Forgotten Secrets

by Robin Perini

  Saying a small prayer, she completed the procedure and dropped the organ into a metal dish.

  “Bethany’ll be all right now?” Ian asked.

  Not hardly. Because whatever had caused Bethany’s symptoms was still attacking her body. Cheyenne explored the open abdomen, searching for an obvious cause, but nothing appeared abnormal. She had no choice but to close the wound.

  With the last of the staples in place, she stood back. “I’ve done all I can,” she said to Ian. At least until she figured out what had made the poor woman so deathly ill.

  “When will Bethany wake up?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” Normally a post-appendectomy patient would be awake within a few hours. Except Bethany hadn’t needed the operation. And whatever was causing her symptoms hadn’t been repaired. Cheyenne changed gloves and checked the IV antibiotic drip before lowering her mask. “I can’t promise anything, Ian. She needs a hospital.”

  Ian swallowed. “Father won’t be happy if she doesn’t get better.”

  Cheyenne’s knees shook, and she sank into the chair beside Bethany, studying her, searching for an identifying symptom. Ian hovered at her shoulder, watching, waiting.

  Somehow, Cheyenne had to do the impossible: make healthy tissue appear diseased so Father would be fooled and diagnose her patient’s symptoms.

  If she didn’t, she had no doubt that she wouldn’t leave this room alive.

  The soft green numbers of the clock glowed another five minutes since the last time Riley had checked. There would be no more rest tonight. Resigned, she padded into the living room by rote, a path she’d followed thousands of times before. The kitchenette table hadn’t been used for eating since she’d moved in three years ago. File boxes covered one side, filled with newspaper clippings, photos, interview transcripts, copies of forensic data.

  A large map of the United States was pinned to the blank wall. Black pins peppered the view, representing stranger abductions of girls about the age of her sister. Red pins indicated victims who had been recovered—most of them hadn’t made it. A few, like Elizabeth Smart, had survived longer than the seventy-two-hour life expectancy of missing children.

  Stranger abductions might be a small percentage of those taken, but they were also the deadliest.

  Riley knew all of this. She’d studied all the statistics. Her sister was dead, had probably died fifteen years ago. Riley owed it to her family to bring them closure. Somehow. Some way.

  She’d made a little headway since joining the FBI. She’d searched the federal databases on her own time and had discovered a pattern. Madison wasn’t alone. Too many girls of about twelve years old, red hair and freckles dotting across the nose, had vanished over the last decade and a half.

  The map told the story. Many of them had been abducted within thirty miles of I-25.

  Vanished without a trace.

  Gone, but not forgotten. Not by their families. And not by Riley. Never by Riley.

  One flick of a switch and her computer whirred to life. Tom might have kicked her out of the office for a week, but she could use the time. Trying to save Vincent O’Neal’s last two victims had taken 110 percent of her concentration. She’d neglected Madison’s case.

  No more.

  She logged in to the FBI’s computer system. She’d review the HSK database for changes first.

  What kind of world was it where a Highway Serial Killings Initiative database existed? The depravity of some human beings never ceased to shock her, even after studying the worst of the worst since she’d been able to sneak Ann Rule’s book on Ted Bundy from the public library as a teenager against her parents’ orders.

  Digging into evil had become commonplace. Tom had no idea what she could handle. Riley narrowed the parameters, searching for new abductions of young females.

  No records found.

  Relief warred with frustration, because as horrible as the truth was, Riley was stuck. Unless the man who had taken Madison made a mistake or a new lead turned up, she didn’t know if he’d ever be caught. It had been a while since someone who fit the victim’s profile had disappeared. Could he have stopped?

  She knew better. Sexually preferential offenders never stopped. They were drawn to a very specific type. A very specific age. They couldn’t fight their urges for long.

  She rubbed her eyes and stared at the screen. What was she missing? There had to be something. He was organized, methodical, careful.

  The only commonality was the girls’ similar appearance. And the fact that they came from middle-class or upper-class homes.

  With one exception, of course. The first girl—taken from Singing River, Wyoming—Gina Wallace. Only a few months before Madison’s kidnapping.

  Gina’s mother had grown up middle class but had fallen into a spiral of addiction. Riley almost hadn’t flagged Gina’s file. But the resemblance between the girl and Madison had been uncanny.

  One year ago, on Riley’s next vacation, she’d headed to Singing River. The trip hadn’t broken open the case the way she’d hoped, but she’d met Thayne. And she’d fallen into his arms . . . mostly to forget.

  From the bedroom, a faint buzz sounded. She stopped typing. Could it be him?

  Thayne had never called this late before, but she really needed to talk with him.

  Riley ran to her bedroom and grabbed her phone from under the pillow. She glanced at the screen and groaned. She tapped the phone. “Lambert,” she said, her voice cautious.

  “What are you doing, Riley?” Tom barked in her ear. “What were my orders?”

  “To consider whether or not I should stay in the unit,” she answered, trudging back to her computer.

  “You logged in to the system. I set an alert to notify me immediately. What are you searching in the middle of the night? The case is over.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Oh, hell, Riley.” The anger left his voice. “You need a complete break. From this case and from your sister’s case.”

  “I’m thinking about what you said,” she said, her voice tight. “What more do you want from me?”

  “I’ve changed my mind. Complete rest and relaxation, Riley. No logging in to FBI systems, no working on your sister’s. That means no investigations.”

  “I’m off duty. What I choose to do—”

  “Don’t push it, Riley. One write-up triggering an investigation and I’m certain they’ll discover that you’re using government equipment to research an unassigned, personal case. You’ll not only get kicked out of the behavioral analysis unit but lose your job, too. And once you’re fired from the FBI, there are no second chances.”

  Her body went cold. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. “Tom . . .” What could she say?

  “Your sister’s been missing for fifteen years. It might be harsh, but one week won’t make a difference. You need the break.”

  “My personal life is none of your business.”

  “It is when it impacts your ability to function. And my ability to trust you.”

  “You’re wrong about me.”

  “Prove it. Get out of DC. Go see your family, take a vacation, knock toes with the Friday night phone buddy you try so desperately to hide from everyone. Anything that doesn’t deal with murder and serial killers.”

  She stared at the phone. “How do you know about him?”

  “You’re not as discreet as you think. Eight o’clock most Friday nights your phone rings and you smile. I’ve seen that look before. In the mirror when I first met my wife. Besides, it’s the only time you smile.”

  Mortified at her transparency, Riley nearly groaned into the phone. “Fine. One week.” If believing she was going to see Thayne would get Tom off her back, she could live with the deceit. She couldn’t lose her job. Not until she found Madison. Her sister trumped everything else in Riley’s life. Including Thayne. She owed Madison that much.

  “Don’t go around me on this,” Tom warned. “I can be your biggest supporter. I’ll go to the mat for y
ou. Cross me and I’ll become your worst enemy if it’s in the best interest of you and Unit 6.”

  He ended the call.

  Riley tossed the phone onto the table.

  Her computer beeped.

  A message in bold yellow letters popped up on a red screen.

  ACCESS DENIED.

  Tom had done it. He’d really done it. He’d cut her off.

  She leaned back in her chair and tucked her knees to her chest. Her mind whirled. The computer was silent. The mantel clock’s second hand ticked, the click growing louder with each strike. The muffled sound of a siren echoed below. Ambulance this time.

  Riley laid her head on her knees. Everything she’d worked so hard to achieve was slipping away. She couldn’t stop looking for Madison. She’d promised herself. She’d promised her parents. Her mother.

  That horrible darkness that had enveloped her the first year after Madison had vanished clutched at Riley’s throat. She grabbed the phone back and stared at the lit screen.

  Thayne. She needed to hear his voice. He’d butted heads with his SEAL team commander more than once over the rules of engagement. Politics trumped mission too often to count, and innocents died because of the choices of a few suits in a very safe room. Thayne might be the only person who would truly understand.

  Her finger lingered above the screen until she squeezed her eyes shut and let the phone fall from her hand. Counting on him was dangerous. She could tough out this challenge alone. She had to, because she’d learned a long time ago. She really couldn’t count on anyone but herself.

  Hospitals possessed that odd smell of illness and strange lighting that put most anyone on edge. The double doors of the twelve-bed facility swung closed behind Thayne and his father. They didn’t even pause at the main desk but veered to the right down one of the two hallways.

  The Singing River sheriff pressed the phone to his ear. “You find anything, anything at all, I want to know.” He shoved the cell into his pocket and scowled at Thayne. “The only prints on the phone are Cheyenne’s. It’s like she just vanished into nothing.”

  “Let me go, you old fool,” a voice cried out. “I’m late. I have to get to class. The kids are waiting.”

  “Gram,” Thayne said, meeting his father’s startled gaze.

  They hurried to room six and stood in the doorway. Gram might be small, but the fire in her eyes made Thayne smile with fondness, even as his heart broke. She sat on the side of the bed, trying to get up. His six-foot-one, burly grandfather stood beside her, eyes resigned—and pained all the way down deep to his soul.

  “Helen, honey.” Retired Sheriff Lincoln Blackwood leaned over her, pressing her gently back to the bed. Gram shifted, avoiding his touch. Pops lowered his arms. “You’re retired, sweetheart. No class today.”

  Gram shook her head, staring at the hospital room floor. “You’re lying to me. Why are you lying?”

  The words saddened Thayne. She hadn’t taught school for fifteen years. The first time he’d witnessed her living her past—right after he’d come home—he hadn’t known what to say or how to act. He’d learned quickly that Alzheimer’s leaves no prisoners, and he could do nothing but surrender to the moment.

  “She woke up about two this morning and won’t go back to sleep,” Pops said.

  Thayne crossed the room and smiled. “Gram, are you feeling better? That bandage on your head is quite the fashion statement.”

  Her hand touched the dressing on her scalp, and she winced. Her sharp eyes shifted to Thayne, and her eyes widened. “Lincoln? It’s about time you got here. Get this old geezer out of here.” She tilted her head toward Pops and lowered her voice. “He’s trying to keep me here. I want to go home.”

  Those pleading words tugged at Thayne’s soul. He hadn’t realized he looked so much like his grandfather when he was young, not until Cheyenne had found a carousel of old slides. Thayne sat on the edge of the bed next to his grandmother and took one of her hands in his. Her pulse raced under his fingertips, and he cupped her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know him,” she whispered, glancing at Pops. “I’m sorry I was mean. He looks nice enough, but . . . I don’t know him.” She clutched Thayne’s hand with a grip that belied her eighty years. “I’m scared, Lincoln. Something’s wrong with me.”

  Thayne blinked back the burning behind his eyes and forced a reassuring smile. “It’s going to be OK. We’re here to take care of you.”

  “Good. I like you, Lincoln. I might even marry you someday.” She pressed his hand to her cheek, closed her eyes, and leaned against him.

  He circled his arm around her. God, he hated this disease.

  Not much helped when Gram lost herself like this. Her anxiety skyrocketed. Lately, she’d taken to biting her nails and gritting her teeth when the world became too confusing. But they’d discovered one thing that did calm her. Gram responded to music.

  Thayne ducked his head and hummed the opening of a familiar tune under his breath, rocking her back and forth.

  He’d heard the song’s story a million times. Pops had surprised Gram for their twenty-fifth anniversary with a romantic picnic at the swimming hole on the edge of Blackwood Ranch. A warm summer night, a full moon, the water, and soft music in the background. “Could I Have This Dance” had played on their truck’s radio. Gram had said nothing was more romantic than dancing in the middle of nowhere, underneath the stars, with the man you loved. When Thayne had learned to waltz, Gram had used the same song to teach him.

  Thayne sang the first verse under his breath, his baritone soft and soothing. Her breathing slowed a bit and she opened her eyes. They had cleared for the moment.

  “Helen?” his grandfather asked, voice tentative.

  Gram lifted her hand to her head to touch the bandage gingerly and looked at Pops with concerned eyes. “Lincoln, honey? What happened to my head? Did we have an accident? Am I at the hospital?”

  Pops sat on the other side of Gram and clasped her hand in his. “You were hurt, Helen. At the clinic. Do you remember what happened last night?”

  Gram bristled. “Well, of course I remember. I was taking little Cheyenne to dinner with her boyfriend. She’s going to marry him someday, you know.” Gram smiled, but confusion slid over her expression. “She wanted ice cream for dessert, I think. That little girl is going to turn into an ice-cream cone someday.”

  “Honey,” Pops said. “Cheyenne’s grown up now. She’s a doctor.”

  “A doctor?” Gram’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “No, no. That can’t be.”

  Thayne patted his grandmother’s hand and stood up. He walked over to his father. He recognized the sorrow in his dad’s eyes. They were losing Gram a little every day. This time, though, panic laced his expression as well.

  He grasped Thayne’s arm. “She doesn’t remember what happened to Cheyenne.”

  Gram was the only witness, and Cheyenne’s life was at stake. Normally, they didn’t push when Gram didn’t remember. They just backed off. This time they couldn’t.

  Thayne crossed the room and knelt in front of her. “Gram.”

  She stared into his eyes, her own clear. “Thayne.” She patted his cheek.

  “Pops took you to Cheyenne’s office last night. You were going to have dinner together while he played poker. Someone came in. They messed up the place. Do you remember?”

  “I saw a triangle,” Gram whispered, running her fingers over Thayne’s military cut. “And red.” She shook her head. “Get that nurse back in here so I can leave. I have to get ready for school, Lincoln. I can’t be late.”

  Thayne rose, kissed his grandmother’s cheek, and met his father’s gaze.

  His grandfather patted her hand.

  “I’m not letting you touch me, old man. Keep your hands to yourself.”

  Thayne motioned to the nurse who hovered nearby. “Can you help them, Jan?”

  “Of course.”

  Thayne and his father crossed the hall and stepped into a vacant
room. “It could be in her mind somewhere,” Thayne said. “Any idea what the triangle means? Or red?”

  “No idea. We’ve never used a triangle brand on the ranch. It’s used in military maps, but I don’t know why she’d be aware of that. Maybe she’s back teaching trig in her head?”

  “Red could be the blood.” Thayne stroked the stubble on his chin. “Maybe it’ll come to her. She still recalls some short-term details.”

  “We can’t count on her memory, and today’s not a good day. The Alzheimer’s has her living more and more in the past. And with her getting knocked out, who knows if she’ll remember.” His father rubbed his temple. “We have no leads.”

  Thayne studied his dad’s haggard face. Since his illness, he appeared ten years older than his fifty-six years, but Thayne couldn’t sugarcoat the truth. “I may not be a cop, but I don’t buy DCI’s knee-jerk theory of druggies on a spree. I think they’re justifying not showing up, but it doesn’t track. If all these guys wanted were drugs, they should have hurt or killed Cheyenne, not abducted her.”

  “You’ve got cop instincts.” His father closed his shadowed eyes. “This reminds me a lot of the Gina Wallace case, son. And we never found her. I can’t let that happen to Cheyenne. I won’t.”

  Thayne knew what he had to do. He knew someone who could help. Maybe the only person who could. As much as he hated that he couldn’t find his sister, he’d also learned early on in the SEALs to take advantage of each team member’s strengths. He slipped his phone from his pocket. “I have an idea.”

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Someone who sees leads in a crime scene no one else does.” Thayne said. “Riley Lambert.”

  “Special Agent Lambert. Yes. She could help.” His father stroked his jaw. “You may not like hearing this, but after I found out you were calling her every week, I contacted a buddy at the FBI. I wanted his take on her.”

  “You did what? I’m pushing thirty, not thirteen.”

  His father just shrugged without a modicum of apology. “A man needs to keep informed. Did you know she graduated high school at fifteen and earned a law degree by the time she turned twenty? She’s on the fast track. He said she’s scary driven, takes to a case like a rottweiler to a bone. And she won’t give up. If you can get her to come, we could use her help.”