Good Little Girls (The Keepers Book 2)

by Rita Herron

  Tinsley couldn’t wait to hunt for the treasures that washed up on the beach with the tides. Carrie Ann had rattled on and on about which ice cream flavor she wanted to get at the Seahawk Island Sweet Shop. The homemade peach cobbler ice cream was Tinsley’s favorite. In spite of the fact that sugar and chocolate made her sister hyper, Carrie Ann always wanted something with chocolate and sprinkles.

  Finally, they’d exhausted themselves and drifted off to sleep. But a scream woke them sometime in the night. She and her sister bolted from bed and ran for their grandmother. She was leaning into a policeman at the door, sobbing.

  Horror washed over Tinsley, and Carrie Ann started crying. Before Gram or the police could relay what happened, Tinsley had known their parents were dead.

  Her world had shattered. So had Carrie Ann’s.

  They’d been so devastated that they’d retreated to their separate twin beds. No more laughter or giggles in the night. No more whispers about the future.

  The silence had been ominous and filled with grief. Neither had wanted to go to school. She’d retreated into a shell, while Carrie Ann had started acting out. They’d both had nightmares and couldn’t sleep.

  Three months later, when Gram wanted to bake cookies with them and Carrie Ann threw the cookie cutters on the floor, Gram said she’d had enough. She was heartbroken, too, but they had to find a way to move on. Their mama and daddy would want it.

  So she’d bundled them up and driven them to the park. Balloons had waved in the wind by tables decorated with treats for sale. The park had been filled with families and activities, a bouncy house for little kids, face painting, and a costumed pet parade. Another area had been roped off with animals offered for adoption.

  The moment Tinsley had seen the beautiful golden retriever, her heart had melted. When the dog licked her sister’s face, Carrie Ann had smiled for the first time in weeks. They’d begged Gram to take her home, and she’d easily agreed. On the way, they’d tossed out names but settled on Gingersnap because she was the color of the cookies their mother had always baked at Christmas. Gram stopped for a dog bed, dog food, chew toys, and bones.

  Although Gingersnap never used that bed. She and Carrie Ann pushed their twin beds together—no more being separate. They made room for Gingersnap in between them. The big, lovable fur baby had warmed their beds and hearts with sloppy kisses, a tail that constantly wagged, and puppy-dog eyes that earned her whatever she wanted.

  Gram said that they had saved the dog. But it was the other way around—Gingersnap had saved them.

  But they’d eventually lost Gingersnap, too, just a year after they adopted her.

  Another car accident. Gram rushed the dog to the vet, but Gingersnap didn’t make it.

  Tinsley steered her mind back to the task. The Skull had targeted her at the fund-raiser for the rescue center. And now he’d kidnapped Joyce, who was vital to this year’s event.

  She peered at the boys’ faces again, then at Norton as an adult.

  Another memory tickled her consciousness. A boy’s face. Dark eyes. Watching her. A boy near the vet’s booth. The vet had offered treatment, shots, spays, and neutering to any pet adopted that day.

  Could that boy have been Norton? Or . . . if he and the Skull were friends, could they both have been at the park that day?

  Wyatt scanned the area around the dilapidated wooden house as he parked in the overgrown drive. Weeds and marsh grass choked the yard, and weather had damaged the wood. Rotting boards hung loose on the porch, the shutters had been ripped away in one of the storms, and a blue tarp covered the roof where it had obviously suffered damage.

  The place was deserted. Wooden boards were nailed over the windows, and a condemned sign was tacked on the side of the house.

  He texted Bernie to ask her to dig up anything she could find on Wade Hinke, especially another address where the man might live.

  He opened the car door and stepped into the ankle-deep weeds, surveying the property for an outbuilding or someplace the man could hold Ferris hostage. The scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation drifted to him in the breeze that stirred the humid air.

  He swatted at the gnats swarming around his face as he strode toward the house. Just because Hinke wasn’t there at the moment didn’t mean he hadn’t left Joyce Ferris inside.

  He worked his way to the front porch, stopped, and searched for a crawl space or basement but didn’t see one. He cut to the left and scanned the exterior of the house and surrounding land for signs of the doctor or that someone had been there recently.

  A few areas looked as if the marsh grass had been mashed down, but the recent rains had destroyed any footprints. A shadow fell across the house as clouds moved in, but a sliver of light shimmered off something red near the back door. He hurried toward it, heart hammering as he realized it was a woman’s scarf.

  With gloved hands, he examined it. It was dirty, wet, and dotted with blood.

  He removed a baggie from his pocket and stored the scarf inside. The back windows and door were boarded up. But a closer look revealed loose nails on one corner of the door.

  Someone had recently been inside.

  Heart hammering, he yanked at the plywood until he uncovered the door. Senses alert, he jiggled the doorknob. The door squeaked open.

  He inched inside. A rancid odor hit him, and he yanked a handkerchief over his mouth and nose.

  Something—or somebody—had died inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Cat hated being confined. She missed her work at the bureau. She was too damn smart to stare at the walls and do nothing.

  If someone wasn’t crazy when they came into this place, they would be after twiddling their thumbs.

  Nothing except think. And talk. And talk about what you were thinking about.

  A bunch of lame-assed, mumbo-jumbo psychobabble.

  She’d tried telling the psychologist, the psychiatrist, the counselors, and that medical doctor who wanted to pick apart her brain that she’d talked about her problems for years and it hadn’t done a damn bit of good.

  She had been molested as a child. There was no erasing that.

  How the hell did they think a shrink could heal her when it was one of their own who’d stolen her innocence as a child? Korine Davenport’s fucking father.

  A child shrink who was supposed to help her get over the loss of her father. Or the fact that she’d never known him.

  He hadn’t loved her enough to stick around.

  Liz Roberts said it wasn’t her fault he’d abandoned her. That he was flawed, not her.

  More bullshit.

  She didn’t trust anything the people in this nuthouse said. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  Well, except for her new friends, the Keepers.

  A soft knock sounded, and she shoved the unopened letters from her mother under the bed.

  “Cat?” The door opened, and Marilyn Ellis poked her head into the room. “I need to talk to you.”

  Cat chewed her bottom lip. She’d been wary when the reporter had first approached her for her story. Her mother, Esme, had sworn Cat to silence over what had happened in her childhood. Esme had worried about what people would say, how they’d look at Cat. She’d been ashamed.

  But hiding the truth was more shameful to Cat.

  Marilyn had helped change that. She told the truth about what happened to Cat.

  And she told the truth about the Keepers—if the cops did their jobs right, there would be no need for the Keepers.

  Marilyn slipped inside. “It’s about the Skull.”

  Cat waved Marilyn in and motioned for her to close the door so they could talk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Wyatt grabbed a flashlight, then jogged back to the house. Slowly, he inched his way inside, not surprised at the garbage and filth on the floor.

  Judging from the bird droppings and animal feces in the corner, no one had lived in this house in quite some time.

  Had Hinke used
it as his home address at work to make it more difficult to find him?

  It was off the grid, secluded, and could be accessed via a small boat by the creek out back, a creek that led to the Intracoastal Waterway.

  The ancient refrigerator looked rusty, and an acrid odor hit him as he neared it. With one gloved hand he opened it and aimed the light into the interior. Some undistinguishable rotting meat was inside. Too large for birds. A deer maybe?

  He closed the door, coughing at the stench, then scanned the living room. A threadbare sofa, stuffing from the cushions spilling out. A bird had made a nest of leaves, twigs, and the stuffing on the windowsill. Two dead pigeons lay in the corner.

  He inched down a narrow hall. The first bedroom was empty except for a mattress on the floor, another roosting place for birds, or maybe a family of raccoons. The stench of death and blood hit him as he stepped to the last bedroom door.

  A large dark stain discolored the scarred wood floor. Blood? He shined the light across the room, then noticed a closet on the far side. His heart beat a staccato rhythm as he crossed the room and gripped the doorknob.

  If Hinke was their unsub and he’d brought the doctor here, she might be in that closet.

  He held his breath as he opened the door. His gut clenched at the sight of three large dark garbage bags piled inside. Dead bugs littered the floor.

  An image of the skulls Tinsley described flashed behind his eyes. Skulls that she said belonged to three women the Skull had killed.

  They had no idea who those women were.

  Their bodies had never been found.

  He cursed, stepped back from the closet, then went outside for some air as he called the ERT.

  Had he just found them?

  Tinsley’s phone buzzed. She held her breath as she checked the number, hoping it was Wyatt saying he’d found Joyce alive.

  Not Wyatt. Susan Lemming, one of the volunteers at the rescue shelter.

  She answered on the second ring. “Susan?”

  “Hey, Tinsley. Have you heard anything about Dr. Ferris? We’re all worried over here at the shelter.”

  “I’m worried, too. Hopefully the FBI and police will find something soon.” Although they’d been too late for Felicia. And months too late to save her from the agony of that man’s brutality.

  A slight hesitation. “Do you think we should cancel the upcoming adoption day?”

  Maybe they should. Tinsley wanted to honor her friend.

  But wouldn’t continuing the event be the best way to do that?

  “I think Dr. Ferris would want us to move forward with it. She was determined to find every lost animal a forever home.”

  Tinsley also wanted to prove to the Skull that he couldn’t stop them from their work. That good people couldn’t be destroyed by him.

  Maybe the Skull would even show up. She made a mental note to ask Wyatt to post officers at the event.

  “I agree, but it’ll be difficult,” Susan said. “Dr. Ferris always drew a crowd. She planned a demonstration on dog obedience tips before the pet parade.”

  The vet where she and Carrie Ann had taken Gingersnap had held dog obedience classes at her clinic years ago.

  “I thought we might make missing person fliers to hand out with Dr. Ferris’s picture on them,” Susan said.

  Outside, the sun was setting. The beachgoers had left for the day, yet Tinsley spotted a canoe in the distance, dipping with the waves.

  “Tinsley?”

  “That’s a good idea.” She desperately wanted to attend the event herself. If she was there, she could watch the crowd, look for someone suspicious.

  For him.

  She hadn’t seen his face, but she thought she’d know him if he came near her. If she heard his voice . . .

  She curled one hand into a fist, angry with herself for being such a coward.

  Susan hung up, and Tinsley looked out the window. A jogger with a black lab ran down the beach and disappeared around the jetty. Seagulls swooped in search of food at the edge of the water. A helicopter from the coast guard station puttered above, then zoomed across the ocean toward Jekyll Island.

  The canoe crept closer, bobbing and swaying with the waves. She peered through her binoculars for a clearer view. A lone figure was inside the canoe, rowing steadily, his face lost in the shadows as the sun dipped lower and streaked the sky with orange and pinks.

  Nerves on edge, she stayed glued to the window until the colors began to fade and night set in.

  The canoe drifted closer. The gray of evening swallowed the man in shadows so she couldn’t distinguish his face. Suddenly the canoe made a slight turn and headed straight toward the beach directly in front of her cottage.

  Just as he reached the shore, he looked up at her as if he could see her. There was something in the boat with him. A large, dark bag.

  Fear pulsed through her as he shoved it over the edge of the canoe.

  She gripped the binoculars, praying she was just being paranoid. But no . . . the man in the canoe was wearing a mask.

  A skull mask.

  It was him.

  Dear God . . . Was Joyce’s body in that bag?

  She had to do something. Go out and stop him. Tell the officer. Call Wyatt . . .

  But her legs buckled instead. She grabbed the window ledge to keep from sinking to the floor.

  Outside, the bastard pressed his fingers to his mouth and blew her a kiss.

  Wyatt directed the ERT to search the property and the house. “There are three garbage bags in the closet in the second bedroom. I’m not sure if they’re human or animal remains, but they’ve been there awhile.”

  Cummings frowned. “We’ll get them to the lab.”

  Wyatt grimaced, glad he didn’t have that job. “Process this scarf as well.” He handed Cummings the bag. “There’s blood on the floor inside and on this scarf. If we get DNA, maybe we’ll be a step closer to catching this bastard.”

  That was assuming the Skull had been there. Or . . . Hinke. And that they were one and the same.

  His phone buzzed. Bernie. “Yeah?”

  “That house does not belong to Wade Hinke. He wasn’t renting it either. Seems he got evicted from an apartment in Pooler nine months ago. No sign of where he’s been living since.”

  “But he could have holed up here for a while.”

  “That’s possible. The property belongs to a man named Fisher Eaton. Died thirteen months ago. His father was a lighthouse keeper on Seahawk Island.”

  “Any clue as to where Hinke might be?”

  “Not yet. I’ll keep looking. And I’ll send his picture out to all law enforcement agencies.”

  “Good. Keep me posted.” His phone was buzzing with an incoming call, so he thanked her and connected the call.

  “Wyatt . . .”

  He tensed, alert. “Tinsley? What’s wrong?”

  “H-he w-was here.”

  Shit. “Where? Is he still there?”

  Her choppy breathing echoed over the line.

  “Outside, the water,” her voice broke. “A canoe . . . he dumped a big garbage bag on the beach. I . . . think it’s a body.”

  Oh hell.

  “I should have gone out after him—he’s getting away!”

  “Listen to me,” he said firmly. “I’m going to hang up and call the officer on guard duty.” From now on, they’d station a guard in a boat to watch the cove. “I want you to stay put, keep the door locked, and your phone with you. You understand?”

  A low cry escaped her.

  “Tinsley, do you understand? Do not open the door or go outside. I’ll have the officer check the perimeter and the beach, and I’ll be right there.” He walked toward Cummings as he talked. “Did you hear me?”

  “Y-yes . . . I’m sorry, Wyatt.” Her voice cracked again. “I just froze . . . I panicked.”

  “It’s not your job to go after him,” Wyatt told her. “You did exactly what you should have. Now, I need to call the coast guard and see if they can
fly over. Maybe they’ll spot him.”

  She murmured okay, then hung up. He called the coast guard first, then the officer and explained the situation.

  “Why didn’t she come and get me?” the officer asked in a huff.

  Wyatt gritted his teeth. “This man tormented her for months. She’s traumatized and frightened, and she has a right to be.” Besides, he didn’t need to be coddling this damn officer. “Check around the cottage and get down to the beach. Tinsley thinks he may have dumped a body there.”

  Dread curled in his stomach as he raced to his vehicle. He had a bad feeling that Joyce Ferris was in that bag.

  Leaving her body for Tinsley was just the kind of sick game the bastard liked to play.

  Tinsley thought her chest would explode with panic. She paced the room in front of the window, struggling for air as she silently prayed.

  Dear God, please don’t let that be Joyce’s body on the shore.

  The officer ran down the path to the beach. The canoe had rounded the jetty and disappeared from sight.

  Emotions choked her. No . . . he couldn’t get away. A rumbling sound startled her, and she looked up at the lights blinking in the dark sky.

  The coast guard chopper.

  A flashlight on the beach drew her eyes back to the officer. He’d reached the bag, was stooping over it, his flashlight bobbing up and down.

  She clenched her hands together and prayed again, willing the bag to be empty or full of sand.

  Not her friend.

  Please not her friend.

  Her phone buzzed, startling her, and she checked the number.

  Her sister again.

  Good grief, she didn’t have time to deal with Carrie Ann right now. The Skull might be close by. He could have stowed the canoe around the jetty and snuck back on foot. He might be outside, hiding somewhere in the shadows of the trees or the neighboring houses, waiting on them to find what he’d left.

  Maybe it was even a distraction to occupy the police so he could sneak up and attack her.

  The windowpane rattled, startling her, and she jumped. She raced to the door to verify that it was locked, then hurried to her bedroom to check the lock on the window.