by Rita Herron
The truth hit her like an ice bath. When she’d first joined the FBI, she’d been upfront about her past. Vance had assured her that her identity was safe. That he would alter records to keep her former name from leaking to coworkers.
“You found Coach Gleason? He’s alive?”
“No.” Tension vibrated over the line. “It’s Sunny,” he said in a low voice. “They found her.”
Beth instinctively stroked the penny she’d made into a necklace because it reminded her of Sunny’s lucky pennies. She never took it off.
“Beth?”
She steeled herself. “I’m here.”
She didn’t have to wait for him to tell her the news. She knew it in her heart.
Sunny was dead.
CHAPTER THREE
Beth dropped onto a park bench, leaned over, elbows on knees, and inhaled a deep breath.
“Beth?”
“I’m here,” she managed to say. “You’re sure it’s Sunny?”
“The ME identified her body based on dental records, and the forensic anthropologist confirmed after examining the bones and comparing them to her medical records.”
Beth took a moment to absorb that information. “Where was she found?”
“That’s the interesting part. Graveyard Falls.”
“Graveyard Falls? The town where all those serial killers were exposed?” Jesus. The town was close to the prison where Coach Gleason had been incarcerated. During the recent murders in town, she’d expected his name to pop up as a suspect.
But the deaths had indicated psychopathic behavior, which didn’t fit Coach Gleason’s profile.
“That’s it. Apparently Sunny was buried in an area they call Hemlock Holler. The tornado that ripped through last week led to flooding and uprooted the grave. Search and rescue spotted the bones from the air.”
Beth massaged her temple, desperate to make the pieces fit. How had Sunny gotten to Graveyard Falls? It was at least an hour from the rest stop where Beth had been found unconscious. That rest stop had also been a good forty-five miles from Sweetwater.
Of course, the killer could be moving around. Hell, he could have driven out of his way to leave Sunny in Graveyard Falls in order to throw police off his scent.
Around her the street grew crowded. More joggers and locals headed to work. Someone laughed. The sun had the nerve to break through the dark clouds.
How could the sun shine and people laugh when her world was falling apart?
Instead of sensing her distress, people flitted by as if nothing was wrong.
Everything was wrong. She’d always suspected Sunny hadn’t survived, although in the back of her mind she had held on to hope that she’d escaped.
But Sunny was dead.
It was Beth’s fault.
Vance cleared his throat. “There’s something else.”
The somber note to his voice reminded her that her boss was on the phone. He’d understood her need for answers but made sure she walked a tight line on the job. Fearing Coach Gleason would look for her, he’d alerted her and local police after the prison flood.
He called her name again. “Are you there?”
For fifteen years she’d wondered what had happened to Sunny, had imagined horrific torture and rape. “Yes.”
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
She’d been asked that a thousand times during Coach’s trial. No, she hadn’t been okay, but she’d put on such a solemn face that some reporters had painted her as callous.
Vance had worked with her on enough cases that he saw through her tough façade and understood.
She swallowed back her emotions. She was a professional. She could handle this. “Yes. You just took me off guard. Tell me everything.”
Vance sighed. “All right. According to the ME, Sunny sustained serious cuts to her wrists. They were so deep they cut to the bone, leading him to believe that she bled out.” He heaved a breath. “There’s more, Beth. Sunny wasn’t alone.”
Beth’s chest clenched. “What do you mean, she wasn’t alone?” The quivering voice of the other girl in the truck that night echoed in her head. She couldn’t remember her face either but wondered what had happened to her.
“Hers wasn’t the only body they found,” he said in disgust. “There were over a dozen. The ME and forensic anthropologists are trying to piece them together and determine identities.”
Beth’s pulse hammered. “The bodies were all young females?”
“Yes.” He paused. “The local sheriff called us for help, so Agents Coulter and Hamrick went to the scene. It took a couple of days for the crime team to do its work and for them to recover all the bones. They transported the remains to the morgue at Graveyard Falls Hospital for analysis and identification.”
Beth shot to her feet, adrenaline kicking in. “I want on the case.”
A heartbeat passed. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. This case is too personal to you.”
Damn right it was personal. “All the more reason I need to work it.” Beth scanned the area, her skin prickling as more questions assailed her.
The fact that the location of the burial ground was near the prison was too coincidental not to take notice.
She needed to know the dates the girls went missing, an estimated time of death, COD, and if the victims were related.
Beth broke into a sprint, anxious to reach her apartment and get on the road. “Is there a task force in place?”
“Not yet, but we’re organizing one. We’re supposed to meet in Graveyard Falls day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there,” Beth said.
“Beth—”
“Please, I can help. If these victims were all adolescents and killed by the same man, you need someone who specializes in missing and exploited children. You know that’s my area of expertise.” She’d proven herself last year when she’d tracked down a killer who targeted teenage boys for sexual trafficking.
Vance mumbled a sound of frustration. “All right, but I don’t like it. Promise me that if the case gets too difficult, you’ll step away.”
“Of course,” Beth agreed. Although there was no way in hell she’d walk away until she learned the truth about who killed Sunny. In spite of the conviction, the profiling skills she’d learned had made her question Coach Gleason’s guilt.
He hadn’t fit the profile. Gleason was confident, educated, socially adept, and had grown up in a loving, normal home. No signs of abuse. No record of hurting animals, violence, or drug or alcohol abuse.
Her friend deserved justice—Beth owed her that.
And if the unsub was actively abducting girls, she’d track him down and make sure he never hurt another young girl again.
Graveyard Falls
Tension knotted Ian’s shoulders. It had been seven days since they’d found the bodies.
The panic was rising. The phone had been ringing off the hook with terrified locals and false leads.
And that damned reporter Corbin Michaels—the same bastard who’d covered the other serial cases in Graveyard Falls—had pounced on the news of the graveyard of bones and had already dubbed the case the Boneyard Killer.
Some hack who believed the town was cursed had started a damn blog post about weird cities in the Southeast, featuring Graveyard Falls and the legends of ghosts. The blog was gaining followers fast, intensifying the hysteria.
The number for the Holy Waters Church appeared on his caller ID. Ian answered, determined to keep the conversation short. He didn’t like the preacher, Reverend Jim Benton. “Sheriff Kimball.”
“Hello, Sheriff. I’ve organized a prayer vigil at the Holy Waters tonight to honor the victims found in that graveyard.”
Ian reigned in a crude comment. That church reminded him more of a cult than a place of peace. His mother’s husband, Bernard, together with Reverend Benton, had alienated her from Ian.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll pass the word.”
Benton started to say some
thing else, but another call was coming through. “I have to go.” He clicked to take the call. “Sheriff Kimball.”
“This is Executive Assistant Director Vance with the criminal division of the FBI,” the man said curtly. “I’ve organized a task force. We’re meeting at a room at the morgue in half an hour. The ME and forensic anthropologist will fill us in on what they’ve learned so far. I thought you might like to be present.”
Ian could barely contain his agitation. Just as he’d expected, Vance was swooping in to take over.
“Of course I’ll be there. This is my town.”
“All right. I just spoke with the ME, Dr. Wheeland. So far we’ve identified three of the dead: Sunny Smith, Retha Allen, and a third, Hilary Trenton.”
That meant several more to go.
“A specialist in facial reconstruction is re-creating images of what the victims might have looked like,” Vance continued. “The FBI are running those pictures through facial recognition software, focusing on the database for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.”
“What about the most recent victim?”
“No ID yet, but hopefully soon. Special Agent Cal Coulter and Special Agent Dane Hamrick are in charge of questioning the families and friends of the victims to get a picture of what happened.”
So what was his role? He didn’t intend to sit back and twiddle his thumbs.
“I’ll see you at the meeting,” Vance said.
Ian holstered his gun, grabbed his jacket and keys, strode outside, and then drove through town. Traffic was minimal, very few people on the streets. Residents seemed to think if they holed up in their houses, the killer couldn’t touch them.
A few locals had even moved away. They wanted to raise their families in a safer place, one that hadn’t become famous for its serial killers.
The wind swirled dead leaves across the street as Ian parked at the hospital.
The past few days had been hell.
How much bad news and horror could one town suffer?
Dread knotted his gut as he walked down the steps to the morgue and entered. He was reeling from learning that Sunny’s body was among the deceased in Hemlock Holler. When he pictured her in his mind, she was a shy, frail adolescent, just the type his father tried to help.
Ian removed his father’s picture from his wallet and studied it. Coach Gleason was tall and muscular, but he’d had gentle hands, and he’d never laid one on Ian in anger. His father couldn’t have killed Sunny or any of those girls. He’d gone out of his way to supervise after-school functions and ensure the teens’ safety. Twice he’d paid for medical care for families who couldn’t afford their doctor bills.
He’d also been an animal lover. Together they’d volunteered at the rescue shelter. More than once Coach had brought home a sick dog and nursed it back to health.
How could a kind man like that possibly kill a young girl?
He tucked the picture back inside his pocket. Where had he been the last five years? How had he survived? What did he live off of? Did he have a job? If so, it would have to be something under the radar, a job that didn’t require references or a background check.
A job beneath his education and skills.
His father had loved counseling and teaching and coaching. It must have torn him up inside to be deprived of doing that.
The scent of death and cleaning chemicals jerked Ian from his memories. He glanced through the glass window on the door, but Dr. Wheeland, the ME, wasn’t inside, so he walked next door to the room they’d dubbed “the bone room,” where the team had spread the skeletal remains across several tables.
If one or more had died while his father was incarcerated, Ian could clear his name and give his father back his life.
Finding the real killer would also help assuage his guilt over Sunny’s death, and the trauma JJ had suffered, too.
During the trial, she’d been quiet, sullen, had avoided looking at him. He’d stared holes at her, hoping she’d remember something to clear his father.
But she’d barely spoken or shown any emotion.
The trauma nurses said JJ had repeatedly called his father’s name when they’d brought her in. The police assumed she was trying to relay the name of her kidnapper.
Did she know about Sunny?
By 10 o’clock in the morning, Beth arrived at Graveyard Falls Hospital. The task force was meeting at the morgue in the basement.
Nerves clawed at her stomach.
Ever since that phone call, snippets of memories had tapped at her subconscious. Sunny crying and clinging to her hand the night they’d run away. The relentless rain. The smell on that rag—a smell she now knew had been chloroform.
After that, everything went blank.
The driver’s face. Where he’d taken them.
What had happened while she’d been held captive.
She clenched her briefcase with a white-knuckled grip.
Occasionally an image of a hand or shadow floated to her, and she sensed she was on the verge of remembering her attacker’s face. Then she’d reach for the image and fall off a cliff into a vat of darkness.
She inhaled a deep breath, giving her legs time to steady.
Holding her head up high to feign an air of confidence, she stepped into the conference room down the hall from the autopsy room. Chairs surrounded a long table. A whiteboard and screen for displaying photographs and information had been hung on one wall, and a coffee bar had been created in the corner, stocked with coffee, bottled water, and pastries.
Director Vance met her at the door, his expression grim. “I don’t like you being here.”
Beth jutted her chin up. There was no way she’d allow him to dismiss her. “I know, but I need to do this.”
His hard gaze locked with hers for a heartbeat, and she held her breath.
Finally he gave a brief nod. “I’m warning you, Beth, if I see you’re in trouble or taking unnecessary risks, you’re off the case.”
She pasted on her best tough-girl look. “Understood.”
The door opened, and several people filed in—the ME, Dr. Wheeland; Special Agent Cal Coulter; and Special Agent Dane Hamrick. Cal had uncovered the connection between the Thorn Ripper and Bride Killer cases, which led to the arrest of a mother and son. Dane had spearheaded the investigation into the Butcher, who’d carved women’s faces with claw marks.
Doctors and crime techs, two deputies she hadn’t yet met, and a cluster of others she didn’t recognize gathered inside the room.
Peyton, the agency’s best analyst and a computer whiz, gave her a warm smile. Beth had bonded with the thirtysomething slender woman with dark brown hair and glasses over the child trafficking case.
Vance rapped his knuckles on the podium. “Thank you all for coming. I realize you’ve been working diligently since the graveyard was discovered.” He paused. “Grab some coffee or water and have a seat.”
A Native American man with shoulder-length hair tied back with a leather strip approached her, two cups of coffee in hand. “I’m Deputy Whitehorse.”
Beth identified herself and accepted the coffee, grateful for his friendly demeanor. Small-town law enforcement often resented the Feds’ presence. “Thanks for the welcome. I assume the sheriff will be here.”
He nodded just as the door opened. Out of the periphery of her eye, she caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered uniformed man entering the room. Thick, wavy dirty-blond hair, five o’clock shadow, dark Ray-Bans.
Handsome and tough was her first impression.
Brooding and sullen came next. That from his grim expression and tight jaw.
Deputy Whitehorse cleared his throat. “There’s our fearless leader now.”
The sheriff’s boots pounded as he strode to the coffee station and poured himself a cup. He didn’t look happy, but he accepted Vance’s proffered hand.
Something about the man rattled Beth’s nerves. He looked rough around the edges, not at all welcoming. A hat pulled
low on his head shielded his face, and those dark glasses hid his eyes.
Vance called the meeting to order and introduced himself. “I’m Executive Assistant Director Vance from the bureau, but for ease you can just call me Director Vance. Thanks to your hard work, we have identified three victims.” He crooked his thumb toward Beth. “This is Special Agent Beth Fields who works with NCMEC. Her experience with missing children and their families and her profiling skills should be invaluable to the investigation.”
She raised her chin, irritated that the sheriff hadn’t acknowledged her. “I’m honored to be part of this task force.”
Director Vance gestured toward the table where everyone was seated. He quickly introduced everyone and their positions, ending with Sheriff Kimball.
From her research on the town, Sheriff Kimball had proven helpful on the previous cases because he knew the area and the locals, but surely he realized this case was over his head.
Special Agent Cal Coulter began. “We’re investigating two of the victims, Retha Allen and Hilary Trenton. Unfortunately we haven’t found a connection between them.”
“Hopefully the families of the girls can shed some light on their activities prior to the dates they went missing,” Agent Hamrick said. “We were told the FBI has information on the third girl, Sunny Smith.”
Emotions crowded Beth’s throat, but she gave a brief nod.
“We’ll get to that shortly,” Director Vance said.
Dr. Wheeland introduced himself and the two forensic anthropologists, Dr. Emma Wright and Dr. Harris Lee, who specialized in facial reconstruction.
Next came the CSU team led by a tall man named Lieutenant Ward, then two deputies.
She’d met Deputy Whitehorse. The other deputy, Ladd Markum, was handsome in a rugged-cowboy kind of way.
The sheriff pushed to his feet. With one broad hand, he removed his hat, then lifted his head to meet her gaze.
A tremor rippled through Beth.
Dear God, it couldn’t be.
His deep-set dark eyes narrowed on her face. “Sheriff Ian Kimball.”
She barely stifled a gasp.
The man facing her was her high school crush. But his last name hadn’t been Kimball—it was Gleason.
