by Rita Herron
“If he did, the flood and tornado erased the physical evidence.” Ian paused. “The unsub probably takes the girls someplace secluded to kill them so no one can hear them scream for help. Let’s find that kill spot. Start at the boneyard and fan out from there.”
Deputy Whitehorse accepted the coffee Cocoa handed him. “No sweat. I’ll organize a team.”
Ian thanked him and then yanked out several bills to pay, but Cocoa waved him off. “No bill for the law enforcement officers.”
Ian mentally noted the repairs needed and tossed cash on the bar. “You’ve been generous with your time and restaurant. Take it to help with the cause.”
She gave him a smile of thanks and slipped the cash into the donation jar. “There are some families in need. I’ll use it for them.”
Ian’s chest swelled with unaccustomed emotions. His own mother had shoved him away after his father’s arrest, yet this kindhearted woman would give the shirt off her back to help a stranger.
Sara Levinson—the mother of a teen killed decades ago in the Thorn Ripper case—approached him, two other women with her. “Sheriff, what in God’s name is going on? Have you found out who buried those girls at Hemlock Holler?”
“Will our town ever be safe?” another woman asked.
“We’ve brought in a task force to investigate,” Ian said. “We’ll find out who did this.”
A white-haired lady wielding a big purse walked up. Good God. It was the former mayor’s wife, Jeanette.
“How many have to die before you do?” she asked in a brittle tone.
He didn’t know how to answer that. Not when he didn’t have a damn clue about who they were looking for.
“So far none of the victims have been from Graveyard Falls,” Ian said. “That should give you some comfort.”
The women fidgeted as if his observation didn’t ease their nerves at all.
Cocoa’s fourteen-year-old granddaughter, Vanessa, loped in, her cell phone tucked to her ear as she grabbed a doughnut from the display on the counter. Vanessa was in the same age range as the victims. So were those other teenage girls drinking malts.
An uneasy feeling splintered Ian. Just because none of the victims were from Graveyard Falls didn’t mean that the killer wasn’t here now, hunting for his next victim among the locals.
It took Beth no time to settle into the cabin. She’d traveled light, bringing only the essentials with her.
Not that she had any froufrou in her life. Easier to pick up and go.
It wasn’t safe to stay in any one place for too long anyway. The faceless monster from her nightmares might find her.
Moving didn’t bother her. She’d never had a real home. Staying meant attachments. Attachments were something she didn’t allow herself.
Although she did keep a wall in her home office featuring the missing children who haunted her.
The not knowing nagged at her, but her grief for them was nothing compared to their families’ suffering.
She understood that agony—Sunny was the only family she’d ever known.
Beth spread her own case file across the desk in the cabin. She’d read it a thousand times. She’d read it another thousand times if she had to.
She started with the police report. A uniformed officer had responded to a call from a truck driver who ran long hauls from Atlanta to Tennessee delivering food products.
The trucker’s name was Vinny Barlow.
She jotted down his name and phone number.
All these years, she’d never spoken to him or visited the place where he’d found her. She’d been too afraid.
It was time to push past the fear.
Barlow could have retired since then, moved states—the number could be disconnected But she had resources. She’d find him and talk to him herself.
Meanwhile, she read his account:
I was making my run but got sleepy, so I pulled over to a rest stop at the East Ridge exit off I-75. There were a few cars parked in the lot at the other end. Another trucker was asleep in his cab.
When I came out of the john, I heard this noise, thought it was a dog or a cat that someone had dumped. But I walked around the side of the building and saw this bundle against the wall by the snack machine. I went to check it out, and the bundle moved.
It about freaked me out. But I stooped down and checked. It was a girl wrapped in a blanket.
She was delirious, moaning and rubbing at her wrist. She had rope burns on her arms and legs and blood on her clothes, but I didn’t see where it was coming from.
I was all shook up. A man and his boy were coming out of the men’s room, and I yelled at them to call 911.
The recording of the 911 call had confirmed his story.
She honed in on his description of her—she’d been rubbing her wrist and had rope burns, but her wrists hadn’t been cut.
The truth dawned on her.
The blood had belonged to Sunny.
An image flashed behind her eyes.
Blood dripping from Sunny’s arms . . .
She tried to reach out to stop it, but she was tied down. The blood kept coming, gushing like a river . . .
She screamed. She had to get loose. Had to save Sunny . . .
A cold sweat broke out all over Beth. She’d been rubbing her wrist because she was trying to tell them that he’d cut Sunny’s arms, that they had to hurry to save her.
She flipped to the lawyer’s notes on Kelly Cousins, the girl Coach Gleason had been accused of misconduct with. Her wrists had been cut as well.
Had she committed suicide, or had she been one of this unsub’s victims?
She closed her eyes, struggling to recall more details of that fatal night with Sunny. She could see Sunny’s terrified eyes, see the blood trickling down her arm.
Why couldn’t she see the man’s face?
Ian had barely talked to his mother the last ten years, not since the day she’d married Bernie. She’d met him at the Holy Waters. A church Ian thought was more of a cult than a place of true worship.
Bernie had brainwashed her into following his fundamentalist beliefs. Fire and brimstone, talking in tongues, snake handling, every sinner was going to hell.
Except for the church parishioners, Bernie kept her isolated. Easier to keep her under his thumb if no one else was around to sway her mind or encourage her to think for herself.
Ian tossed the container from his meal, picked up the office phone, and called his mother. If she hadn’t seen the news about Hemlock Holler, Ian wanted to talk to her about it.
The phone rang three times. “Woods residence.”
Dammit, Bernie never let her answer. “Bernie, this is Ian. Let me speak to my mother.”
A second passed, then Bernie heaved a weary breath. “No, Ian. I don’t want her upset.”
“I have news she needs to know about,” Ian said, determined not to give up. “We found several bodies near Graveyard Falls. We believe the same man who abducted Jane Jones and Sunny Smith killed Sunny, then killed more than a dozen others,” Ian said. “I think I can finally prove Dad’s innocence.”
“Talking to her about that is only going to agitate her,” Bernie said, his voice rising.
Every muscle in Ian’s body knotted. “Has my father contacted her since that prison flood?”
“No, and if he did, I’d call the police. Now leave us alone.”
The phone clicked silent.
Ian cursed. How dare that asswipe deny him a conversation with his mother as if Ian was a criminal himself.
In spite of the way she’d abandoned him, he loved her. Proving his father’s innocence would comfort her.
Not that it would bring them back together again. His family had been destroyed the moment those allegations had been made.
His phone buzzed. Damn.
He grabbed it, hoping to hear his mother’s voice, but it was another female.
“Ian, it’s Beth.”
“Yeah?”
“I wan
t to talk to the trucker who found me, and the sheriff who handled the case in Sweetwater.”
Headler was sheriff of Sweetwater fifteen years ago when Beth had been abducted. At that time Sweetwater and Graveyard Falls had been in separate counties, but five years ago the lines had been redrawn. Now they fell under the same county, making Sweetwater also Ian’s territory.
“Ian?”
“Yes, I’ll make the call.”
“We should interview Kelly Cousins’s parents, too. Now that we know these victims’ wrists were cut, we have to consider the fact that Kelly might not have taken her own life.”
“But she wasn’t buried in the holler or wearing a white dress,” Ian said.
“No, but she was holding a white candle and a cross.”
Prissy slowly opened her eyes, but it was so dark she couldn’t make out where she was.
What had happened to her? Her mind felt fuzzy. Her head hurt. And her stomach . . . She rolled to her side and heaved onto the ground.
The world spun. She tasted dirt and bile. A shudder ripped through her.
A faint memory nagged at her. She’d climbed into a truck.
Someone had drugged her? Or . . . put something over her face?
God, the past few hours were a blur. She’d been at school, excited over being with Blaine . . .
But he was kissing Sari and everyone was making fun of her, chanting, “Pissy Prissy, Pissy Prissy.”
She’d been so embarrassed. She’d run . . .
She tried to wipe her tears with her hands, but they were tied behind her back. Her feet were bound, too. And her glasses were missing. She felt exposed without the familiar weight of them on her nose.
Fear clawed at her. Where was she? In some abandoned building? An underground basement? A cave?
How had she gotten here?
The sound of water dripping came from a distant corner. Rain?
Cold air swirled around her. The scent of something rancid. A dead animal?
Music wafted from somewhere nearby. An iPod? A phone? No . . . a man’s voice. He was singing, soft, low, some kind of religious hymn about the blood of Jesus.
A door opened, letting in the faintest sliver of light. She couldn’t see his face. He was tall, though. And he wore some kind of cloak.
“Please help me,” she cried. “I’m afraid of the dark.”
He stooped to light a candle by the door, then lifted it in one hand. The flames flickered, but his face remained in the shadows. “Don’t worry, I’m here.”
Only his voice sounded menacing, not reassuring.
And the shiny glint of a knife flickered against the darkness.
CHAPTER NINE
While Beth waited for Ian, she phoned Peyton. “Can you send me a projected picture of what the most recent victim looked like before decomp set in?”
“The forensic artist is working on it,” Peyton said. “Dr. Wheeland thinks her body might have been kept in a freezer, which would have slowed down decomp and messes with time of death.”
Hmm. So wherever he kept the girls, he had access to a freezer. It could be a house or someplace with a basement. She shivered at her next thought—possibly a grocery store or an ice cream factory or a meat-packing plant. Hell, even a morgue.
“We did identify two more victims,” Peyton continued. “They were from different parts of the state, thirteen and fourteen years old. Dr. Wheeland estimates time of death to be at least fifteen years ago. Agents Hamrick and Coulter are following up with these families.”
Beth accessed NCMEC’s database and started scrolling through the pictures.
A second passed. “Director Vance wants you to focus on finding out what that sheriff knows.”
“He thinks Ian is holding back?”
“Maybe. If he’s seen or talked to Coach Gleason, we need to know.”
“Right.” Although she didn’t like being used as a spy, it came with the job. But Ian didn’t know any more than he’d told them. Did he?
A knock sounded at the door, and she startled. God, she was a wreck.
She kept her phone to her ear and went to peek out the window. Ian. Relief flooded her. “Okay, but don’t forget to send me that artist’s sketch.”
“ASAP.”
Beth ended the call and answered the door.
“You want to visit Sheriff Headler?”
“Absolutely. And the truck driver who found me.” He could have been her abductor.
The sound of the wind beating the trees filled the silence as they went to his SUV, and Ian drove to the Headler house. Beth relayed the news that Dr. Wheeland had identified two more victims. “He’s working on determining who the latest victim is. I want to talk to the family.”
“So do I,” Ian said. “If you and Director Vance allow it.”
Beth made a low sound in her throat. “Ian, I’m not trying to exclude you.”
Ian focused on the road as if he was fighting anger but said nothing until they reached the house.
“Do you remember talking to Sheriff Headler?” Ian asked Beth as they walked up the stone path to the man’s front door.
Beth shrugged. “Yes, but things are blurry. The sheriff visited me in the hospital, then questioned me after the coach was arrested and I was placed in the group home.”
Ian’s jaw tightened. “That home must have been rough.”
“It was better than Otter’s. It’s not like anyone wanted to take in a troubled kid with amnesia.”
Ian punched the doorbell, his expression grim.
“You talked to Headler, too, didn’t you?” Beth asked.
“Yes. Several times.” Frustration and pain edged his voice.
While she’d been struggling with her own nightmares, Ian’s had begun when the jury sent his father to prison.
She was beginning to think his conviction was a mistake.
The doorbell chimed a second time as Ian punched it again. Tree frogs croaked and crickets chirped, filling the air with the reminder of spring. Rainwater had collected in pools on the ground, the earth soaked from the flooding. A few shingles had been ripped from the roof, and the shed tilted sideways, but otherwise Headler’s property had survived the tornado.
The door opened, and a gray-haired man in a wrinkled plaid shirt and overalls stood frowning at them. “What can I do for you, folks?”
Ian introduced Beth, then himself, his tone abrupt.
“I’m the sheriff of Graveyard Falls,” Ian said. “Ian Kimball.”
“You were Coach Gleason’s kid?”
Ian nodded.
“I heard about all those dead girls you found.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Got a mess on your hands.”
“Yeah, can we talk?”
Headler hesitated, then led them to a screened back porch.
As they took seats, Headler squinted at Beth. “Agent Fields, you . . . remind me of someone.”
“That’s because I’m Jane Jones.” Beth sorted through her foggy memories. Sheriff Headler had been kind to her during the questioning. Had promised to make the man who kidnapped her go to jail.
Then he’d zeroed in on the coach.
Seeing Headler now had to trigger bad memories for Ian.
The wrinkles around Headler’s mouth crinkled. “You’ve changed, grown up.”
“It’s been fifteen years,” Beth said, steeling herself against his scrutiny. “I work with the FBI and with NCMEC.”
He gave a wary nod. “Good for you.”
Ian cleared his throat. “You know the reason we’re here.”
“You think I can help with that graveyard of bones?”
“Can you?” Ian asked.
“I don’t see how.” Headler folded his work-roughened hands on his belly. “I had no idea corpses were being dumped there. Remember, we were different counties back then.”
“Then perhaps you can fill in some blanks for me,” Beth said. “What made you so certain Coach Gleason was guilty?”
Headler pulled a pack of
chewing tobacco from his pocket, pinched off a bite, and stuffed it in his jaw. “You did. You kept screaming his name like he was the devil incarnate.”
Beth clenched her hands, willing more details to resurface.
“You had no physical evidence, no forensics, no eye witness,” Ian pointed out.
“We had that truck and Gleason’s print.” Headler shifted the tobacco in his mouth. “He had no alibi. And all the kids at school were saying he took advantage of Kelly Cousins.”
Beth had read the report. Coach Gleason had claimed he and his wife had argued the night of her abduction, and he’d gone for a drive. Alone.
That hadn’t helped his case.
Ian clenched his hands. “Sunny Smith was in that river of bones we discovered in the holler.”
Headler spit tobacco juice into an empty tin can. “Yeah, I read about that in the paper. I also know your daddy escaped that prison flood. If you’re harboring a fugitive, Kimball, you can go to jail.”
“I’m not hiding anyone,” Ian said brusquely. “But you should have explored other leads.”
“I had no other leads.” Headler’s face reddened with anger.
Beth had expected tension, but it was escalating fast. She started to speak—she had to defuse the situation. But a faint memory flashed back. One from her nightmares.
He shoved her and Sunny into the cold room of the cavern. She tried to fight, but he’d tied her arms behind her back. Sunny whimpered, heaving for a breath. She was tied, too.
He aimed his flashlight toward the far wall. Another girl was there. Tied to metal posts.
Then he forced JJ to her knees . . . She cried out for help. Then she saw blood dripping down the girl’s arm.
She looked up at the man; maybe she could strike a bargain.
“Kill me instead of Sunny,” she whispered.
His laugh boomed off the cavern walls, cold and evil.
He was going to kill them both.
Ian swallowed hard as the color drained from Beth’s face. “Beth?” He reached for her, but she tensed as if she were erecting walls.
“Tell us more, Sheriff Headler,” she said in a shaky voice.
The man was watching both him and Beth with snake eyes.
The quicker Ian got what he’d come for, the sooner they could leave.
