The Forgotten Girls

by Owen Laukkanen

  The FBI had sent a woman to negotiate with him. She’d sounded so smooth, calm, unflappable at first. But he’d showed her. He’d thrown her off balance, he’d beaten her, he’d won.

  “That bitch,” he told the Fontaine women. “That stupid, stupid cow. Thought she could get one over on me? I don’t think so.”

  Neither Shae nor Mona responded. That was fine. He couldn’t care less about either one of them, not now.

  “Stupid cow,” he said again. “Stupid, stupid, stupid cow.” He could see her through the scope of his rifle, walking clueless through the forest. He was almost glad he hadn’t pulled the trigger; this was far more rewarding.

  Pity it couldn’t last.

  Hurley checked his watch. Ten minutes had passed, and no word from the FBI agent yet. Twenty minutes until he could kill and be justified doing it.

  Hurley decided he didn’t want to wait that long to lord his victory over the FBI cow. He walked out of the master bedroom and to the phone again.

  109

  Thirty minutes,” Windermere said. “Twenty, now. And then he kills one of the women.”

  Behind Cronquist’s Crown Vic, Stevens and Windermere huddled with the Mountie. Tried to work out a strategy.

  “The HRT guys hit a snag getting up here,” Stevens reported. “Last night’s snow is slowing everyone down. They’re still forty minutes out, minimum.”

  “And my guys are the same,” Cronquist added. “I have plenty of corporals, pistols, and shotguns, but you want the big boys, we have to wait.”

  “We don’t have time to wait,” Windermere told them. “We’re not letting those women die in there because we had to wait for a tactical team. We need to do something.”

  She peered over the hood of the cruiser, looked across the yard at the house. “I need a plan of the house,” she told Stevens and Cronquist. “We need to know where this guy is, where the women are.”

  “Might take more than twenty minutes to get those plans,” Cronquist said.

  “Not acceptable. Get the other Fontaine girl down here to draw me a map with her crayons, if you have to. Just get me some kind of intelligence, okay?”

  Cronquist pulled out her phone. Ducked away. Made a call.

  Stevens met Windermere’s eyes. “You thinking of storming this place, partner?” he asked.

  “We’re good at the cowboy stuff, aren’t we?” she replied. “But no. He sees us coming, he pulls the pin on this thing. And we fly home with three more bodies on our hands.”

  “So what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I want to know what it looks like in there,” Windermere said. “And then—”

  She stopped. Her phone had started to ring in her pocket. She checked the screen, cocked her head at Stevens.

  “This is Hurley,” she said. “He’s twenty minutes early.”

  —

  Did you miss me?”

  Leland Hurley sounded like every asshole Carla Windermere had ever fended off in some shitty bar, some house party, the break room at work. Smug, self-satisfied, convinced of his own unimpeachable awesomeness, looking for romance and willing to steamroll any obstacle to get it. Windermere rolled her eyes.

  “Sure, Leland,” she told him. “I missed you. You were so charming the last time we spoke.”

  “You don’t have to patronize me. I know what you’re doing. I know why they sent you to talk to me.”

  “Why? What is it you think I’m doing?”

  Hurley scoffed. “Please. Why else would they make me negotiate with a beautiful woman? You’re here to do the only thing you bitches do well: manipulate a man into doing what you want.”

  “You called me, Leland. I’m not trying to manipulate anyone. I’m trying to figure out a way to end this thing peacefully.”

  Hurley was quiet, but Windermere could hear him breathing. “You must have been pretty your whole life,” he said. “How was that for you? Did you enjoy the power?”

  “You want the truth?” Windermere replied. “I was the ugly duckling in high school. Wasn’t until college that I came into my own.”

  “And did you break hearts in college, Agent . . .”

  “Windermere,” Windermere told him. “And I never broke a heart that didn’t have it coming.”

  “Says you.” Hurley’s voice had an edge to it all of a sudden. “What gives you the right to decide who gets to be loved?”

  Windermere would have laughed Hurley off the phone if the stakes weren’t so high. “I mean, I wasn’t trying to decide all that. But as far as who gets to be loved by me? Sure, I was picky. I think I deserve to be.”

  “You think you deserve it. What about us? Don’t men deserve to be happy?”

  “All due respect,” Windermere said, “but if you’re trying to tell me it’s on me to make you happy, you’re crazier than I thought, pal.”

  Beside her, Stevens’s eyes goggled.

  Hurley went quiet a beat. Breathing harder now. “You’re a stupid cow, just like the others. They all thought they were smart, but I showed them, didn’t I?”

  “Leland,” Windermere said. “I’m just trying to get us out of this jam we’re in, know what I mean? I’m not trying to keep you from finding true love, or whatever.”

  “You won’t beat me,” Hurley said. “You can try, but you’ll see, like they all did.”

  “We don’t have to—”

  “Fifteen minutes,” Hurley said. “Then I kill someone.”

  Click.

  110

  Cronquist had Sadie Fontaine waiting in a Dodge Durango a hundred yards from the farmhouse.

  “We’re keeping her close at hand,” Cronquist told Stevens and Windermere as she led them to the truck. “Not, you know, close close, but we kind of ran out of guys to keep an eye on her, so . . .”

  Someone had found an oversized Calgary Flames sweatshirt for Sadie. It draped over her thin body like a dress, but she looked warmer than she had the first time Stevens had seen her. Still looked scared, though; terrified. Her hands trembled as she drew out a map of her house for the agents.

  “Upstairs,” Sadie told them. “The man followed Shae into my mom and dad’s room. That’s when he shot the door open.”

  “Your mom and dad’s room.” Stevens studied the girl’s map. “The far left side of the house, then?”

  Sadie gave him a blank look. “It’s down the end of the hall,” she explained. “Past my bedroom and Shae’s.”

  From what Stevens could tell, that meant Leland Hurley hadn’t moved. He’d brought the women to a window in the parents’ bedroom. He’d fired from that room. He’d encamped there, Stevens figured, and he’d kept the girls with him.

  “What about the phone?” Windermere asked. “He said the cord wasn’t long enough to lead into the bedroom.”

  Sadie pointed to a spot in the hallway. “It’s between my room and Shae’s.”

  “Any windows?”

  Sadie shook her head.

  “What about downstairs? What’s it look like?”

  Sadie hesitated. “My dad’s down there,” she said. Her lower lip trembled. “In the pantry, I think. There was a lot of blood.”

  “Okay.” Windermere reached out, touched the girl’s hand. “Forget about downstairs, honey. We can figure it out.”

  “Is there anything else?” Stevens asked. Time was wasting, Hurley’s deadline fast approaching. If Sadie Fontaine had any more information, they needed it now. “Any other way into the house?”

  Sadie thought it over. Then she brightened. “The attic,” she said. “Mom and Dad never let us go up there, but we sneak up sometimes. Shae boosts me up and then she climbs up on a stool.”

  Stevens felt a jolt of something, some potential. This was something they could use. “Any windows up there?”

  “Yeah,” Sadie said. “It
opens, too. You can get onto the roof over the garage from there, but we never do that. Only Dad.”

  Stevens and Windermere exchanged looks. This was gold.

  “And where do you get into the attic?” Windermere asked. “Is there a hatch somewhere?”

  Sadie pointed to her map, the upstairs hallway. “It’s right here,” she said. “It’s right in front of Shae’s room.”

  111

  There’s gotta be a way,” Windermere said as she and Stevens walked back to Cronquist’s cruiser. “No way Hurley knows about that attic. He’s not prepared for any incursion through there.”

  Stevens held Sadie Fontaine’s map in his hands. He’d scrutinized the thing, looking for a way to cheat Hurley. Couldn’t figure one.

  “Shae’s bedroom is at the top of the stairs,” he told Windermere. “That puts Hurley between the attic and the parents’ bedroom. We come in through the attic, there’s no preventing him from barricading himself in Mom and Dad’s room and putting Shae and Mona in jeopardy.”

  Windermere took the map from him. Knew they were living on the razor’s edge now, ten minutes and counting to Hurley’s deadline, neither tactical team close enough to beat the clock.

  “We need to get him away from the phone somehow,” she said. “We need to get him downstairs.”

  “Sure,” Stevens said. “But how do you propose we do that?”

  Windermere had already considered the question. And she had an answer, a bad one. But she was thinking it was about all they had.

  “You’re not going to like this,” she told Stevens. “But listen up.”

  112

  The phone rang again. Hurley left Mona and Shae in the master bedroom. Went out into the hall and picked up the handset.

  “Five minutes,” he said. “Do you have something for me, Agent Windermere?”

  “I don’t have a way out for you yet,” Windermere replied. “This over-the-phone thing, it’s not working for me. I’ve always been more of a face-to-face girl.”

  Hurley told himself to end the call. Hang up on her, now. This is one of her tricks. But he didn’t hang up. Realized he was listening, waiting on the agent’s next words.

  “I’m coming in there,” Windermere continued. “I’m not bringing my gun. We’re going to talk this over like human beings and see if we can’t come to some kind of arrangement, understand?”

  “No,” Hurley said. “You come anywhere near this house, I’ll kill those bitches, I swear. I’ll—”

  “Those girls die, you die, Leland. And there are plenty of women with badges out here who’d love to be the one to pull the trigger.” She gave it a beat. “I’m coming in the front door, buddy. Don’t shoot anyone.”

  Hurley ran his hands through his hair. Glanced back at the master bedroom, saw no signs of movement. Picked at his fingernails, a nervous tic. Couldn’t help it. This was bad. This was a very bad idea.

  “You can’t do this,” he said, his voice rough. “This is my show, understand? I make the rules.”

  He waited for Windermere to respond, but she didn’t. After a moment, Hurley realized she’d hung up on him.

  —

  This dude has a hard-on for me, Stevens,” Windermere told her partner. “Forgive the language, but it’s true. He called me up just to brag that he’d beat me. And he couldn’t stand when I stood up to his ass.”

  “So he’s pissed off at you,” Stevens replied. “He’s a maniac who hates women and has special feelings for you. And you’re just going to walk right in there and give yourself up?”

  “I’m going to distract him. And then you and these Mounties are going to save the day. Hell, bring the tactical guys if they ever show up.”

  Stevens shook his head. “I don’t like it, Carla.”

  “You don’t have to like it, partner. I know what I’m doing.” She winked at him. “You think this asshole is going to be the one who does me in? Some poor wilted flower who didn’t get enough love as a child?” She took her Glock from its holster, held it out to him. “I’m going to eat this guy’s lunch, Stevens. You just make sure you take care of those women.”

  Stevens didn’t answer, searching for a way to change Windermere’s mind. They’d done this before, a long time ago, and it had almost gotten both of them killed. But he’d been partnered with Windermere long enough to know there was no talking her out of it—heck, the fact that they’d done it before probably spurred her on.

  He took the Glock. “Mathers is going to kick my ass when he finds out about this,” he said. “Just you watch.”

  “If he lays a hand on you, you tell me. Then I’ll kick his ass.”

  Sure, Stevens thought, watching Windermere strap on a Kevlar vest. But what if you don’t make it home to hear about it?

  113

  Hurley paced.

  She’s trying to use you, he thought. She’s going to use her guile to try to trick you, and the second you let your guard down, all those Mounties out there are going to come rushing in here and end this thing.

  You need to take back control. Kill one of those cows in the bedroom. Show that woman out there you’re in charge.

  Hurley knew the smart play was to assert himself, fast, protect his stronghold and prove to the cops outside he was for real. Knew the smart play was to prevent Windermere from entering the house at all costs. But the FBI agent’s words had set an itch in Hurley’s mind, and he couldn’t resist the urge to scratch it.

  Win or lose, you can punish this bitch. If she’s offering herself up to you, brother, you should damn well take advantage. What better way to prove you’re superior than to face down this dumb beast head-on?

  Hurley walked back to the master bedroom. “Got another one of your kind coming over,” he told the Fontaine women. “I know she’s thinking about trying something foolish, but you’d better hope she behaves. Otherwise . . .”

  He drew his finger across his throat. The Fontaines stared back. They were through begging. Through crying. They just looked exhausted.

  So be it. They’ll be crying again soon enough.

  —

  Windermere had done many dumb things in her life. This was probably the dumbest.

  She double-checked her Kevlar. Gave Stevens a smile—cocky, like, Giddyap, partner. Then she stepped out from behind Lynn Cronquist’s Crown Victoria and started down the Fontaines’ driveway toward the house.

  She could feel eyes on her, every Mountie standing guard along the property line, Stevens and Cronquist behind her. The other officers had been briefed; there’d been more than a few words of protest. But Windermere didn’t have time to debate. Something had to be done to keep Hurley from hurting those women.

  He was watching her, too; she was sure of it. Might even have her lined up with that rifle of his. He could blast her head off right now, she knew, and that would be the end of the Carla Windermere story. But Windermere was reasonably certain he wouldn’t. Say, eighty percent certain.

  Seventy-five.

  Windermere was banking on the fact that Leland Hurley would want a better chance at proving his superiority. He’d want her to look in his eyes as he hurt her. So she walked up the long driveway, the world quiet around her, tense, everyone waiting for Hurley’s rifle to crack.

  But Hurley didn’t shoot her. Windermere made the side of the farmhouse, stepped up onto the porch, paused in front of the door, calmed her heart, and dried her hands on her pants. She was scared, though she would never have admitted it. But she wanted to meet this bastard about as bad as he wanted to meet her, she suspected.

  She took a deep breath. Then she knocked on the door.

  —

  Hurley unlocked the front door. Pulled it open a couple inches. Then, quickly, he stepped back, raised the dead deputy’s pistol, and aimed it at the doorway as the FBI agent pushed the door wide open.

  “Get in he
re,” he told her. “Fast. Close the door behind you.”

  The agent obeyed him. She was attractive, even more so now than in the forest, where her coat had been drawn tight and her hood pulled up, concealing everything but her face. Now, up close, Hurley could see she really was beautiful.

  Probably had the whole world given to her, he thought, grabbing her roughly and pushing her against the wall. The agent let him frisk her, didn’t tense or fight as he patted her down with his free hand, his gun hand pressing the pistol up against the underside of her jaw. She was as good as her word; she hadn’t come armed. But that only made Hurley more suspicious.

  What kind of crazy bitch throws herself into a situation like this without protection?

  A crazy bitch who thinks she can talk her way out.

  Satisfied that she wasn’t carrying any weapons, Hurley stepped back. Kept the pistol leveled at the back of her head.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” he said.

  “Kill me?” The agent turned around slowly, smoothly. Calm and unflappable, no trace of fear in her eyes. “Leland, honey,” she said. “You’ve only just met me.”

  114

  Stevens ducked back to the highway. Circled around behind the bushes that lined the southern bound of the Fontaines’ property and hurried through the snow toward the rear of the farmhouse, hoping Hurley was too caught up in Windermere to be paying attention.

  Stevens didn’t like this idea at all, was already trying to figure out how he was going to tell Derek Mathers and Drew Harris how he’d let Carla walk into Hurley’s hands more or less unopposed. Knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could have done short of handcuffing her to keep her from doing it, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

  He made the end of the row of bushes. Found more Mounties back here, snowmobiles, a couple trucks. The helicopter overhead. There was a kind of courtyard back here, the garage jutting out from the rear of the house, the barn just beyond it. Stevens could see a couple of RCMP corporals waiting behind the garage, out of sight of the house. They’d been briefed on the radio that he was coming, but nobody had yet told them why.