My focus is better now, and at the top of the hill, I see lots of lights and people moving about. Realizing the immediate threat to me is gone, I let myself relax and the dregs of adrenaline surging through my system make me start shaking, that and the frigid night air. I try to get to my feet, but now I’m trembling so bad that my legs won’t work right. Giving up, I lean back against the tree and close my eyes.
* * *
“Miss? Miss, are you okay?”
Someone is shaking me by my left shoulder and the pain of it brings me immediately alert. “Ow!” I yelp.
“Sorry,” says the male voice, releasing the grip on my shoulder. “Open your eyes.”
I do so and see a uniformed young man squatting in front of me, blond hair, blue eyes, and a big smile.
“I’m Trevor, an EMT. What’s your name?”
“Mattie. Mattie Winston.”
“Nice to meet you, Mattie. Can you tell me what day of the week it is?”
“Thursday, unless it’s after midnight and I’ve been down here a lot longer than I think.”
“Good. Let me give you a quick exam.” He reaches up with both hands, prepared to sandwich my head between them.
“No need, Trevor,” I say. “I’m a nurse. I’ve already cleared my own C-spine, I have no lower spinal pain, and my skull is intact. Mostly just some bumps and bruises, a lot of leftover adrenaline, and an old wound on my left shoulder from a bullet wound I sustained before today. I have the shakes, but if you help me, I think I can manage my way back up the hill.”
“Actually, we’ll go down it,” Trevor says. “But let me do my own exam, or my supervisor will have my butt in a sling.”
I roll my eyes, but smile, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. “Have at it, Trevor.”
He does a quick but thorough exam, agrees with my earlier assessment, and then helps me to my feet. Once I’m standing—hanging on to a branch of the tree that I hit because Trevor is all of five feet tall and probably weighs half of what I do—I look around and realize there is a path about five feet below us. By grabbing from one branch to another among the thick growth of trees, Trevor and I make it down without further incident.
“Let me get a stretcher down here,” Trevor says, and I shake my head.
“I’m fine. I can walk.” Not giving him a chance to object, I start along the path, heading in what I think is the right direction to get back up top.
“Um, Mattie? That leads to a riverbank and some woods.”
I stop, curse to myself, and reverse directions. Trevor wisely opts to simply walk at my side rather than assist me in any way. The walk does me good, and I feel stronger and steadier when I reach the top. My mind is clearer as well.
I take in the scene around me: three cop cars, an ambulance, and twenty or thirty people milling about, some wearing lab coats, some in uniforms, others in scrubs, and a couple of lookie-loos in street clothes. And then a blue 4x4 truck comes tearing up the hill, and I see Hurley come piling out of it and rush up to me.
At the sight of him, I burst into tears, and that gives Trevor a start.
“Mattie? What’s wrong? Does something hurt?” He is about to ask me another question, but Hurley rudely shoves him aside and wraps me in his arms.
“Squatch, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him between sobs. “I’m sorry . . . so sorry.”
“Sorry? About what?” he asks, his breath warm on my hair, his arms secure around me.
“You were right, Hurley. I should have listened to you, but I let my stupid stubbornness sway me.”
Hurley steps back, holding me by my shoulders and looking at my face. His hand on my shoulder makes me wince, and when he sees it, he eases his grip. “Can I get that statement on the record?” he says with a half grin.
“That’s just it,” I say, struggling to get a grip on my sobs, my body shaking uncontrollably. Hurley undoes his coat, slips it off, and wraps it over my shoulders. “That recording I did at the pizza restaurant had that crazy woman, Michaela, on it. She’s the one behind this, she and O’Keefe. It was the woman. We never thought it might be the woman.”
“What woman?” Hurley says, clearly confused.
“I think she means that one over there,” says a male voice I don’t recognize. It’s a local cop, and he’s pointing to a spot on the ground alongside the hospital building, near the door O’Keefe led us through not long ago. A large white sheet lies over a mound on the ground, and I see a splotch of red seeping through the covering.
“Is that Michaela?” I say, looking at the cop.
“That’s the name she was using, according to her friend over there.” He nods in a different direction, and I see Kirby O’Keefe standing beside a cop car, looking morose, his hands cuffed behind his back.
“She’s dead?” I say, and the cop nods. “Who shot her?”
The cop gives me a funny little smile, one eyebrow arched. “She shot herself. At least that’s what he said,” he adds, nodding toward O’Keefe. “Apparently, she slipped and lost her footing when you decided to launch yourself down the hill. She fell and the gun fired. Shot herself right in the chest, probably in the heart.”
I look back at Hurley. “They’re getting their victims from counseling groups,” I tell him. “It’s the perfect setup, vulnerable kids looking for emotional support. The two of them were running the grief support group here at this hospital. Liesel Paulsen attended, and I’m betting that’s how Kirby and Michaela learned about Lily, too.”
I see another car pulling up and recognize Richmond’s sedan. He gets out, talks to a nearby officer, then sees us and heads our way.
“I think Detective Richmond can tell you all you need to know,” Hurley says as Richmond reaches us. “Thank you for responding so quickly. You may have saved my wife’s life.”
“Sounds like she saved herself,” the cop says. “That was a crazy thing to do, taking a leap down that hill, but it worked.”
Hurley wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close for a moment. “She’s a crazy gal that way,” he says. He smiles when he says it, but I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or serious.
“We need to get a statement from you, ma’am,” the cop says.
Belatedly I read his name tag, which says MONTAG. “I’ll do whatever you need,” I tell him. Then I look up at Hurley. “Will you stay with me?”
“You couldn’t beat me off with a stick,” he says, giving me a squeeze.
“Can we go to the station?” Montag asks, looking at Hurley. “It will be easier, and more comfortable.” He looks at me then. “That’s if you’re sure you don’t need medical attention of any sort?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m sore, but I’m fine. And I’m alive. That’s the most important thing.”
“We’ll follow you,” Hurley says to Montag. Montag turns to head for one of the squad cars, while Hurley and I walk down to his truck, Hurley using his remote start button to get the truck engine going.
A faint sound seeps into my brain, and then I realize what it is. “Hoover!” I say, pulling away from Hurley and heading for my hearse.
I hurry over to my car, but it’s locked and I don’t have my keys. They’re in the pocket of my coat, which is still in the basement meeting room.
“Why is Hoover with you?” Hurley asks.
“I had to take him to the vet, and when I was done, I came straight here.”
“The vet? Is he okay?”
“He is. It’s a long story. I need my keys, and they’re in my coat pocket.” I explain to Hurley where my coat is and he sends an officer inside to get it. He returns a few minutes later, coat in hand, and I give Hurley back his coat and shrug into mine. I dig the keys out of my pocket and open the car door.
A stench of dog poop wafts out toward me, along with my dog. Hurley snags Hoover by his collar, and I squeeze my eyes closed after seeing the splotches of doggy diarrhea all over the back of the hearse.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,”
I moan. I shut the door, lock it again. Hurley has walked Hoover over to his truck and put him in the backseat of the cab. I join him, and say, “Hoover pooped all over the inside of my car.”
Hurley makes a face, and opens the passenger door of his truck. “Get in and get warm. We’ll deal with that later.”
I climb inside, too cold and too frustrated to argue.
“I’ll be right back,” Hurley says, tossing me his keys. “I need to talk to Richmond for a minute.” He shuts the door and walks over to where Richmond is talking to the cop standing beside O’Keefe. I watch as the cop pushes O’Keefe into the squad car and shuts the door.
O’Keefe turns and stares out the back window of the car toward me. He looks scared and vulnerable, his brow furrowed with fear and uncertainty. I recall that fleeting expression I’d seen on his face earlier, and feel a sudden surge of empathy for the man, the truth of the situation forcing me to view him through a different lens than the one I’ve been using. Then he was the monster, the culprit, the person to blame, the person to hate. Now I realize he’s also a pawn in someone else’s bigger game, still a scumbag, but not the biggest one, because I now believe he has one redeeming quality.
Can he help us find Lily Paulsen? Will he?
I see Liesel Paulsen’s dead face in my mind, except in this image her eyes are open and pleading with me. The vision morphs, and Liesel’s face is replaced by her father’s, his eyes dead and lifeless. How long will these two haunt me?
* * *
I climb out of the truck and walk over to Hurley and the other men. “I need to talk to O’Keefe,” I say, interrupting them. “Please.”
Montag says, “When we get to the station, maybe we—”
I reach over and wrap a hand around Hurley’s arm. “Please,” I say. “Now.” I tighten my grip, digging my fingers into his arm through the fabric of his coat.
Hurley studies my face a moment, and gives me the faintest of nods. He turns to Montag. “Let her do it here, now. Your car is equipped with a camera, isn’t it?”
Montag nods, but he looks unsure.
“She’s good,” Hurley says to him. “And there are other lives at stake here. One in particular.”
Montag waffles, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He looks to Richmond for help, but if he’s hoping for someone to take his side, he is disappointed. “It’s irregular,” he says. “That’s not how we do things.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. Figures I’d get some by-the-book, small-town cop with a stick up his ass and a fondness for regulations just when I need someone who can bend a little.
“What’s the harm?” Richmond says, seeing my frustration. “You read him his rights already, didn’t you?”
Montag nods again, but I can tell he’s still not convinced.
Hurley makes one last appeal: “If she does what I think she can do, there’s a good chance you’ll be at the heart of busting a huge human-trafficking ring.” He pauses, gives Montag an arch look, and then delivers the coup de grace. “This case is huge,” he says with great import. “It’s a career maker.”
I see a shift in Montag’s eyes and breathe a sigh of relief, uttering a silent thanks to both my husband and Richmond.
“Okay, I suppose,” he says. “But you can’t threaten the guy, or hurt him, or even touch him,” he says, giving me a stern look. “I don’t want you to do anything that will compromise my case.”
“I won’t,” I promise. Then I smile at him and add, “Thank you.”
I open up the front passenger-side door of the cop car and settle myself into the front seat, shutting the door behind me. After shifting around to look at O’Keefe, I smile at him. “Hello again, Kirby.”
He stares back at me with angry suspicion, his arms handcuffed behind him.
“I wanted to give you a chance to make a difference here,” I tell him. “I think you know that your goose is cooked at this point, but there might be a way to make things better for you.” Still, he says nothing, but the look on his face softens to one of nervous curiosity. “You loved Liesel, didn’t you?”
He rears back in the seat as if he’s been slapped in the face.
“That’s why you took her to the hospital, isn’t it? Even though you knew your handlers wouldn’t have wanted that. When you saw how badly she was hurt, you tried to help her. You bought her that chocolate bar, hoping it would make her feel better, and then, when you realized just how serious her condition was, you drove her to an ER. You couldn’t risk hanging around the place, but at least you did what you could for her.”
O’Keefe stares at me, unblinking, his face now a mask of wounded emotion. I see tears welling in his eyes.
“You never hurt Liesel, did you?”
O’Keefe squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head. “They never should have let that guy have her,” he says, his voice cracking. “They knew he was violent. The first time was bad enough, but they kept letting him come back, and he asked for Liesel every time.” There is anger in his voice.
“I can’t promise you anything, Kirby, but I know there is a lot of interest in breaking up this human-trafficking ring. If you’re willing to help the authorities, they might be willing to offer you witness protection. Just think, a whole new life, a new identity, and no prison time.”
He opens his eyes, and his expression brightens momentarily, but then he seems to register the unlikeliness of this scenario and the sadness returns.
“You can make the man who hurt Liesel pay for what he did to her,” I go on. “And maybe get a new start for yourself. If your own future isn’t that important to you, think about the futures of all those young people out there being held against their wills, used and abused. Because one of them is Liesel’s sister, Lily. And while there isn’t anything more you can do to help Liesel at this point, you have the power to save her sister. Honor Liesel’s memory. Honor your love for her, Kirby. Help bring her sister home. Because that was Liesel’s dying wish. The last thing she said, the last thing she thought of, was helping her little sister.”
O’Keefe drops his head forward and tears fall onto his lap. His shoulders heave, and I hear the faint hiccup of a barely contained sob.
“If you really loved Liesel, Kirby, prove it now. Save Lily.”
The man says nothing at first and his only movement is the occasional shudder of his shoulders as he tries to contain his emotions. Just as I’m starting to think that my gambit has failed, he raises his tear-stained face and looks at me.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
I smile at him in gratitude, lower the window, and wave the men toward me. “Thank you, Kirby,” I say. “I know Liesel is smiling down at you right now.”
I get out of the car and let Richmond take my place. And as Kirby O’Keefe begins to tell his story, I have a feeling this case will haunt my dreams for years to come.
CHAPTER 31
The ride home—me following Hurley’s truck after a somewhat heated debate over whether or not I should be allowed to drive, an argument I won when I reminded Hurley of what Hoover did, and that he might do it again—gave me more time to think over everything that had happened. I grow inured to the stench inside my car after the first few miles, and bemoan the fact that I will have to call Not a Trace for the third time in as many days.
When we arrive at the house, both kids are in bed asleep, and we settle in at the kitchen island with a late-night snack of hot cocoa and chocolate chip cookies that Emily baked.
“Do you have to go into the station tonight?” I ask Hurley.
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be much use. I’ve been up for nearly two days straight and I imagine they’ll be at it all night with O’Keefe. Richmond can handle things. He’s bringing the FBI back into it.”
“I really am sorry,” I say to Hurley. “Sometimes I get so caught up in these investigations and my need to solve the puzzle that I don’t think things through the way I should.”
Hurley leans over and
gives me a brief, chocolate-flavored kiss. Then he stares into his mug of cocoa for a minute before he says, “I’m sorry for getting so mad at you.” He sighs, then adds, “To be honest, it’s not so much what you do that upsets me, because even though some of your ideas strike me as insane and irrational, you always seem to get results. But sometimes those results turn out to be dangerous, and that’s the part that upsets me. I’m so afraid something will happen to you, and I won’t be there to save you.”
Though he still isn’t looking at me, I see the sheen of tears in the eye closest to me. It both saddens and gladdens me to know that he feels this need to protect me, to save me—sometimes from myself.
I reach over and rub his shoulder. “I never meant to burden you in that way, or scare you. I only want to be a part of the team, and this investigative stuff is so interesting to me. Plus, I’m good at it, I think. I have good instincts.”
“You do have good instincts,” he says with a sniffle, blinking away the tears in his eyes. “I don’t want you to stop being a part of the team. And I definitely don’t want you to stop puzzling out the cases.” He pauses, and I know there is a “but” coming. “But,” he says finally, “I love you. I love our family.” He swivels on his stool, reaches over, and then takes hold of my hands, sandwiching them between his. “You make me happy, Mattie. So happy that it scares me sometimes. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, which is why it makes me crazy when you put your life at risk unnecessarily.”
Feeling overcome with love and affection for this man, I lean over and kiss him on his lips, first a gentle peck, then a more earnest one. “Okay,” I say after the second, heated kiss, touching my forehead to his. “I get it. I promise that from now on I will only put my life at risk when it’s absolutely necessary.” I mean this partially as a joke, but I feel him stiffen in response and realize my timing is off. “And the definition of that,” I add quickly, “will be when my life is already in danger and I have no choice, or the life of someone I love is in danger. Is that fair?”
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