Hunting Ground

by Meghan Holloway

  The boy startled me when I left Evelyn’s room and entered the hall. He stood like a small specter, and I eyed him carefully as I closed the door. He did not move when I turned to face him fully, did not bat an eyelash. He left me in a precarious position.

  I had no qualms with snapping this child’s neck. However, he was not part of the script in my head, and it would end everything before I was ready to write the resolution. The convenient thing about children was that they were absurdly easy to frighten and manipulate.

  He took a quick step back as I approached him, and his shoulders thumped against the wall. His eyes were wide, the whites stark in the shadows, as I knelt before him until our gazes were level. I searched his face. There was a solemnity and seriousness to the young features. His breath quickened when I smiled at him.

  “If you tell anyone you saw me here, I will come back and slit your mother’s throat in the middle of the night while she sleeps.” He paled even further and flinched as if I had struck him. “Do we understand one another?” His chin wobbled, but he nodded. “Good.” I patted his shoulder as I straightened, and he cringed away from me with a gasping whimper of noise.

  I had to stop myself from whistling a merry tune as I slipped from the inn.

  Twenty-Two

  A rose’s rarest essence lives in the thorn.

  -Rumi

  EVELYN

  I made it to work in a daze by midmorning.

  “Are you certain you don’t need to take the day off?” Annette asked when I apologized for my tardiness. She had already heard the news.

  “I’m certain,” I said. A headache pounded behind my eyes.

  I immersed myself in the NAGPRA collection. I had found no other human remains thus far in processing the collection, but the history and culture contained in these boxes was rich. As I catalogued the pieces, I sketched out several ideas for displays for the museum.

  An email from Andrew James landed in my inbox in the middle of the afternoon.

  Miss Hutto, I’m afraid I do not have any information about when I made this bracelet or who purchased it. I am sure your effort to return it to its owner is appreciated. -A James

  I pulled up the internet browser on my computer and searched for “women missing in Canyon de Chelly.” The only article that was returned was from several years ago about a body being found after a local woman was swept away in a flash flood.

  I performed another query, this one a broader search for “missing Native American women.” A number of articles populated for the search, and I pulled up a recent case study from the Urban Indian Health Institute. I sucked in a breath as I studied the data.

  My horror grew as I read article after article. The statistics were staggering. Native women living on tribal lands in America were murdered at an extremely high rate — in some communities, more than ten times the national average. The Center for Disease Control and Prevention reported that murder is the third-leading cause of death among American Indian and Alaska Native women.

  No comprehensive data collection system existed regarding the number of missing and murdered women in Indian country. In 2016, the National Crime Information Center reported that there were 5,712 reports of missing American Indian and Alaska Native women and girls, though the US Department of Justice’s federal missing persons database only logged one hundred sixteen cases. American Indian women not only went missing, but they were also allowed to fall through the cracks, disappearing not just from life but from the data as well.

  I did the math. The numbers equated to fifteen women going missing every day over the course of a year with no record of their disappearance in the federal databases.

  It was an epidemic of violence and abduction I had no clue existed. A harrowing normality of mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends being gone one day, never to be seen again. No resources put to use to find them, no widespread media coverage, and no remembrance of those lives in the data.

  For a predator, was there a more perfect prey?

  I felt sick as I returned to the repository. I pulled the private collection from the shelf. Between the cradleboard, the Zuni fetishes, the Tohono O’odham baskets, and the bracelet, I had a collection divided between four tribes and three states—Wyoming, Arizona, and New Mexico.

  That was only a small part of the collection. There was so much potential for loss and tragedy in these pieces. I wondered how many secrets this collection held, if each piece was linked to a woman who had vanished without a trace.

  Troubled, I returned to my work. By the time I left for the day, the sharp headache had faded to a dull, ragged throb. When I reached the inn, my gaze was drawn to the woods that hemmed the west side of the property. All remnants of what I had found this morning were gone save for the trampling of snow around the area that revealed the rough, dead flotsam of past seasons beneath the white.

  “Are you out there?” I called into the darkness. The moaning of the trees in the wind was the only response I received.

  I retreated from the light spilling across the front porch of the inn, climbed back into my borrowed truck, and drove across town. I left the Chevy in the lot at the corner of Main Street and darted a glance over my shoulder as I locked the door. Jeff’s Land Rover was still parked in front of Book Ends.

  I pulled two bobby pins from my hair as I hurried down the sidewalk. I made my pick first, bending one of the pins open to about ninety degrees. I put the end in my mouth, catching the bit of rubber with the edge of my teeth and prying it off. I spit it out and bent the end slightly before folding the opposite end into a loop for a makeshift handle.

  I glanced back as I reached the corner. The street lamps flickered. Jeff’s vehicle remained parked. I crossed the street and worked the second bobby pin into the lever, forcing the looped end of the pin over at another ninety-degree bend.

  In the alley beside the hardware store, the light over the side entrance sputtered and whined. The alley ended at a dumpster, and I looked around as I approached the door. The area had been cleared and salted, so I would not be leaving tracks in the snow to give away my presence. I tested the door, startling when the handle turned easily.

  The door groaned as I pulled it open, and I shot one last look over my shoulder before I stepped inside. I stood at the base of a set of stairs. Aside from an umbrella leaning in the corner, the entryway was empty. I kept a hand on the door as it closed so it would not slam shut, and then I crept up the stairs.

  My heartbeat was a ricochet. Heat swept over my chest and up my throat. When I reached the landing, my palm was slick as I tested the handle. This door was locked.

  I knelt on the landing and wiped my hands on my jeans. A tremor tried to work its way through my hands, but I tightened my fingers into a fist and sucked in a deep breath. I needed steadiness.

  I inserted the lever into the lower side of the keyhole and put a turning pressure on the barrel of the lock. I slipped the pick into the upper side of the keyhole, feeling carefully for the seized pins. I kept pressure on the lever as I worked, closing my eyes and leaning my forehead against the cool surface of the door. The first two pins moved up and down freely, but the third was harder to move. Slowly and carefully, I forced the pin upward until I heard an audible click.

  I let out the breath I had not realized I was holding. I repeated the process, feeling for the next seized pin until all five were aligned and the lock opened. I straightened and pocketed the makeshift lock picks as I pushed open the door.

  It was dark within Jeff’s home, and my hand went automatically to the wall to feel for a switch before I stayed the impulse. I closed the door behind me and locked it before pulling my phone out and swiping the screen to turn on the flashlight application.

  A quick pan of the space with the small beam of light revealed a loft apartment, one large open space with exposed ducts and copper pipes, brick walls, and plank flooring. I directed the flashlight at the floor and moved quickly through the large spac
e. I had limited time, and I did not know exactly what I was searching for.

  His kitchen was state of the art, and there was not a dish in the sink or a crumb on the countertop. I caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye and spun, almost leaping out of my skin before I realized it was my own gray reflection peering back at me in the mirror hanging on the wall.

  His bathroom was as immaculate as the rest of his home, his bed large and crisply made, and the far wall housed bookshelves from floor to ceiling, complete with a rolling ladder. The shelves were laden with leather-bound tomes and gardening manuals.

  Displayed amidst the books were pieces of art. Baskets and pottery, carvings and jewelry, turquoise and silver and beadwork.

  It was a vast collection, displayed with pride on the shelves. The pieces were intricate, unique, and all Native American in origin.

  Any number of people collected Native American art. It was no confession, no proverbial smoking gun. As I stared at the wall of shelves, I recalled Jeff’s pleased smile and intense gaze. I’m glad to know you’re paying attention, Evelyn. The two women I had found dead at the end of a rope.

  Serial killer. I allowed myself to think the words for the first time, and it drove a tremor through me.

  But it was the groan and thump of the alleyway door closing downstairs that shot terror into my veins, as potent and lethal as any drug. I fumbled and almost dropped my phone as I scrambled to turn the flashlight off. Heavy footfall ascended the stairs, and I stood frozen and frantic.

  The pause at the top of the stairs galvanized me. I bolted across the room, dropped to my stomach on the floor, and scrambled beneath the bed. The door opened, and light flooded the place. I pressed my hands so tightly across my mouth I tasted blood.

  The splatter of keys on a surface, footsteps, and then the rush of water reached me where I hid. I breathed shallowly through my nose and wondered if he could hear the clatter of my bones against the floor as I trembled. I was certain he could at least hear the thud of my heart on the floor.

  Long moments passed, and I kept my eyes on the sliver of space I could see. My ears were pricked to every rustle of movement, every footstep. He began to whistle suddenly, and the familiar tune was like a knife in the gut. Alas, my love, you do me wrong.

  Footsteps approached, and I was afraid that a whimper had escaped me when I saw his shoes come closer. I closed my eyes when they stopped at the foot of the bed.

  There was silence and stillness for so long I grew uneasy. I lurched in shock when I opened my eyes, and a scream almost escaped me when I met his gaze where he knelt and peered under the bed.

  His smile was perfect and terrifying. “Boo.”

  Twenty-Three

  It will never rain roses: when we want

  to have more roses we must plant more trees.

  -George Eliot

  HECTOR

  From my vantage point in the alley between the hair salon and the laundromat, I spotted her the moment she pulled Ed’s old Chevy into the parking lot. My attention sharpened as she hurried down the sidewalk, working something in her hands, darting glances over her shoulder.

  “What the hell are you doing, Evelyn?” I whispered.

  She slipped down the alley adjacent to the hardware store, and when she did not return, I directed my gaze to the second-floor windows. After several minutes, there was a brief sweep of light across the glass. She was inside.

  Not five minutes had passed when movement from the opposite end of Main Street caught my eye. Jeff’s Land Rover backed out of its parking spot in front of Book Ends. I stepped farther back into the cover of the shadows. He drove slowly down Main, turned at the corner, and then did a tight turn and reverse into the alley.

  I watched the windows on the second floor, and they were soon flooded with light.

  I pulled the GPS tracker from my pocket. Last year when a group of local teens started stealing cars around town, the department had purchased a dozen of these gadgets. They were so small they went unnoticed and had rechargeable batteries that lasted for two weeks. They could be tracked in real-time and were programmable to send location alerts by email or text.

  I secured the tracker in the waterproof magnetic case and glanced at the windows once more before leaving my hiding place. I stayed close to the building, sticking to the shadows until I was out of sight from the second-floor vantage point.

  The sudden sound of screaming from the apartment above raised the hair at the nape of my neck.

  If he killed Evelyn tonight, I needed to ensure she was found in his apartment or in his vehicle. If he transported her body somewhere, I needed to find where he kept the women he killed. I needed to know if what remained of my girls was there as well.

  He had pulled the Land Rover deep into the alley close to the side entrance. I knelt at the front bumper and reached under the vehicle to snap the magnetic box in place.

  The sound of a police siren brought my head up. I jogged out of the alley and back up the road to the shadows between the laundromat and the hair salon. My gaze darted to the windows above the hardware store just as two squad cars pulled up, lights flashing. Cooper and Ashton hurried down the alley, hands on their weapons.

  I retreated to where I had left my truck. Frank greeted me when I opened the door and moved accommodatingly into the passenger’s seat. I did not flip my headlights on until I pulled onto Main Street. I headed straight for the station.

  Thirty minutes later, when Cooper and Ashton came in through the sally port escorting a deathly pale Evelyn, I met them in the hall. Cooper led Evelyn into an interview room.

  “What’re you doing here at this hour?” Ashton asked.

  “Paperwork,” I lied. “What’s going on here?”

  “Dispatch got a call from Jeff Roosevelt saying there was a burglar in his home.”

  What the fuck? I had assumed it was Evelyn who had called 911 as soon as she realized she had company. I had been certain Jeff would kill her upon discovering her. Those blood-chilling screams had been a confirmation of that. I stood there staring blankly at Ashton for too long as my mind raced.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Mind if I sit in on the interview?”

  “No. Cooper is going to handle it while I get started on the case report.”

  I retreated down the hall and collected the file folder from my desk drawer. Frank lifted his head from his bed beside my desk. “Stay here,” I told him, and then retreated to the break room. I filled a paper cup with coffee, laced it liberally with cream and sugar, and headed to the interview room.

  Cooper was seated across from her when I entered. Evelyn’s gaze met mine as I quietly closed the door behind me and took the chair at a right angle to her. I placed the cup of coffee before her. Her face was colorless save for the shadows that smudged the skin beneath her eyes and a livid red mark across her left creek that was already beginning to bruise. Her fingers trembled as she wrapped her hands around the cup.

  Blake Cooper was a burly man who had been with the department for ten years now. He was no-nonsense and gruff but unfailingly polite. “Why don’t you tell me what you were doing in Mr. Roosevelt’s home tonight, Miss Hutto,” he said. “You do realize breaking and entering is a felony charge.”

  “I wasn’t there to steal anything,” Evelyn said. “I was looking for proof.”

  “Proof.” Cooper leaned back in his chair. “Proof of what?”

  Evelyn glanced at me and then met Cooper’s gaze evenly. “Proof that Jeff Roosevelt is a serial killer.”

  Cooper’s brows winged over his forehead. I had to quell the urge to smile. “And did you find proof?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  I leaned forward and felt Cooper’s gaze swing to me. Christ, if she truly had proof…

  “Are you going to share that information with the police?” Cooper asked, and I heard the hint of disbelief in his tone.

  Evelyn mu
st have as well. “Not at the moment, no. You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Alright,” he said slowly, scrambling to regroup. “Why don’t you tell me why you think Jeff Roosevelt is a serial killer?”

  The two women she had found dead in town were not news to us. But she told us of her suspicion that someone had been coming and going from her room at the inn. When she recounted the brief, odd conversations she had had with Jeff, a chill went through me remembering Winona’s attempt to tell me how uneasy the man had made her. Cooper and I sat quietly. When she finished, he folded his hands on the tabletop and leaned toward Evelyn.

  “Here is the issue, Miss Hutto. Jeff says that you have been stalking him.”

  She shook her head. “I—”

  “He says you’ve shown up where he works.”

  “He works at a bookstore,” she snapped. “I read. Of course I’ve shown up there.”

  “He says you’ve followed him home.” Evelyn looked away, and Cooper continued, “And tonight, he found you in his home. Can you see why I’m having a hard time putting much stock in what you say?”

  “You need to believe me.” Her voice was vehement, and she slid to the edge of her seat, face as earnest as her voice. “Two women are dead. I think there are many, many more. I’m being stalked, and—”

  I placed the folder on the table, slid it across to her, and flipped it open. She met my gaze before glancing down at the contents. Her entire body flinched.

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve made claims of being stalked. You filed…” I flipped through the papers and counted aloud as I did so. “One, two, three—”

  Evelyn reached out and slapped a hand over the fan of reports. “Thirty-seven.” I could see her throat work as she swallowed. “You don’t need to count them. I filed thirty-seven.”