Bitter Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 4)

by Alexandra Sokoloff

  “Went after him?”

  “To kill him.”

  The nun’s eyes went still in the dark. After a moment she half-laughed, uneasily. “Roarke. She was fourteen years old. You can’t mean . . . you think that child went after a serial rapist? Maybe a killer?”

  “She’s been doing it for a long time. It had to start somewhere. I’m fairly sure she’d already killed Pierson by then. And if anything could make someone kill . . .” He stopped, and heard himself saying what Epps had said to him, not that long ago. “It’s who she is. It’s what she does. Her mission.”

  She was watching him. “Because she sees evil.” There was no skepticism in her voice, only interest.

  “Do you think that’s possible?” he asked, and realized he was desperate to know.

  She looked off over the darkness of the valley. “I see the effects of evil every day. Is it possible to see it, actually see it in a perpetrator?” She lifted her shoulders slightly. “I often meet parents who make something in me recoil. In other cultures, people have no trouble believing that a shaman can see human energy. That they can read the quality of a human being. I don’t see anything so farfetched about that.” She met his eyes. “Don’t you know, sometimes?”

  Roarke and Epps had talked about it. Briefly, carefully. But they had both agreed: there was such a thing as Blue Sense. The intuition, or just heightened perception, that made cops sense danger, that whispered, Something’s behind that door, or Watch that guy at the corner table . . .

  “Yes,” he said aloud to the nun.

  “Then that’s the answer. If you can sense it, and I can sense it, then I have no problem whatsoever believing that a child can see it. If there’s anything I know, it’s that children are more highly attuned to the world than we ever remember to be.”

  Roarke nodded slowly.

  Mother Doctor lifted her hands. “And I can’t help but think . . . Joan of Arc was just thirteen when her visions told her to drive the English out of France.”

  Roarke looked at her, startled.

  She nodded. “So in the past, we have a fourteen-year-old girl on a mission. Who was willing to risk her life to go after someone she considered evil. And in the present we have—you. Also on a mission, obviously.”

  He didn’t know what to say to that. It seemed that he’d lost any mission he ever had.

  She seemed to read his thoughts. “Don’t kid yourself. I deal with law enforcement regularly. I know the type. But it’s more than a mission, for you.” She looked at him directly. “I need to ask you something. Are you trying to find her? And I don’t mean in a law enforcement sense. Your interest in Cara goes far beyond any law enforcement duty.”

  He felt a hot rush of shame.

  She shook her head. “I’m not blind. And I did meet her. She was compelling then. Now . . . I can only imagine.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t want to find her.”

  Suddenly all he could think of were the toxic words from the Reddit forums, and again the fear for her rose up, choking him, so that he could barely speak. He would rather she were dead than ever have to face that mob. “I hope . . . I never hear from her or about her, ever again. I should never have come at all—”

  “But you did,” she said sharply. “So you have a choice to make. What outcome do you want, here?”

  Her words were a command, a welcome slap in the face, and he remembered the girls. The rows and rows of burned girls. Laura. Ivy.

  He looked at the stone wall, at the scratched names. “I want to finish this,” he said. “Make sure that whoever it is, is never able to hurt anyone ever again.”

  “And what is the next right step?”

  “There’s a survivor I can talk to. If she’s willing to talk to me.”

  “Then that’s what you do.”

  Back in the cottage, he realized Mother Doctor was right. Singh wouldn’t be able to talk to Marlena Sanchez until the morning, but he could be there, on site, to meet her as soon as she said yes. Or to try to see her anyway if she said no.

  He used his iPad and called up MapQuest to be sure, but Flagstaff was an eight-hour drive, and he was feeling too much urgency to lose the time a sixteen-hour round trip would take. This time of year the roads up into the mountains could easily be shut down due to snow.

  The closest airport was Ontario International, less than an hour away on the 15, and Southwest had a flight to Flagstaff at 6:00 a.m. He booked it online, and grabbed his roller bag to pack, again.

  He started up the Rover in the parking lot of the Mission, and looked out through the windshield at the garden wall, the skull and crossbones above the wooden gate.

  He had the haunted feeling that he was leaving young Cara alone, helpless. He knew it made no sense. The danger was sixteen years in the past.

  Be safe, he told her in his head.

  Then he shook off the feeling, and drove.

  CARA

  Chapter Fifty

  It is long past dinner when she returns from the Mission to the group home. The moment she walks through the door, Ms. Sharonda steps out of her office, drawn up to her full height like an avenging angel. She looks toward the massive clock on the wall, and her face is ominous. “You see the time there. You know the rules—”

  Cara stands facing her. “I’m sorry I’m late. I went to a funeral.”

  Ms. Sharonda’s eyes narrow. “You knew that Huell girl?”

  “She was in my Social Studies class. We talked sometimes.”

  It is true enough.

  The director is silent for a moment. At last she says, “That’s hard. I’m sorry to hear it.” She studies Cara. “How are you feeling?”

  Are you sad? Do you have thoughts of harming yourself? Do you have thoughts of harming others?

  Is there any kind of Normal answer she can give?

  “I don’t know,” she says. Suddenly she feels lightheaded. She swallows. At the end of the hall behind Ms. Sharonda, Laura stands in the corner, with a pool of blood at her feet.

  “Did she say anything to you? About what she was thinking?”

  Cara turns her eyes away from the vision of the bleeding girl, shakes her head quickly.

  Ms. Sharonda makes a sound that is not quite a sigh. “Suicide is what happens when a person is overwhelmed by feelings. They feel unable to cope.” She looks at Cara fiercely. “That kind of moment will always pass. But in the moment it feels like things will never get better. You got to ride out those feelings.”

  “Because it gets better,” Cara says flatly, and looks Ms. Sharonda in the face.

  Ms. Sharonda doesn’t answer right away. “Sometimes it gets better. I can’t tell you it always does, because you know that’s bullshit. But you got a choice to make here.”

  Cara thinks of moonlight and Joshua trees and blood.

  “I’ve made it,” she says.

  Ms. Sharonda raises her eyebrows, waiting.

  “She gave up. But you can’t give up. You can’t let them win.”

  Ms. Sharonda looks at her for a long time, and Cara wonders what she sees. “Okay then.” She straightens. “But next time you need to go somewhere you go through channels. You talk to me first. Are we clear?”

  “We’re clear.”

  Cara turns and goes down the hall to her room, thinking of the list she scratched into the stone wall of the Mission.

  She is clear. She has never been more clear in her life.

  The next day she starts, with the first name on her list.

  She walks past the snarling wolf mural, into the administration building, and into Lethbridge’s office, telling the secretary, “He said I should come in and talk to him.”

  The vice-principal looks up from his desk as she steps in through the door. He registers her, leans back in his big chair in surprise. And there is something else on his face, but she doesn’t know what. Lethbridge is a harder read than Detective Ortiz.

  “Well, hello, Eden. What can I do for you?”


  She doesn’t bother to correct him about the name. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about college prep. I want to sign up for some clubs. I want to sign up for Palmers.”

  He spreads his hands. “I’m so pleased, C—Eden. Palmers is a very worthwhile program.”

  “You’re the sponsor.”

  “I’m one of them, yes. Palmers is a youth service club, a branch of the Wayfarers Club—”

  “I know,” she interrupts him. “Laura played piano there, for dinners and meetings and things.” She had been listening at the funeral, to the pretty, useless things that people said in the church. Now she looks straight at him. “She told me all about it.” She emphasizes the word all, just slightly, but enough for him to notice.

  Lethbridge’s smile fades. “Laura is . . . It was a tragic loss. You knew her, then?”

  “She was really nice to me,” Cara lies.

  “Yes, she was that kind of person,” he says, also lying.

  Cara holds his gaze. “She really liked Palmers, though. She liked talking about it.”

  The VP gives her another smile. This one looks weak, worried. “She talked about Palmers?”

  Cara nods. “A whole lot. And Wayfarers, too.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  She looks across the desk. “You know.” She waits a good long beat so that he can imagine all kinds of responses, before she finishes, “Stuff.”

  He clears his throat uncomfortably. “I’m glad to know we made a difference in her life. But Eden, if Laura said anything . . . if there’s anything that might bring her parents some understanding . . . I really do need to know that.”

  She looks back at him blankly. “What kinds of things?”

  “Just . . . anything that you might remember her saying.”

  “I’ll try,” she says, and turns to leave. Then she turns quickly back. “Oh wait, I remember now.”

  It is almost comic, the look of alarm on his face. Comic, and telling. She waits a beat to keep him suspended, then she says—

  “You have to call Ms. Lewis to get permission for me to go to meetings.”

  He blinks, forces another smile. “I’ll do that.”

  She can feel his agitation like a current in the air behind her as she walks out the door.

  ROARKE

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Flagstaff was freezing, a good fifty degrees colder than Southern California, with snow frosting the pine trees, icy drifts banked up beside the streets. People on the sidewalks were bundled in alpaca coats, wrapped in wool scarves, hats, boots, thermal leggings.

  Roarke cruised the historic downtown of the former silver mining territory in the rental car he’d picked up at the airport. He’d driven through the city before, en route to some job he’d already forgotten, but had never spent any time here. He was struck by the unique style of it: Wild West with a dash of New Age mysticism. Many of its historic buildings had been restored; some of the hotels were award-winning period recreations. But the old storefronts now housed boutiques, rock crystal shops and microbreweries.

  It was an eclectic collection of people, too: skiers and New Agers and stag parties and conventioneers. Banners hung over the entrances of several of the hotels: WELCOME NATIONAL LIONS CONVENTION.

  Marlena Sanchez had agreed to meet him in her shop, a clothing store on one of the touristy side streets. No girly dresses here, though. Roarke walked in through the door to find a storefront populated by rows of female mannequins dressed in angular clothes with sharp lines, lots of combat trousers and chain link ornaments. The shop had a wide window with round armchairs placed to make a comfortable seating area.

  Marlena stood looking him over. She was dark-haired and cocoa-skinned, with a coiled-spring muscularity under her severe dark jeans and gray sweater. Her eyes were wary and watchful.

  The same age as Cara, Roarke couldn’t help but think.

  She had put the CLOSED sign in the window, but she stayed within reach of the door, as if giving herself an escape route. Roarke took his cue and sat in one of the chairs beside the broad front window, a good distance from her. She remained standing.

  “I appreciate you talking to me,” he began.

  “I’m not doing it for you,” she said stiffly.

  “I appreciate that, too.”

  She stared out the window at the street, the people walking by. “Seventeen years, and they haven’t found this guy.”

  “I know,” he said, inadequately.

  “You know they didn’t even test the rape kit. I started hassling them a year ago. I’m still waiting.”

  “That’s a crime,” he said. He could not have meant anything more. “My field office has requested the kit. We’ll do everything we can to expedite the testing.”

  “You think he’s still . . .” She trailed off, shuddered. He waited, letting her take the lead. “So what do you want from me?” she finally asked, her voice flat.

  “I’ve seen the police report,” Roarke said. “I’m afraid what I need is more details about him. Anything you can remember. Voice. Smells. Speech patterns.”

  “You want me to relive it, you mean,” she said, her voice harsh. “Christ, you’re not asking much, are you?” He could see her hands were shaking.

  “I can take you through it if that would be easier. Ask questions. You can take as long as you like to answer. Whatever will help you.”

  She didn’t respond, and he knew he had to say more.

  “The thing is—we’ve found a pattern of these attacks. They happen in January. The last one was last year—”

  She turned on him savagely. “All right. All right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just do it.” She was agitated, breathing hard. He knew he had to get her to relax enough to remember.

  “Are you comfortable here?”

  She half shrugged. Then she glanced at the plate glass of the window. She stepped to the wall and pulled on a cord, dropping a blind across the glass.

  Good, Roarke thought. Thank you. She wasn’t happy. Who would be? But she was willing.

  “Would you prefer to sit or stand?” he asked aloud. He wanted to offer her all the choices he could, to let her feel that she was in control.

  After a long moment, she sat in the other armchair, across from him.

  “You can close your eyes, if that will help.”

  She made a contemptuous sound, but after a moment, she shut her eyes.

  “You were walking to school in the morning that day?”

  Her posture had already stiffened. “Yes.”

  “What was the weather like? The temperature?”

  “It was January. It was cold.”

  “Raining?”

  “In Phoenix?” she shot back. “Dry cold. It was dark but . . . it was morning,” she said plaintively, her voice for a moment just a child’s. “I thought bad things only happened at night.”

  Then her face hardened. The cynicism was back. “If you can believe that.” She made a gesture as if she were reaching for a cigarette, then faltered and clasped her hands together tightly.

  “Did you always walk to school?” Roarke asked. Could he have been watching you for days? he meant.

  “I missed the bus.” Her voice was an agony of regret, and he thought he could guess what she was thinking. What if she’d been five minutes earlier? What if her parents had given her a ride to school? It only took the smallest lapse, the tiniest error, to plunge someone into a living hell . . .

  But the information was useful already. It meant the abduction was opportunistic. The rapist wouldn’t have been able to grab her if she’d gotten the bus. Roarke made a mental note and moved on.

  “As you were walking, were there any cars driving on the street?”

  “Once in a while. Not many. It was early, it was still pretty quiet.”

  “Were you aware of a vehicle following you?”

  She stiffened again. It was a moment before she answered. “I saw a van go by but it didn’t
stop. It was parked when I went around the corner. I walked by it. There was no one around. Then . . . then I got grabbed from behind.”

  Roarke had a sense of déjà vu. Definitely the same MO. Exactly how Ivy had described the abduction in her police statement.

  I’m so sorry, he said to Marlena in his head. He waited a moment before he continued. “Did you have a sense of how big he was?”

  Her voice was savage. “I’ll tell you what. I wasn’t big. He was a lot bigger than me. A lot bigger.”

  “Did you ever at any point see him? Any part of him?”

  “He put a hood . . . over my head, you know?” She cleared her throat. “I screamed, and he punched me in the face . . . he said he would kill me if I made another sound.” Her voice was labored. Roarke could see that her jaw had tightened to the point that she was having difficulty speaking. “He broke my nose. I was bleeding the whole time, under the hood. Sometimes I was . . . choking . . . on the blood. I thought I was going to die.”

  Roarke, who didn’t pray, found himself praying he would say the right thing. He tried to put all the feelings he had into his next words. “You didn’t. I think you’re incredibly brave.”

  She took a shuddering breath, then glanced at him and nodded.

  “What kind of hood was it?” He looked around the shop, at the clothing. “Can you tell me what kind of material?”

  She closed her eyes again. “Canvas. It was like a canvas bag.”

  “Was he wearing a watch? Or any jewelry . . . ?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

  No ring, then? Roarke tried to contain his disappointment. “You said in the report he was fleshy?”

  “He was big. Not fat, but . . . solid.”

  “Did he say anything to you? Talk to you?”

  Her voice was dark, bitter. “Oh yeah.” She changed her tone, mimicking. ‘Shut up and take it, whore. You’re a dirty little bitch . . .’” She gagged slightly.

  Roarke had noticed a bottle of water beside the cash register. He stood and walked to get it, brought it to the window and set the bottle gently in front of Marlena. She picked it up with shaking hands and drank. After a moment, Roarke continued.