, but she was too wild.”
The way she says Jack’s name—with conviction and near reverence—is unsettling.
I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that Jack’s punishments might have included statutory rape and Mrs. Lane is well aware of that. If I press too much on that subject, she’ll probably kick me out.
I ease off on that line of questioning. “When Sarah was here, who were the boys?”
“Mr. Cray, is this about genealogy or Sarah Eaves?” Her voice is stern. “I think it’s time you leave.”
“Actually, I just want to know about the scars on her back. She got them when she was here, didn’t she?”
“That was an accident when she fell on some farm tools. The child services people know that. I don’t know what you’ve heard. But it’s a lie. It’s time for you to go.” The friendly woman who greeted me at the door has vanished.
I’ve only got one more card to play before she can have the police arrest me for trespassing.
If our killer was one of the foster children staying here when Sarah was, or close enough in time to know her, he could very well have already been playing around with his metal claws back then. I slide a photo of a bagh naka out of my folder and hold it up to her face. “Have you ever seen something like this before?”
She says nothing, but her eyes widen at the sight of the weapon.
I need to keep her agitated, off balance. “Did your husband, Jack, use this on Sarah?”
Her face goes white. “Jack? God, no! He would never!”
She’s protecting someone else. “Who? Who else was your favorite? Was he the one that did that to her? Was he angry with her? Jealous of your husband?”
“That’s enough.” She stands up and points to the door. “It’s time you leave. I’m calling . . . the sheriff if you don’t.”
“Wait, who were you about to say you were going to call?”
“Nobody. Now go!”
Her voice is so strident I’m afraid she’s going to have a heart attack.
So close! I was about to get a name!
I get a sudden idea, drop my papers, and go down to my knees to clean them up.
She storms over to the door and holds it open for me. “Now!”
I push them back together and make my way out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She slams the door on me, then watches from the window as I drive off.
I’m going to have to think of a hell of an excuse to come back in a few hours to get the phone I left under her couch with the recorder running.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
ACCOMPLICE
After an hour of sitting in my car a half mile down the road, I turn around and head back to Julie Lane’s house. I run through several different lies to tell her but can’t settle on one that doesn’t sound too forced. I decide to just knock on her door and tell her I may have left some government papers behind—without emphasizing what they were, other than government.
I feel like some kind of con artist trying to fleece the elderly with bullshit encyclopedias or insurance policies that are impossible to collect on. Then I remind myself that she may be shiel
ding the killer. And then there’s the possibility she might have been sitting by idly as her husband sexually abused their wards.
I think I’m okay with lying to her now.
“I told you to leave,” she says from the other side of the door.
“I may have left some papers behind.”
“You didn’t. Now go!”
“Please, it’s important.” Impulsively, I grab the doorknob and turn it.
When I open the door, she jumps back with a terrified look on her face. Technically this is trespassing, but I pretend otherwise.
I give her my broadest smile. “Thanks for letting me in. I’ll just be a second.”
I move past her and get down on all fours by her couch, dropping my folder near where I left my phone. She steps to the other side of the room, making it easy for me to slip it in my pocket. I pull a sheet out of the folder and hold it up as I stand up. “Got it! Sorry to be a bother.”
“You just wait until . . .” She doesn’t finish her sentence.
I stop myself at the door. “Wait until what? Were you going to tell someone?”
“The police. I’m calling the sheriff right now!” She takes her phone from her pocket and holds it up in the air like it’s some kind of talisman, reinforcing how empty her promise is.
I hurry back to my car and drive back to my earlier waiting spot down the road to play back the recording.
I click “Play.”
Lane only waited a minute after I left to make a phone call.
“Damn it,” she cried into the phone. “I was hoping you would pick up. There’s been a man here asking questions about Sarah and you and Pa. You told me to call if that happened. Well, it did. I told him to go to hell and didn’t say anything. I have his number if you want to set him straight.”
After she hangs up, there’s the sound of footsteps as she paces around the house and mutters to herself. I think she took a seat at the kitchen table across from the living room.
Twenty minutes in there’s the sound of a phone ringing.
“Hello? . . . Thank god . . . Yes . . . About fifteen minutes ago . . . His name? Kay . . . Leo Kay, I think . . . What was that name? Theo Cray? . . . Yes, that’s it! . . . Unpleasant man . . . You’ll talk to him? . . . Oh, thank you . . . Thank you!”
So far there’s nothing to tell me who this other person is. Although I’d bet anything it was one of the foster children living with the Lanes at the same time as Sarah. A record search should provide some names.
It’s a little disconcerting to hear that he knows my name, but I shouldn’t be surprised.
There’s a long silence; then Lane says, “Okay . . . okay. What about the cars? You said you’d be sending some men to move them? . . . Okay.”
After she hangs up, there’s just the sound of footsteps until I show up again. I sound like a goddamn door-to-door con man. But it served its purpose. I know she called someone.
Maybe even him.
Short of stealing her phone, which I consider briefly, I don’t know how to directly act on that information, but it’s a clue. A really big clue.
Damn it. I may be real close to knowing who this is, assuming the man who scarred Sarah is the same one that killed all those other people.
And the cars? What did she mean by that?
There was just an old station wagon in the driveway. I didn’t see anything else. Was there something in the barn, or maybe the woods? What’s the connection to him?
My curiosity is driving me crazy. I have to go back again.
I wait until dark to return yet again to her house, parking down the road and walking the rest of the way on foot. I follow a wire fence toward the back of the property, keeping a cautious eye on the house in case a light turns on or someone shows up.
I try to convince myself that he won’t come over right away, maybe not at all. Especially if he thinks I’m on to him.
This might be more wishful thinking than rational judgment.
I pass the barn and step through some thick weeds on the far side. I’m tempted to use my light, but I don’t want to alert her to my presence.
I can barely see my own shoes in the darkness by the time I reach the woods. It probably would have been better to have done this early in the morning in the gray light of dawn, instead of now. I just didn’t have the patience to wait that long.
The woods are a mixture of tall trees and overgrown brush. I have to walk around the edge to find a gap in the brambles to penetrate farther in.
I find a small foot trail and meander through wild berry bushes and shrubs. When I look behind me, the house is no longer visible, so I turn on my flashlight.
Immediately, something reflects in the weeds. I get closer and realize I’m staring at the headlight of a car. It’s a rusted blue Chevy Citation.
There’s no license plate on the front or the back, but I spot another car, a Datsun, about ten feet farther back. Orange with rust, again with no license plate.
When I spin my light around, I realize that there are at least eight or nine other cars around me. All of them at least thirty years old and covered in rust.
None of them has a license plate. I open the doors to some of them and search the glove boxes for anything to identify where they came from, but there’s nothing to be found.
Weird.
Damn weird.
I take photos using my phone and try to find the VIN numbers. The ones on the dashboards have all been pried off. I check the running boards and engine blocks and come up empty.
What’s with all the unmarked cars? Was old Jack running a car-theft ring?
No.
That’s not why they’re here.
My breath grows shallow as I understand where I’m standing.
Damn.
Holy crap.
I need to get out of here fast.
This isn’t a junkyard.
This is another one of his graveyards.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
JUNKER
I have to get out of here. In a flash, this went from theoretical to very real. Lane’s mystery foster child could have been one of many potential suspects, but the cars tell me otherwise.
All the missing hikers back in Cougar Creek, traveling there from across the country—as Elizabeth said, their cars would have to have piled up.
And they did.
He brought them here.
I race through the woods, weaving around the rusted junk heaps, and try to find my way toward the gap out of here. My foot hits a half-buried piece of metal, and I trip.
There’s an icy pain as my elbow smashes into the side-view mirror of a Toyota Celica. When I pull my arm free, there are bits of glass in my skin and blood on the door.
Damn it.
I try to wipe the blood away with my sleeve, but all I do is smear it over the panel. I see an upstairs light turn on through the trees. Not good. She has to have heard me.
Screw the car. I bunch my jacket around the gash in my arm and take off running again.
I reach the edge of the woods and race over to the property line to follow the fence back to the road. I’m making a hell of a noise as I stomp through the dry grass. My knees clip the edge of a woodpile, knocking it over.
In the distance there’s the sound of a door slamming, and lights come on at the edge of the yard.
“I know you’re out there!” yells Julie Lane. Then she says something truly chilling. “Wait until he finds out! Just you wait!”
I make it to the gravel road, shoulders hunched, fearful that I’m going to get a spine full of lead from a shotgun blast.
Lungs heaving, I start to wobble as my vision begins to get dim around the edges. Crap. I’ve lost more blood than I realize.
I brace myself on a fence post, take a deep breath, and check back over my shoulder. I see Mrs. Lane’s silhouette on the porch, watching me.
I stumble farther along, using the wooden rail to keep me from falling. Eventually I walk far enough away that she’s out
of sight. Not that it makes any difference—but mentally it does.
I keep going, afraid that any moment I’m going to take one mushy step and collapse.
Somehow, I make it to my Explorer. When I open the door and see my arm in the interior light, it’s covered in my blood.
I want to drive off and leave this damned place, but I’m fearful that I might pass out behind the wheel and slam into a tree. This needs to be taken care of now.
Using my good arm, I pop the hatch at the back of my Explorer and get out my first-aid kit.
I managed to nick my basilic vein. It takes a tourniquet on my elbow to stop the blood.
I pick away the piece of glass holding it open and squeeze the rupture. Thankfully, the vein isn’t severed, just slit like a botched blood draw. As I sit on my bumper waiting for blood platelets to coagulate and seal it from within, I keep a watchful eye on the road.
I slide Gus’s gun from my waistband to the floor, in case I have to get to it in a hurry. The only problem is that I’m a righty and that hand is out of commission for the moment.
Patience, Theo. Patience.
My heart stops beating so fast and the blood isn’t running down my fingertips anymore. When I release the vein, there’s still a trickle, but something I can manage with a tight dressing.
Just to be sure, I need to have a two-handed physician examine the cut, in order to make sure I don’t have to stitch it up.
Forty minutes later I’m sitting in the emergency room of Fairfax Hospital waiting for them to call my name. The fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell are strangely soothing to me. It’s the only relaxing thing in my world right now.
My bandage is bright red, and the blood has started to flow back down my arm. I want to say something to the receptionist, but I’m sure I have another few pints to go before I’m really critical.
The numb arm isn’t what disturbs me the most. It’s the confirmation of what I suspected.
As I sit here, bleeding out, I use my left hand to operate my phone and search through all the records I could find about missing persons around Cougar Creek.
Six of the cars I found in the woods are the same make, model, and color of cars belonging to missing persons.
