Hunting Ground

by Meghan Holloway

  Rachel. That was her name. A harsh, ugly name for a harsh, ugly woman.

  I strolled casually into the light, and she lurched in surprise but then relaxed when she recognized me.

  “Oh, Jeff.” She tittered with that laugh that scraped annoyingly along my nerves. “It’s only you. You startled me.”

  I drew closer and watched as she patted her frizzy mop of hair and undid a couple buttons on her coat so that deep cleavage was on display again. My stomach lurched in disgust, and I almost turned away. But no, whores like this one deserved to die. The world did not miss the garbage when you collected it off the streets and put it in the trash.

  I smiled at her. I must have miscalculated my smile and let too much of my intention slip into the curve of my lips, for her eyes went wide. She took a quick step back, and I heard her indrawn breath. “Yes,” I agreed. “Only me.”

  Twenty-Six

  Native women living on tribal lands are murdered

  at an extremely high rate—in some communities,

  more than 10 times the national average.

  EVELYN

  I slept in my rented room, dragging the chaise over to block the door once more. I woke at every creak as the inn settled for the night, every moan of the wind in the trees outside, but I refused to be driven into hiding.

  In the morning, my thumb throbbed, a hot, steady pulse from the wound the rose in Jeff’s office had dealt me. The entire digit was stiff and swollen.

  On the way to work, I stopped by Ed’s garage.

  “Ev’lyn,” he greeted warmly when I entered the shop. “Just the lady I was hoping to see today.” He grabbed a set of keys from his desk drawer and extended them to me.

  “She’s ready?” I asked, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

  “I just finished with her yesterday. She should be good as new now and last you another thirty years.”

  I chuckled. “How much do I owe you for this?”

  He gave me the price, and we discussed a payment plan. I wrote him a check for the first installment, gave him the keys to the ancient Chevy, and headed out into the back parking lot. I hesitated before sliding into the driver’s seat and peered through the windows to see if anything had been left behind for me to find.

  There were no purple coats with pink polka dots in the seats. The interior of my car was empty and clean. I let out a breath and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over smoothly at the first turn of the key, rumbling quietly without a cough or hiccup.

  I rubbed a mittened hand along the dash. “It’s good to have you back, old girl.”

  I shifted into gear and headed across town to the museum. I detoured by my office to drop off my coat and purse, tossing my badge on my desk, and then headed into the break room to leave my lunch in the refrigerator.

  Annette swung past the open doorway of the break room and paused when she caught sight of me. “Evelyn, you haven’t seen Rachel this morning, have you?”

  “No, but I just arrived.”

  “I’m having an issue I need her help with. She’s usually already in her office by now, but I can’t find her anywhere.”

  “I’ll let her know you’re looking for her if I see her,” I said as I headed back down the hall to my office.

  My badge was missing from where I had tossed it when I returned, and I knelt to search under my desk. I retraced my steps to the break room to no avail. When I wandered down the hall and turned the corner, I found the repository door ajar.

  I pushed the door open and glanced around. I was not the only person with access to the room, others were in and out throughout the day. A badge on the work table caught my attention, and when I crossed to the table and flipped it over, I found that it was my own.

  Brow furrowed, I pinned the badge to the lapel of my blouse and wondered who would have borrowed it from my desk. I had been leaving my office unlocked throughout the day, but now I pondered the wisdom of that. I hurried down the hall to my office and locked the door before returning to the repository.

  I went to the private collection first. It called to me like a siren’s song, and like those sailors of lore, I could not resist its enchantment. As in legend, I had a feeling that the secrets these pieces kept were just as deadly. I touched one of the boxes, and then grabbed the ladder to roll it farther down the shelf. After setting the brakes, I climbed to reach the shelves overhead.

  It began so quietly that I thought at first I imagined it. But the soft sound grew, and I froze when I realized it was not in my head. It was a tinny little echo that traveled through the cool air to reach me. I knew the tune, and hearing it here sent a jolt through me.

  I tucked my pencil into my hair and hurried down the ladder so quickly my foot slipped off the last rung. I staggered, a sharp twinge radiating through my ankle, and limped to the end of the row to peer down the corridor between the shelving units.

  “Hello? Is someone there?”

  The tune played faintly in a constant loop, the sound coming from deeper in the archives. I followed the lilting sound, glancing down each row as I passed. By the time I reached the far end of the room, the tune was beginning to hesitate and stutter as the cogs and wheels slowed.

  A scuff of footfall sounded behind me. I whirled around but saw no one. “Who’s there?” I demanded. “Jeff?”

  Alas, my love, you do me wrong. I could hear the lyrics clearly in my head. My breath wheezed in my tightening chest.

  It was coming from the furthest corner, deep into the last accordion shelving unit. The shelf had not been rolled fully open. The space between the wall and the unit was just narrow enough for me to walk through.

  And there on the very last shelf sat my mother’s music box.

  I stared at it, every hair on my arms raised, as Greensleeves faded. The music box went silent. I reached for it, and one last sporadic note twanged through the air. I started violently and picked up the music box in a rush.

  Everything went dark.

  I almost dropped the music box as the lights went out. I clutched it to my chest and stood rigidly. In the distance, at the front of the room, I heard the open and close of the door.

  The darkness was absolute. I could not even see the shelf I knew was less than a foot from my face. The oppressive feeling of being crushed by the darkness all around me began to tighten my chest. The archives room was a yawning black cavern that had swallowed me whole.

  Come out, come out, wherever you are, Evelyn.

  Pain ricocheted through my knees as I hit the floor, and I realized my legs had given out.

  I don’t have much patience for these games of yours any longer.

  A whimper threatened to escape, and I bit my lips until I tasted blood. I stayed hunched and small, knees tucked to my chest, the music box digging into my breastbone, praying he would not find me.

  Don’t make this more painful than it needs to be.

  My heart was galloping away from me, my stomach a hard knot that churned sourly in my belly. My eyes searched the darkness for any sense of movement. I was terrified he could hear my teeth clattering together, the tremor that jostled through me, and I pressed myself into a smaller ball, edging deeper under the desk, pushing aside boxes and—

  The thump of archival boxes falling to the floor yanked me back to the present. A sob as weak as a whisper escaped me.

  I was not hiding under a desk in a basement in Atlanta. I had burrowed into the lowest shelf, pressing myself flat, shoving boxes aside to fit.

  Chad Kilgore was not stalking me in the darkness, whispering taunts that seemed to draw closer and closer. That tormentor was dead, and I had helped bury him in a deep grave no one but the most desperate coyotes might ever find.

  I pressed my forehead against the cold metal shelf beneath me. My face was hot and damp. Chad Kilgore was long gone, but Jeff Roosevelt was a very real and current threat. He would kill me eventually. He would continue to kill innocent women who
se only wrongdoing was stumbling across his path.

  A simple plan is the best. My grandfather’s words echoed in my head.

  I crawled out from where I was curled on the shelf, joints protesting the cramped position as I staggered to my feet. I shuffled in small steps along the wall, putting a hand against the shelves to guide me to the end of the row. The metal was smooth underhand, and I followed it to its end. The gap between the shelves seemed like a chasm. I placed one foot in front of the other, hand out, fumbling for the next anchor in the dark.

  My knuckles cracked against the next set of shelves, and I repeated the process all the way down the line of shelves. The cool air felt rough against my over-sensitized skin. My ears strained to hear anything—anyone—else in the darkness. Every sense was pricked and alert, every nerve in my body vibrated with awareness.

  My progress was slow and painstaking through the room, and each time I ventured between shelves, I felt as if I were stepping into a vast void. I did not realize I had passed the last shelving unit until I had floundered into the emptiness, hand reaching out and searching futilely.

  I froze when I realized I would not find another shelf and struggled to recall the orientation of the space around me. I ventured forward hesitantly, and soon my foot connected with something. The work table, I realized. Hand on the surface to guide me, I moved around the long table. At the corner, I followed the turn of the table, and at the next corner, I paused.

  I strained to see. The tall double doors were somewhere nearby, but the seals on the seams of this climate controlled room meant there was not even a faint glow to delineate the edges of the door. I took a deep breath and stepped away from the table, hand outstretched.

  Within ten steps, my hand connected with the wall. I shuffled to the right, hand sweeping along the smooth surface, and soon I reached the door. When I found the handle, I shoved the door open and stumbled into the hall.

  The overhead lights blinded me, and I closed my eyes and bent double, struggling to draw air into my constricted lungs. I staggered down the hall and shoved into the women’s restroom.

  I set the music box aside and propped my elbows on the edge of the sink, letting the cold water run over my hands and wrists. I met my own gaze in the mirror. My face was pale save for the livid bruise on my cheek. My pupils almost swallowed the color of my irises. A smear of blood stained my lips. I dampened a paper towel and wiped the blood away.

  The likelihood that I could get away with it a second time was slim to none. I did not fool myself into thinking that I could. I had two options: make it look like self-defense or disappear after I had done it. With the doubt already stacked against me with the police, the latter was my safest option.

  But then I thought of the women tied to the objects in the boxes in the repository. I thought of those thousands of American Indian women who had disappeared from their homes and been forgotten by the system. Gone without a trace, their families left without answers. They deserved a name, a face, a testament to what had happened to them. I thought of the woman in the cabin and of Amanda.

  I dampened another paper towel and bathed my neck and chest in the coolness. I would need a gun.

  I stopped in the hallway and drank deeply from the water fountain. When I straightened and wiped the dampness from my lips, I felt more human and less like an animal trapped in a flight response.

  I moved down the hall to Annette’s office. She glanced up when I stopped in her doorway, and her gaze sharpened on my face. “Is everything alright?”

  “Yes.” My voice sounded rough. I cleared my throat. “Yes, I was just wondering if we have any security cameras in the building.”

  “Only on the main floor, and they’re all directed at the displays.”

  I nodded. “Did you happen to see anyone come down the hall recently?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “No, but I only just got back to my office a few minutes ago. Rachel hasn’t shown up for work yet, so I was over in the IT department. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I forced a smile. “I am.”

  My office door was still locked. When I entered, I placed the music box on my desk and stared at it warily. This remnant of my mother had been sitting next to my bedside, playing its haunting tune nightly, from the time I was in a cradle. I knew every line and curve, every scratch and chip, every note. But staring at it now was like staring at something unfamiliar and sinister.

  I left it on my desk and found the flashlight I always had tucked in my purse before grabbing my pepper spray from my coat pocket and heading back to the repository. I hit the series of switches, and the lights staggered on one after the other down the entire room. Flashlight tucked into my pocket, pepper spray in hand, I walked down shelves, checking cautiously along each row.

  The room was empty. Jeff was long gone, his trick played, harmless and menacing all at once. I kept the flashlight and defensive spray close at hand for the rest of the day.

  It was late afternoon when I found it in the bottom of a piece of pottery with a broken lip. I caught my breath when I turned the vessel over and let it slip into my hand. It was half of a lower jaw, a single molar still embedded in the bone. Excitement humming in my veins, I handled it with care and took copious notes about the objects within the box.

  The hours raced by, and I did not realize how late it was until I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was over an hour past the museum’s closing time.

  I packed away what I had been working on and returned it to the shelves, turning out the lights in the repository before I left the room. The hall lights were turned off, and I worried I had been locked inside the building until I saw the light spilling from Annette’s office at the end of the hall.

  I grabbed my coat and bag from my office, locked it behind me, and stopped in Annette’s doorway as I shrugged into my coat. She jumped when she glanced up and spotted me.

  “You scared me. You’re still here as well?” she asked.

  “I lost track of time.” I could not keep the smile off of my face. “I found another bit of bone.”

  Her face lit with excitement. “A second fragment?”

  I nodded. “It’s a piece of a jaw bone. There is a molar still attached. I’ve set everything aside that could be related to it. I think there may be some funerary objects with this one.”

  “I’ll make a note to let the university know we have another bone for their experts to analyze.” She glanced up from writing. “I’ve been incredibly pleased with your work thus far, Evelyn. I’ve discussed it with the board, and next week, I’d like to talk to you a bit about some projects that would keep you on in a permanent position.”

  Bittersweet elation burst through me. This was exactly what I had been hoping for, and I may yet have to abandon it. “I would love that. The collection is incredible, and I would like nothing more than to continue working here in a more permanent capacity.”

  “Good. Why don’t we talk more Monday morning, then?”

  “That sounds great. I’ll come by your office as soon as I get to work.” My steps were slow as I walked through the shadowed museum. The overhead lights were dimmed, and only the display lights remained lit. I knew the front doors would be locked, so I veered to the side entrance for employees.

  The parking lot was dark, the dusk to dawn light buzzing futilely. A sharp wind cut across the pavement and blew ice crystals into my face. I ducked my head, clutched my coat about me, and hurried to my car, fishing my keys from my pocket.

  A prickle of awareness brought my head up as I reached my Civic. A shadow moved in the reflection of the car window, and there was a rush of movement behind me. I scrambled for my canister of pepper spray, but he was on me before I could whirl around. His body slammed into mine and a grunt wafted across my ear when my elbow collided with his midsection. I heard the defensive spray clatter to the pavement and roll away.

  I fought wildly, reaching back over my head to try to claw at his face, but he el
uded my fingers. My frantic struggles knocked us off balance, though, and we careened into the side of my car. The sharp scream that erupted from me sounded no louder than a whisper. It cut off as his arms wrapped so tightly around me that I thought my ribcage would crack. I gave up trying to reach his face and clawed at his arms. His grip was unbreakable, though, and my ragged breath sounded like a sob.

  When he began to drag me backward, away from my car, away from the sputtering light near the side entrance of the museum, I scrabbled to gain purchase on the ground, trying to dig my heels into the slick surface of the parking lot. His breathing was rough and hot against the side of my head.

  The crushing pressure around my midsection eased suddenly, and I screamed, high and desperate and piercing. I lurched forward, trying to take advantage of his relinquished grip, but his arm whipped around my throat. His fist clipped my chin, and he yanked me back against his chest.

  His arm tightened around my throat, cutting off my scream. I fought against the compression of my windpipe and struggled to drag air into my lungs. I felt myself grow heavy and limp, and the edges of my vision began to darken.

  “Evelyn?” I heard a voice call. Annette.

  I tried to make a sound, felt my throat move against the arm that bound it, and then everything went black.

  Twenty-Seven

  The largest rose bush spreads over an arbor

  that covers over 9,000 square feet.

  HECTOR

  My cell phone rang as I parked in the driveway of Rachel Vickers’s house.

  “I think the odds of your girl being involved in her stalker’s disappearance are high,” William Silva said as soon as I answered.

  “What have you found?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Chad Kilgore got in his vehicle one day, drove away, and never came home. No activity on his credit cards, no posts on social media. His car was never found. The man vanished.”