by Debra Webb
COME FIND ME
DEBRA WEBB
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Debra Webb
Cover Design by Vicki Hinze
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Pink House Press, Madison, Alabama
Second Edition September 2018
I have dedicated more than one book to my family. But this story simply must be dedicated to those wonderful souls. First, to my incredible husband, who drove that giant U-Haul truck 1400 miles, ensuring that we were surrounded by the things we loved while living in Maine. He chopped firewood, kept the fire blazing and shoveled snow every single day. Thank you, honey, I love you so much. You went above and beyond the call of duty. Secondly, I have to thank my daughter, Melissa, for agreeing to leave all her friends behind and move to the middle of nowhere with dear old Mom. I, of course, also appreciate the cooperation of my three dogs. They too made this long journey and survived the winter in Maine. Lastly, I must express my sincerest appreciation to my older daughter, Erica, and her beloved, Ashley, for holding down the fort until we returned to Alabama. I love all of you and appreciate all that you do.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The coast of Maine is hauntingly beautiful. My family and I had the pleasure of spending five months in the dead of winter near Camden while I pounded the keys to bring this story to life. We lived in a century-old farmhouse surrounded by glorious mountains and the icy waters of lakes as well as the magnificent ocean. While we were there we learned many things about the folks who populate the proud state of Maine. Hardworking, enduring...but most of all caring about others as well as about this planet. The atmosphere was steeped in tradition and history. Exploring homes dating back to the early 1700s was utterly fascinating. More than once I found myself looking over my shoulder and double checking what I thought I saw from the corner of my eye. The cemeteries are amazing and if one is going to believe in ghosts, this is the place to believe. The very air vibrates with the centuries of living and dying. And the snow! Having grown up in the South, I could never have fathomed just how much there would be. All I can say is thank God for a husband handy with a snow shovel and good old four-wheel drive. But the simpler, slow-paced way of life in Maine made me feel right at home. A roaring fire kept the cold at bay while the old wood floors of the house creaked and groaned the same way those in my grandmother’s house did.
The village of Youngstown in Come Find Me is somewhat of a collage of the lovely villages we frequented: Camden, Rockport, and Rockland. I borrowed many of the street names and the Chapel of the Innocents, as well as the enthralling cemeteries. Every day brought new inspiration and the fire to get the story on the page. The characters are purely fictional products of my twisted mind.
Thanks to Reny’s, Scott’s Place, Cappy’s Chowder House and Hannaford’s for providing us with all the essentials of daily life. A very special thanks to Rite Aid Pharmacy for taking care of us so far from home. My daughter had the misfortune of becoming very ill during our time in Maine, and we didn’t have a clue which doctors were taking patients or where to go. Since we patronize Rite Aid here at home, I called the pharmacist at the Camden store. I explained the situation, and the pharmacist had my daughter an appointment with a local physician within the hour. That is old-fashioned neighborliness at its finest.
As always, thanks to those who protect our communities: city and county police officers, as well as the state police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Though we fiction writers at times like to cast a bit of a bad light on the occasional character representing law enforcement within the pages of our stories, it is no reflection on those outstanding folks in real life who serve. We would be lost without you.
Thanks to all those Mainers who graciously answered my questions and welcomed me into their homes. Big, big thanks to our closest neighbor, Peter Green, and his lovely daughter, Rachel, who befriended my daughter Melissa.
I hope all who read this story will appreciate the stunning beauty of Maine’s southern coast. I worked hard to capture that genuinely natural splendor. Keep in mind that in doing my research, I literally made every step through the snow right along with Sarah Newton. But it was my pleasure.
Lastly, thanks to the many readers who continue to make my dream of storytelling come true.
Chapter 1
Footsteps echoed in the darkness. Faint at first, then louder.
Her breath stalled in her chest. Was he coming back? Yes! Oh, God, he was coming back. A scream rushed to the back of her throat. The tape on her mouth imprisoned the sound.
She struggled to loosen her bindings. The ropes or bands cut into her skin. Her wrists burned. She couldn’t get loose! Couldn’t reach up to tear away the blindfold.
The devil was here...
Oh, God!
Wait. Wait. Wait.
Be still. Her body trembled. Be still! If she didn’t move maybe he would think she was already dead.
Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.
A sob ripped at her chest. Please, please don’t hurt me.
She could hear him coming closer.
Closer.
She’d gone to church every Sunday of her life. Why hadn’t she listened better? Maybe then she would know what to do...how to save herself.
A kick to her side made her gag. She tried to cough. The restraining tape stung her lips. Instinct curled her forward into a protective ball, her face pressed against her knees.
Don’t move. God, don’t move. Don’t even breathe.
Be still. Be still. Be still. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet.
He crouched next to her, the rasp of fabric grating her eardrums.
Her heart thumped harder...harder.
His repugnant lips rested against her hair. “I told you I’d come back.” The harsh whisper exploded in her brain.
He’s going to kill me.
She whimpered.
Shhh. Be quiet. Stay still.
“Don’t worry.” That exotic, lusty voice resonated thick and rough and sickening. “You won’t die today. Maybe tomorrow.”
Her body seized and she trembled no matter how hard she tried to stop it. Don’t move. Don’t move! Her muscles refused to listen. They convulsed and quaked with a will of their own.
His fingers twisted in her hair. Snapped her head back. Those mocking lips grazed her cheek. She cried out, the desperate squeak muffled by the chafing tape.
Rich laughter echoed around her. “Don’t cry. It won’t be long now.”
A sob surged up her throat, died in her mouth. Then another erupted. She tried to choke back the sounds. Couldn’t. Oh, God, she couldn’t keep quiet.
What did it matter? She was going to die. No one was coming to save her. Just like no one came to save Valerie.
What had she done wrong? She’d walked home alone after cheerleading practice dozens of times. She should have listened to her mother...never walk home alone after dark.
She was stupid. Stupid! Tears streamed down her cheeks...dampened the place where those full, disgusting lips touched her skin.
“You’ll hardly feel a thing,” he promised softly, sweetly, almost femininely. “When it comes to pain, there’s a certain point where your mind begins to block just how excruciating it really is.”
The hiccupping of her sobs made the repulsive mouth still pressed a
gainst her cheek curve with triumph.
“First, I’ll sew your eyes shut.” Taunting fingers dragged across her blindfold. She shuddered. “It’ll be so much better that way. You can’t covet what you can’t see.”
Somebody please help me! The silent plea resonated through her soul...but no one would hear.
“The end result makes perfect sense.”
What made perfect sense? She didn’t understand. Why was this happening to her? Why couldn’t she remember how she’d got here? One minute she was walking...the next she woke up here. Cold, damp...and the smell. She shuddered. Like stagnant water.
The devil pressed closer, the heat from his vile body drawing hers even as she wanted to scramble away. To run. But she was so cold. So very cold.
“Everyone will be so much happier,” the seemingly disembodied voice promised, its texture becoming velvety...soothing almost. “You’ve been such a selfish girl...such a rotten snob. The devil knows everything you do...and you’ve been so, so bad. Now it’s time to pay.”
Terror relit in her veins, igniting her need to escape. She shook with the force of it, jerked at her bindings. Let me go! God, please, please help me!
Her screams rammed against her throat...the sound silenced by the tape over her mouth.
“I’ll do things to you...”—his disgusting tongue flicked in her ear; she tried to draw away—“that will make you understand just how toxic you’ve been.”
Urine gushed free. Warmth soaked and spread around her bottom. The final humiliation. She had no control...she was completely helpless.
Defeat drained the last of her fight and the fear let go of her heart. The certainty that no one was coming...that she was going to die...won the battle. One by one her muscles went lax. Her mind drifted from this awful place.
“Lastly,” he said gently, dragging her fleeing attention back to this dark, damp, evil place, “I’ll mark you as a sign to ensure that no one ever forgets how beauty can conceal such poison.” He hummed a satisfied sound. “Then, I’ll leave and you’ll die, cold and alone.”
The ruthless grip released her hair. Her head fell forward.
The devil walked away, the scrape of steps on the stones growing distant, then fading entirely.
Her body twitched and she collapsed onto her side against the cold, hard rocks. Vomit surged into her mouth and nose, strangling her with its bitter burn.
No one was coming to save her.
Not even God.
She was going to die.
Tremors quaked her powerless body.
She didn’t want to die.
No. No. She didn’t want to die.
Find me. Please, God, just let them...come find me.
Chapter 2
New York City, Friday, February 27, 4:27 A.M.
Come find me!
Sarah Newton’s eyes flew open!
The air raged in and out of her lungs. For one endless second she felt paralyzed.
A dream. Just a dream.
She sucked in a ragged breath and sat up. Shoved the hair out of her eyes.
“Shit.” She forced her respiration to slow. Long, deep breaths. Hold it. Let it go. Breathe in slowly, count to ten, let it go slowly...slowly...slowly.
Find the calm. You’re awake now. No more dreams. Just relax. Pull it together.
Little by little her body responded to the technique she’d used half a lifetime. She stretched her neck, then rolled her shoulders. The digital numbers on the alarm clock taunted her. She slapped the off button despite having another thirty or so minutes of sleep coming to her. That wasn’t happening. She might as well get up and get ready.
Kicking the covers back, she rolled out of bed. She needed coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.
She stumbled to the kitchen in the dark. Guided by the glow of the streetlight invading her narrow-but-prized kitchen window, she went through the necessary motions to get her favorite Colombian blend brewing. On the counter next to the microwave, the answering machine’s blinking red light warned that she had a message. Probably a lot more than one. A closer inspection confirmed her speculation.
Four messages.
Answering the phone at home was something she rarely did. Once locked away in her personal space, she preferred not to be disturbed. The rest of the world could just go away.
If only that was possible...
Knowing who had likely left the most recent message, she reached over and pressed the play button. Get it over with. If she failed to hear whatever instructions he’d left before she headed north, he’d bitch at her.
Hearing was vastly different from listening and she only listened when she really wanted to. One would think he would have learned that lesson by now.
“Sarah,” her aunt’s voice sang out, “you should be ashamed of yourself, dear. You never call anymore. I—”
Skip. Next was her shrink. Definitely skip. Then the airhead of a guy she’d made the monumental mistake of dating a couple of weeks ago. Permanently erase.
And finally the newest message.
“Newton, what the hell is wrong with your cell phone?” a booming male voice demanded.
She rolled her eyes. Yep. Her editor. Sometimes he treated her like a child. He should have had kids of his own decades ago. She was damned tired of him using her as a surrogate.
“Remember, this is February. You’re going to Maine. There are certain essentials you will absolutely need. Pack your gloves and winter boots and wear your fucking parka, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want you coming back here sick. Call me when you get to Youngstown.”
“Right.” He would hear from her when he heard from her. Probably when he called her cell phone. And when she decided to answer, which was rarely at the same time.
Sarah hit erase then turned back to the only essential she absolutely needed right now.
Hot, steaming coffee.
The mere smell was like sex, only without the awkward postmortem chitchat.
Was it good for you?
Sure. You?
Cradling the warm cup, she sipped the stiff brew and moaned as satisfaction and the caffeine infused her blood, wiring her for the day. Youngstown. The Weather Channel had reported snow on the coast of southern Maine last night. Perfect. She hated snow. That was the one thing she deplored about living in New York, the winters. Still, she’d take a New York winter any day over a Maine winter.
“But we go,” she muttered, “whenever and wherever the work takes us.”
That was another thing she was beginning to hate. The work. She refilled her cup and hoped like hell a second shot of caffeine would get her on the way to feeling remotely human. Three or four more cups between now and flight time and she might just attain that elusive goal.
She trudged back to her bedroom. Pack, get dressed, then take the train to LaGuardia. A short flight to Portland, then a ninety-minute rental car drive to Youngstown. Whoopee.
No doubt a welcoming committee would be waiting for her.
Something else she intensely disliked. Sarah downed the last of the coffee. The people. Wherever her work took her she could always count on being the passing freak show.
The locals would stare at her. Whisper behind their hands. Make up weird shit to say about her in their insignificant little newspapers. Bring up crap from the past and call her unreliable. Then, when she was finished, they would really go for the jugular.
A charlatan who just got lucky when she stumbled upon what no one else had found. A burned-out pessimist who got off on damaging the lives of others with her harsh, tell-all reports of truth in relation to so-called real life in small-town America.
The truth she worked so hard to uncover was never what anyone wanted to see or hear, no matter that the mystery was ultimately solved in the process.
Sarah’s view on the subject of truth was simple. It was fact. No amount of steadfast determination, relentless hope, or desperate prayer changed it.
It is what it is.
Once she revealed
the facts, her job was done. She left and then for months or even years the good citizens would blame her for their every misfortune.
She stared at her beat-up old suitcase and shook her head. “Man, I love this job.”
Chapter 3
Youngstown, Maine, 6:00 A.M.
The Overlook Inn
From the broad expanse of windows in his parlor-turned-lobby Barton Harvey gazed out across the sleepy harbor below. Morning mist still shrouded the vessels docked there. Floating aimlessly in the chilly water like abandoned pirate ships, the schooners waited patiently for their protective covers to be removed. The scraping and painting and other maintenance work that had gone on the better part of the winter was finished now. The fishing boats were already venturing daily into the icy waters.
The peaceful village that had been his home from the day he was born clung to the side of the gently ascending cliff, rooftops jutted stubbornly through the lingering fog. Chimneys puffed the smoke of survival.
As stubborn as the houses their ancestors had built centuries ago, his friends and neighbors were ready to plunge into the work they loved—dredging the sea for its generous bounty and playing host to tourists from far and wide.
In a couple of months or so his inn would normally be filled to capacity. For most folks life would move smoothly into the tourist season as it did every year.
His jaw hardened. But not for Barton. Not this year.
A young girl was dead. Another was missing.
And she was coming.
Barton turned away from the picturesque view. He had duties to see to. No matter how he worried. The facts would not change.
Murder was murder...new or old. Didn’t matter.
