“Must have scared you. The cops all over it. And a live witness.” Roarke said softly.
“If you want to call it that. She was the walking dead.”
Roarke felt the heat of fury. He had to swallow hard to contain it, and it was a longer moment before he could speak again. “Was Laura a witness, too? Did one of you kill her?”
“She took care of that all on her own.” Franzen smiled. “And even then, the cops were too stupid to follow up. Easy as pie.”
“No one ever came knocking at your door. It was just the two of you, then? No other Wayfarers involved?”
“Our little secret. And it turned out I didn’t need Dave after all. It’s worked out so much better without him.”
His face turned hard. He motioned toward the door with the gun. “We’re going to take a walk now. Stand up. Nice and slow. Any move I don’t like, I shoot until this piece is empty.”
Roarke stood up from the chair.
“Now walk. One step every ten seconds. Anything faster than that, you get shot where you stand. Got it?”
“I got it,” Roarke said, his voice grating. His mind was racing, calculating quickly.
He’d expected Franzen to just kill him inside the cabin. Burn the cabin down around him. But to be truly safe, he’d have to burn the cabin, and the shed, and the van beyond recognition. And that size of that fire would draw attention.
Better to bury him out in the desert. Let the sand take care of him, like it had taken care of Huell.
Which meant Roarke had a chance. Not the greatest odds . . . but a chance.
So in slow motion, one step at a time, he moved across the cabin floor.
Out the cabin door now, with Franzen right behind him and the muzzle of his gun pressed into his back.
Out away from the cabin, toward the ridge, and the pit.
The moonlight brought out a stark clarity in the desert landscape, and Roarke’s thoughts seemed hyper-clear as well, as he walked one excruciating step at a time over the sand, with Franzen right behind him and the Ruger in the center of his back.
Cara was here, in this place, with a monster. She survived it. You can, too.
He wasn’t afraid of dying. Which was probably a good thing, because dying was a definite possibility.
In the arroyo below them, the palm fronds swayed in the slight, dry breeze, and he caught the metallic scent of ground water on the wind. Not a bad place to spend eternity, if that’s how it happened.
But this man shouldn’t be allowed to live.
They were almost to the well now. Franzen clearly intended to save himself the trouble of digging.
Roarke thought of Cara, standing under the moon. Fourteen years old, throwing a silver lighter into a pit of sand soaked in gasoline. The sense of her presence was almost palpable.
And when he saw the small tree backlit by moonlight, he knew what he had to do.
He twisted his head toward the tree in shock, and whispered from his soul, “Cara.”
He felt Franzen swivel to look, felt him angle the gun toward the tree . . . and in that split second, Roarke shoved himself backward with all the power in him. Franzen was bigger but Roarke was younger, fitter. And he was angry.
Franzen stumbled back, firing wildly and missing. The explosion reverberated in the night, and Roarke was on him, both hands grabbing Franzen’s gun arm and twisting and jerking at the same time, using his full strength to pull the arm from the shoulder socket.
Franzen howled in pain and rage. Roarke twisted the Ruger away from him and lunged with his whole weight, shoving Franzen backward into the pit.
He heard the Wayfarer hit the bottom with a sickening thud. Another shriek of pain.
Roarke stood on the ridge, breathing through the adrenaline pounding in his head. He walked to the edge of the pit and looked down.
Fifteen feet below, Franzen clutched his dislocated arm, gaping down at the bones at his feet, the charred skull.
Two monsters, one alive, one dead.
Roarke stared down.
Here is justice. No one has found this place in sixteen years. I could soak the pit, toss the lighter in, light him on fire. Send him to hell with his friend.
His flesh melting and his bones charring, screaming until his throat burns and then screaming inside.
For Ivy. For Laura. For Marlena. For Cara. For all the dead girls, and the violated girls, and all the girls still in danger.
He reached into his pocket and drew out the silver lighter he’d picked up from the pit.
Yes or no?
He flicked the lighter. And sixteen years later, it burst into flame.
He held it over the pit, and looked down at Franzen’s cowering bulk.
Burn him. Let them rot together. It’s justice.
Then he snapped the lighter closed.
CARA
Chapter Sixty-One
She sits at the edge of the blackened pit, under the moon, in a night landscape so drenched in light it looks like day.
The screaming has stopped. The man is dead. She has killed It.
But It never dies.
There will always be others.
The thought threatens to overwhelm her.
She could bury herself now, in the desert sand. She could rest. She would die within days. It would hurt, it would be agony, maybe, but The Game would be over. She would not have to fight, to be ever on her guard, to live in fear. Surely the peace of nothingness would be preferable to this life of fear and memory.
She sits for some time. Then she climbs down into the pit, stands above the stinking, smoldering corpse, reaches down and snaps off the ring finger to take the ring.
Chapter Sixty-Two
It is just dawn, the sun glimmering over the hills, when she walks up the driveway toward the group home.
The house is dark, and she must use her lock pick on the front door to get in.
She closes the door quietly behind her, takes a step toward the hall toward her bedroom—
Then she freezes at the sense of a presence behind her in the dark.
She twists around.
Ms. Sharonda stands up from the couch in the lounge. They look at each other across the unlit hall. When she speaks, the director’s voice is hard.
“Detective Ortiz was by last night, wanting to talk to you.”
Cara is very still, very aware of the number of steps to the door. She has no idea what’s coming, but she is ready to fight or flee. She will not go back to jail. Not ever.
Finally, Ms. Sharonda speaks. “Pack your bag. You’ve been transferred.”
It is not at all what she expected.
“It’s a home out by the Arizona border,” the director says flatly. “Just as well you weren’t here long enough to make any friends. It’s three and a half hours from here, the end of the county. Gonna be hard for anybody to visit you out there.”
Cara suddenly has the feeling of another conversation going on, an underlying meaning.
Ms. Sharonda stares straight into her face. “I told you before. I don’t want to see you back here. Ever. You get out now and you don’t come back.”
Cara meets her eyes, and understands she has been reprieved.
The minivan takes her away before anyone else wakes.
She sits in the back seat and watches the road signs. The roads all have numbers. If you know the numbers, you always know where you are. This time, though, she knows the roads without the signs. Through the Anza corridor and the Indian reservations. Up over the San Jacinto and Santa Rosa Mountains. Down the sidewinding road into the Coachella Valley. And then far, far out into the desert, to the town when she spent the only happy years of her life . . . until It struck for the first time and took her family, and tried to take her.
When the minivan drops her at her new “home,” the driver calls her back and gives her her transfer papers. She glances down at the top page and something catches her attention, makes her look again.
When she stands in front of th
is group home director’s desk, he takes her papers and files them without looking, without seeing what she has seen.
The transfer is dated the day before. As if the night and the man and the pit had never existed.
Ms. Sharonda has made her choice, too.
ROARKE
Chapter Sixty-Three
It was three days of police work before he could get back to the Mission. And of course he found Mother Doctor out in the gardens of the asistencia, walking and smoking.
They moved together out through the garden gate, beyond the wall, where the children couldn’t hear, and sat on the bench that Cara had sat on so long ago, and he told her the story of his night journey.
He didn’t know if Cara had ever known about Franzen. He did know that she had been transferred away from the group home. And Franzen had stopped his attacks cold, for five years after Ivy died.
He was in custody now. There were already two DNA matches from the rape kits. And Roarke was looking forward to walking into the Palm Desert station and laying the DNA evidence against Huell out in front of any detective except Ortiz.
Roarke didn’t say it to Mother Doctor. But Ortiz was a whole new problem.
His posts in the men’s forums meant he was after Cara, intending evil and death. Could Roarke prove it? Was there anything he could do that would be within the law? He didn’t know.
He would have to think.
But not now.
He stood from the bench, reached into his coat pocket. “I thought you would want this.” He handed Mother Doctor back the satin surplice with its relics.
She looked at the package, didn’t take it. “You should keep them—”
He shook his head. “They belong here.”
She nodded, took the packet, tucked it back in the pocket of her own coat. Then she looked him over. “So you’re going back to work. Formally, I mean.”
She had seen the service weapon in the holster on his hip, of course. She never missed a trick.
He spoke carefully. “Most people don’t know this about the Bureau. We have a certain latitude to set our own agenda. To direct resources where we feel they’re most immediately necessary. If we’ve put in the time . . . and have a certain influence. Which means my team and I . . . we can build a permanent task force to make crimes against children the priority. Wherever that’s happening. On the streets. In the juvenile justice system. In their own homes. I just wanted you to know.”
She reached for his hands, squeezed them hard. “Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
He stood from the bench, started to turn away. Her voice stopped him. Gentle, reproving.
“There’s something else, Roarke. I know it. Are you going to tell me?”
He stood still for a long moment before he finally spoke. “It’s Cara. I know where she is.”
It had come to him as he stood out in the desert moonscape. He might be wrong, but he didn’t think he was wrong. He’d seen where she grew up now. It made sense.
Mother Doctor’s eyes widened slightly, and her voice was cautious. “What are you going to do?”
He knew he would ask himself that question a million times in the next days. About Cara. About Ortiz. But right now, he said the only thing he could say.
“I don’t know.”
She shook her head. “Nobody said it was easy.”
In spite of himself, he smiled at her. “No. They never did.”
CARA
Chapter Sixty-Four
It is done.
The director of this new group home is nowhere near as vigilant as Ms. Sharonda. The night after her arrival Cara sneaks out in the dead of night and takes a car from the street.
There are cars everywhere. There will always be cars, and roads to take her where she needs to go.
Back in Las Piedras she sets the fire. The dry palm trees surrounding the Wayfarers Club are a hazard. They go up like massive torches and the fire spreads in seconds to the gasoline she has used to drench the foundation. The Santa Anas breathe their hot breath, fanning the blaze.
She stands for a moment with the glow on her face, then before the trucks can come, she slips through the dark to the car, and away.
One more stop. One last visit to the Mission, to give Ivy the relics of her journey into the desert: the palm frond, the glittering stone, and the silver ring from the monster’s hand. Proof of the end.
It is not justice. There is no justice when such things are allowed to happen. When monsters roam free in the world, and people do nothing. There will never be justice while It is allowed to live.
But it is something. Ivy can rest now. In that way, she is the lucky one.
Now Cara sits on the bed of her new room, looking out the window at the desert hills. The day is sunny. The room is drenched with the light.
It is not home. But it is not jail. There are worse places.
It will be waiting for her here, undoubtedly. It is everywhere.
It never dies.
But she knows things now. There are voices in her head.
A fierce one that sounds like the old Indian.
“You are the wolf.”
And a gentler one, the nun.
“You are not alone. And you are loved.”
Author’s Note
Before I was a full-time screenwriter and author, I worked as a teacher in the Los Angeles County juvenile court system. I have not in any way exaggerated the plight of children and teens in the Social Services and justice system. Abuses and neglect are rampant in every state, not just in California. Good people in the system fight a heartbreaking battle to make a difference, but real change will never happen until we all make it our responsibility to educate ourselves about what’s really going on in our own communities and find ways to help, from spreading the word through social media to volunteering, advocating, and donating to organizations that pick up the slack.
I donate every month to Children of the Night, MISSSEY, and the Covenant House, who rescue and work with homeless, trafficked and sexually exploited teens; and to Planned Parenthood, which works tirelessly to ensure that every child is planned, wanted, and cared for. If you’d like to learn more about organizations in your country, state and community, I have links to places you can start on my website, http://alexandrasokoloff.com.
“Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.”
—John Stuart Mill
Acknowledgments
The verse Cara reads for Ms. Sharonda is from “Nemesis Necklace” in The Couple Who Fell to Earth (C&R Press), by the astonishing poet Michelle Bitting: http://www.michellebitting.com.
The quote on Ivy’s tombstone is Anne Frank’s, from The Diary of a Young Girl: A single candle can both defy and define the darkness.
The profiling text that Roarke references extensively and quotes to Mother Doctor from is Behavior Evidence: Understanding Motives and Developing Suspects in Unsolved Serial Rapes Through Behavioral Profiling Techniques, by Brent E. Turvey, MS. I am greatly indebted to Brent Turvey for all his textbooks and papers on criminal profiling and forensic science, and I highly recommend that any author or reader who would like to read further on these subjects consult the Forensic Solutions website: http://www.corpus-delicti.com, for books and classes.
A million thanks to:
My awesome editors, JoVon Sotak, Jacque Ben-Zekry, and Charlotte Herscher, and the rest of the team/family at Thomas & Mercer: Sarah Shaw, Grace Doyle, Alan Turkus, and Anh Schluep.
My brilliant agents, Scott Miller, Frank Wuliger, and Lee Keele.
Copyeditor Hannah Buehler, especially for her help sorting this complex timeline!
My priceless early readers: Diane Coates Peoples, Joan Tregarthen Huston, and Helena Rybak.
Pearl Ruscio-Metcalf, for helping me hear young Cara’s voice.
Lee Lofland and his Writers Police Academy trainers/instructors: Dave Pauly, Katherine Ramsland, Corporal Dee Jackson, Andy Russell
, Marco Conelli, Lieutenant Randy Shepard, and Robert Skiff, for forensics, investigative, and tactical help.
R.C. Bray for his terrific narrative interpretations of the books.
P.J. Nunn, Timoney Korbar, Amanda Wilson, Adam Cruz, and the WriterSpace.com team for brilliant publicity support.
Robert Gregory Browne, for the series cover concept.
The initial inspiration for the Huntress from Val McDermid, Denise Mina, and Lee Child, at the San Francisco Bouchercon.
My writing group, the Weymouth Seven: Margaret Maron, Mary Kay Andrews, Diane Chamberlain, Sarah Shaber, Brenda Witchger and Katy Munger.
Webmistresses extraordinaire: Madeira James and Jen Forbus at Xuni.com.
The Dorland Mountain Arts Colony, for providing such a gorgeous and inspiring writing retreat. The view from that mountain helped me create the fictional but very nearby town of Las Piedras.
Tracy Fenton, Helen Boyce, and the awesome administrators and readers of THE Book Club, who’ve been so supportive on the other side of the pond.
Craig Robertson, for too many things to list, including that this year we had the same book and editing deadlines twice and managed not to kill each other.
I love to hear from readers! Visit my website at http://alexandrasokoloff.com to contact me, join my mailing list, find me on social media, and win cool stuff.
About the Author
Photo © Israel David Groveman
Alexandra Sokoloff has won the Thriller Award and been nominated for the Bram Stoker, Anthony, and Black Quill Awards for her supernatural thrillers The Harrowing, The Price, The Unseen, Book of Shadows, The Shifters, and The Space Between. She has also earned a second Thriller Award nomination for her Huntress/FBI Thrillers series (Huntress Moon, Blood Moon, Cold Moon, and Bitter Moon). The New York Times Book Review has called her a “daughter of Mary Shelley” and declared her books “some of the most original and freshly unnerving work in the genre.”
Bitter Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers Book 4) Page 27
