Hunting Ground

by Meghan Holloway

  I rubbed the back of my neck and stomped the excess snow from my boots on the welcome mat before I knocked. I could hear the sound of running within moments before the door was yanked open.

  Frank’s tail began to wag in earnest when he took in our greeter. Amanda’s youngest son stared up at me for a moment before his face crumbled and his shoulders began to shake. He left the door open when he turned and retreated into the house.

  Frank began to follow him. “Stay,” I said softly, and he whined in response.

  I heard Carl’s voice within ask if someone was at the door. Sobs were his only response.

  “It’s me. Frank is with me.” I rapped a knuckle on the door and pushed it farther open just as Carl lifted his son into his arms. The boy buried his face in his father’s neck.

  “Hector.” The man looked like he had not slept or eaten in three days. He rubbed his son’s back. “Sorry, he thought you might be…”

  “I understand.”

  “Come in.” He set his son down and whispered something in his ear.

  The young boy turned to me, face damp. “Can I play with your dog?” he asked, a quaver in his voice.

  I glanced at Carl, who nodded. “Frank would love to play with you.” The boy extended his hand in invitation. “Go on,” I told the poodle, and he followed the boy as he darted upstairs.

  “Did you find anything?” Carl asked.

  I scraped my boots against the welcome mat once more before closing the door behind me. “We haven’t turned up anything in the search.” I glanced at the family portrait hanging in the entryway and met Amanda’s smiling gaze. “They’re calling off the search.”

  “What?” He moved to the coat rack and grabbed his jacket. “No. No. She may be lost, she may be—”

  I held up a staying hand. “We’ve searched the area with dogs for two and a half days. With the weather moving in, it’s too dangerous for the volunteers to continue.”

  “So you’re just giving up?” His voice cracked.

  “You know this town, these people. Of course we’re not giving up.”

  He met my gaze. He and Amanda had been two of the countless volunteers who helped search for my girls even months after the organized search and rescue effort had been called off. He sagged and put a hand against the wall to steady himself. His coat hung from his elbow, and he stared down at the shell of material, expression lost.

  “Have you eaten today? Have you fed the boys?”

  He blinked at me for a moment before replacing his coat on the rack and scrubbing his hands over his face. “Christ, no. They must be starving.”

  “Let’s go into the kitchen. I need to ask you some questions.”

  I followed him through the house. Amanda’s touch was everywhere: the brightly colored throw pillows on the couch, the lesson planner open on the coffee table next to a stack of activity books, the vast collection of children’s books on the shelves in the hallway, her purse sitting on the barstool at the kitchen island.

  When Carl stood in front of the refrigerator staring blankly inside, I took pity on the man. “Sit down, Carl.” He moved across the kitchen and sat at the table with his head in his hands while I took his place at the refrigerator. I collected eggs, peppers, and cheese. “I have to ask you if you and Amanda were having any problems.”

  “No. No, we weren’t.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked, keeping an eye on him as I whisked the eggs in a bowl. His head came up. “Someone’s been sleeping on that couch in the living room.”

  He looked away. “It was just an argument. Normal married stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “Jesus, Hector, do I really need to dredge up our private life with you?”

  I waited until he met my gaze, his angry and uncomfortable. “The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can be ruled out as a suspect.”

  His jaw went tight. “I would never hurt my wife.”

  I knew that anger, frustration, and disbelief firsthand. Knowing that a spouse was always the first suspect was far different from being on the receiving end of that suspicion. “What was the argument about?” I asked patiently.

  He held my gaze for a long, silent moment before he blew out a breath and passed a hand over his eyes. “About trying to have another baby. She had three miscarriages after David was born. She wanted to try one more time, but she… Losing those three broke her heart. I couldn’t stand to see her go through that again. So this past summer, when she was at a teacher’s conference and the boys were at camp, I had a vasectomy. Without telling her.”

  “Ah.” I grabbed a skillet and let it heat on the stovetop while I chopped the peppers and grated the cheese. “Would she have gone somewhere to cool off?”

  “No, not without telling me.”

  “Was she having any issues with anyone lately? Coworkers? Friends?”

  He spread his hands, face a picture of confusion. “No. Nothing. We hosted the faculty Christmas party here. Most of her friends are fellow teachers. Everyone loves Amanda.”

  I whisked the peppers and grated cheese into the eggs and then poured the mixture into the skillet. “Amanda frequents Book Ends regularly, doesn’t she?”

  “She’s there every week for one of the book club meetings. Why do you ask?”

  “I just want to get a feel for her routine and the people whose paths she crossed regularly,” I lied.

  “Christ.” Carl stood, his chair scraping across the floor, and he paced to the back door. His shoulders were tense as he stared through the glass panes. “How do you stand it, man? I’m going fucking crazy not knowing where she is. If she’s okay.” His voice was raw, and when he glanced at me, I had to turn away from the emotion in his face.

  I focused on the eggs. “You don’t. It eats away at you. It consumes your waking moments. It haunts your sleep. It taints your food. The not knowing poisons you. After a while, you realize it has driven you past the brink of sanity. But living is a hard habit to break, so you still get out of bed every damn day and do what you need to do.”

  I flicked off the burner, grabbed three plates from the cupboard, and dished up the scrambled eggs between them. I left the skillet in the sink to soak and arranged the plates on the table with napkins and forks. I dropped slices of bread into the toaster. There was orange juice in the refrigerator, and I poured three glasses before I turned to Carl.

  He sagged against the door, forehead pressed to the glass, eyes closed.

  “Call your boys down to eat,” I told him.

  He lifted his head. “Can you promise me you’ll find her, bring her home?”

  The agony in his eyes was both painful and familiar. “I wish I could.” But I knew how easily a promise like that was broken.

  Eighteen

  I was completely swept along with my own compulsion.

  I don’t know how else to put it. It didn’t satisfy me

  completely, so maybe I was thinking, ‘Maybe

  another one will. Maybe this one will.’

  -Jeffrey Dahmer

  JEFF

  Her window remained dark and shuttered throughout the day, and a clawing panic set in that she had slipped through my fingers and was gone.

  My hands were beginning to tremble when my phone vibrated in my pocket. A glance at the screen showed an alert for the motion detectors being triggered at the greenhouse. I started to ignore the notification, but a moment later another alert came across the screen. The electrical current had been activated.

  I glanced at Evelyn’s window one more time and then strode back through the woods and into town for my vehicle.

  Only once had it not been an animal that set off the security measures I had in place for my roses. A few years ago, I arrived at the greenhouse expecting to find a deer or a coyote and instead found a young man sprawled on the ground. The electrocution had not killed him, but I made short work of that.

  He did not belong amidst
my roses, though. Instead, I carried him to the nearby mine that had been abandoned a century ago, tore back the boards guarding the entrance into the hillside, and dragged him deep within the mine shaft.

  I left the dead man there, and a week later, I heard on the news that he was a seasonal employee at Yellowstone. He should not have trespassed near my roses.

  When I arrived at the ruins, I found a snowshoe hare dead on the ground. I turned off the electric current and tossed the hare in the woods for some other predator to find. My roses were untouched, safe within the cloister of the greenhouse.

  All those years ago, I thought Rose was the beginning and the end. But the hunger had lingered within me and festered until I was desperate to sate the need once more. I had resisted until I saw the beadwork on a pair of moccasins displayed at an antiquarian bookshop in Idaho. When I asked about the design, I learned it was called the Shoshone rose. It was a sign.

  I had tread carefully at first. But after the fifth time, I had known. Those women in those godforsaken places were easy victims. They did not sate me like Rose, but no one was the wiser when they disappeared. There were no manhunts, no nationwide press coverage. It was as simple as plucking a weed from a field.

  I had found the perfect hunting ground.

  I tended my roses late into the evening and stoked the rocket mass heater before I left. My hands began to tremble again when I returned to Raven’s Gap.

  I entered the inn the same way I had before, by picking the lock. It was a skill I had taught myself when Rose attempted to shut me out of her life. With my hands shaking, it took me two tries to tumble the pins of the front door, three times to open the door to her room.

  I did not realize I held my breath until it escaped on a shaky sigh when I saw that everything was where it should be. My legs were unsteady, and I sat on the edge of her bed to collect myself. It was inconsiderate of her to leave right in the middle of the unfolding story.

  Rage took over the panic, and I stood in a rush. That plant she had been carrying when I first saw her on the road sat on the sideboard, its tendrils spilling over the edge and curling down the side. It was beautiful, richly green and flourishing in health. I crept down to the kitchen and found a container of salt. Back in her room, I poured the entirety onto the soil in the pot and carried it into the bathroom. I ran just enough water over the dirt to allow the salt to dissolve and sink in amidst the roots.

  A glass bottle of perfume sat on the counter, and I held it to my nose and inhaled. It smelled fresh and crisp and just like her. I twisted off the cap and poured it down the drain. I thought to shatter the bottle and leave the glass in her bed, but no, I did not want to hurt her. I just wanted her to realize that her selfishness had consequences.

  I replaced the plant on the sideboard, toed off my shoes, and climbed into her bed. The sheets were cool and smelled of her, and I found a strand of her hair on the pillow. I twined the small thread of her around my finger and placed my head in the depression in the pillow.

  I stayed throughout the night until the sky began to lighten from black to gray. Before I retreated, I remade her bed, smoothing away the evidence of my presence. Being here had soothed the wound she had dealt me. Perhaps I was not speaking loudly enough to capture her attention. I had thought to whisper the story to her, to let it unfold slowly. But she did not appear to be paying close enough attention.

  I had the pieces for the next chapter already gathered. I would wait and watch, and when she returned, I would ensure she fully grasped what I was trying to tell her.

  Nineteen

  The sharp thorn often

  produces delicate roses.

  -Ovid

  EVELYN

  It was snowing when I left the casino.

  I paused in the threshold and took a deep breath. I felt adrift, and uncertainty tore at me. I had stumbled into a hunting ground. There was no doubt in my mind the disappearance here eight years ago was connected to the two in Raven’s Gap.

  Come out, come out, wherever you are. Chad Kilgore’s whisper brushed against the nape of my neck, and I closed my eyes to block out the memory of his taunts. I had been prey once. That fear was poisonous. I wondered if these women had even known they were in a predator’s sights.

  I drew my hat from where it was tucked into the pocket of my coat and pulled it down over my ears before crossing the pavement to Ed’s old Chevy. I stared out over the windswept, barren landscape that surrounded the casino and then pulled out on the empty road.

  I retraced my route through the southeast corner of the reservation. The roads were slick, and the shroud of snow only heightened the sense of disquiet that blanketed the land. By the time I left the reservation, the snow had thickened into a white, swirling wall and my stomach was tight with nerves.

  I crept along the highway, knuckles white, wipers set to the highest speed. Several vehicles sped around me, kicking up dirty snow that fell in sheets over my windshield and blinded me for terrifying seconds.

  The drive to Cody took me twice as long as it had only a few hours ago. My hands were shaking and a headache beat steadily in my temples when I slid into the parking lot of the first hotel I saw.

  The amenities were few, but the room I checked into was clean. I took a long, hot shower. By the time I turned off the water, the room was full of steam and my headache had abated.

  I curled in bed and turned the television to a cooking channel as I ate the last two muffins Faye had packed me. I stared blindly at the screen, flicking it off after a while when I realized I had watched an entire show and had no clue what had been made over the course of the hour.

  I finished my nightly routine in the bathroom and then turned the lights off and crawled back into bed. I lay awake long into the night debating about what I needed to do.

  It was in the early hours before I finally fell asleep, and I slept late into the morning. When I pushed back the curtains, I was stunned to see over a foot of fresh snow on the ground. Plows had already churned up and down the street, and the sidewalks were cleared and salted. The snowfall had abated for now, but the sky was gray and heavy.

  After digging the Chevy out from under the fresh snowfall, I checked out of the hotel and stopped into a drive-through before heading north. The hours passed quickly, and by the time I turned south in Livingston, it was snowing again.

  I made it back to the inn as evening descended over Raven’s Gap. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me, and I fell onto the bed and slept straight through the night to morning, waking sprawled over the top of the covers with gritty eyes and still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

  An hour later when I arrived at the museum, I went straight to Annette’s office. “Who else would accept a private donation into the collection?”

  She glanced up from her computer, and her forehead creased at the tone of my voice. “What’s wrong?” She gestured for me to take a seat. “Did it not belong to the Northern Arapaho on Wind River?”

  “It did. It was stolen a few years back.”

  “Stolen?” She looked stunned. “From the museum?”

  “No, from a family’s home.” And a young woman was stolen away with it.

  Her face creased in thought. “Roberta could have accepted it. She only handled donations occasionally, but I’m positive I didn’t accept that donation.”

  “You said she retired? Is there a way I can get a hold of her?”

  “Yes, she moved down to Florida for the warm weather and to be closer to her grandchildren. I have her phone number. I’ll get it for you.” She had an old Rolodex on her desk, and she flipped through it. She found the card she was looking for and snagged a sticky note to jot down the number. She held onto the piece of paper when I reached for it, though, and her gaze was troubled when it met mine. “What is the likelihood of more items in that donation having been stolen?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. What was more pressing on my mind was the likelihood that more miss
ing women were associated with the pieces in the collection. “But I intend to find out.”

  “Please do.”

  Once I reached my office, I tossed my coat over my chair and called the number Annette had given me. After a few rings, I was directed to a cheerful greeting that invited me to leave a message. “Hello, Roberta,” I said after the tone. “My name is Evelyn Hutto. I’m working at the Park County Museum, and I have a question about a private collection that was accessioned by the museum in 2017. I wondered if you might be able to shed some light on the donor, because I can’t find any records filed for the collection.” I gave her my cell phone number before ending the call.

  I went straight to the shelf where I had stored the four boxes of the private collection and carried them to the work table. I unpacked each box, laying out the pieces in neat rows on the long table. With so many different objects, the patterns, colors, and shapes unique, they had to be from numerous tribes.

  I counted the pieces and dropped into the closest chair when my knees weakened. The cradle board had made for twenty-seven pieces in this anonymous private donation. I had the sinking feeling that the remaining pieces had twenty-six more missing women linked to them.

  I spent the first half of the day pouring over the private donation. By noon, my research had shed at least some light on a handful of the pieces. The fetishes—small carvings of a wolf and a bear—were Zuni, three of the baskets were Tohono O’odham, and a bracelet was Diné. It was not much, but it was a start.

  I turned the bracelet over in my hands. It was thin and small, a cuff made for a fine-boned wrist, and the silver needed polishing. It left my fingers smelling like old pennies as I handled it. A scene was depicted on the surface of the bracelet, highlighted in gold. Etched into one end of the cuff were the words NAVAJO A. JAMES.

  I took the bracelet to my desk with me as I sat down to eat lunch and powered up the computer. A quick internet search showed A. James to be Andrew James, a silversmith in Canyon de Chelly in Arizona. The piece of his jewelry I had before me was a storyteller bracelet depicting a scene from daily life in the canyon: a traditional hogan and water wagon, the sun and clouds, a cottonwood tree, Spider Rock and the White House Ruins. It was beautiful and unique, skillfully and artfully rendered. And I could not help but wonder who the woman was who had once worn it.