Sins of the Father (Book 2, The Erin Solomon Mysteries)

by Jen Blood

  “I’m getting the sleeping bag,” he said. The anger was gone from his voice, but there was a coolness in its place that felt a thousand times worse. He brought the sleeping bag back over and unrolled it beside me. “You should get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

  “I should take the first shift,” I said. “You can sleep.”

  “You’re hurt worse,” he said briefly. “You need it more. Besides, I need a little time to think.”

  I caught the fabric of his shorts in my hand and held on tight. I couldn’t think of anything to say. All at once, I thought of the first time we’d ever met, in Bennett’s Lobster Shanty one Friday night more than fifteen years before. I was just a teenager at the time—awkward, lonely. Lost. Hanging out at the bar waiting for my mother to decide who she was taking home for the night. And then, suddenly, there was Diggs: Twenty-three years old, cigarette dangling from his lips, beer in hand. Cocky. Sophisticated. But beyond that, what resonated for me then—and what resonated for me still—was that he’d been just as lost, just as lonely, as I was.

  He crouched to disentangle my hand from his shorts and set it back in my lap.

  “Get some rest,” he said. All the warmth, every ounce of connection I’d once felt between us, was gone. I nodded blindly.

  “Wake me in an hour,” I said. “I’ll take over then.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Juarez

  A woman answered when Juarez called the Downeast Daily Tribune at eight o’clock the next morning. She sounded young, but competent—though not professional enough to be a secretary. Another reporter was Juarez’s guess. Just who he felt like talking to.

  “My name is Jack Juarez. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI—”

  “Juarez?” the woman asked. “Hang on just a second, I’ll send it right over.”

  He paused, wondering if he’d missed something. When Erin and Diggs were back where they belonged, a good night’s sleep was definitely in order.

  “I’m sorry—you know who I am?”

  “Diggs said you might be calling,” she explained. “If you have an e-mail address, I’ll send it now.”

  “Can you tell me when you spoke with him last?”

  She didn’t answer for a few seconds. When she did, a faint touch of concern bled through her cool professionalism. “What happened? Is he all right?”

  Juarez hesitated. “He just hasn’t checked in for a couple of hours. We think they probably got lost,” he lied. “Did he contact you last night?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. He was at the Quebec Chronicle… He e-mailed me something; told me to send it to you if you called. You’re sure he’s all right?”

  “We don’t know for certain,” he admitted. “But if it is something more than them just getting off track, time is critical. This attachment that he sent—can you forward that to me?”

  “Of course,” she answered immediately. He gave her his e-mail address and waited while she typed out a message. “I’ll get it right to you. Is there anything else I can do? Where are you?”

  “Northern Maine,” he answered vaguely, already checking his e-mail. Within a minute, he had the photograph Diggs had scanned and sent to the newspaper. It was a faded black-and-white picture of a bar, packed full. Two teenage boys had been circled in red. Juarez checked the date, recognizing them immediately. Another circle in yellow was drawn around Hank Gendreau’s midsection. It was encircling a belt that looked very much like the one used to strangle Erin Lincoln.

  By nine o’clock, the Black Falls police station was packed tight with state and local police officers, park service employees, volunteer searchers, and four search and rescue dogs tended by a slender young blonde woman the sheriff introduced as Jamie Flint, as well as a teenage boy and a trio of overly pierced, tattooed women Juarez suspected were ex-cons. Juarez stood with Sheriff Cyr at the head of the small room, surrounded by wood paneling and half a dozen maps.

  “We have two priorities right now,” Juarez told the group. “The first is to find Will Rainier.” He tacked a photo of Rainier on the bulletin board, with a photo of the man’s black pickup truck beside it. “The second is to find Erin Solomon and Daniel Diggins.” He added photos of each of them to the board. “They were last seen at the border station in Fort Kent at ten-thirty last night. It’s been confirmed that Will Rainier also crossed at that station, at ten-forty-five. He was driving this pickup truck.

  “Erin and Diggs—Daniel, sorry,” he corrected himself, “were traveling in a blue 1996 Jeep Wrangler. We believe at this point that that vehicle may be off the road, though so far we’ve received no accident reports in the areas we’re searching, and no one has spotted it if it went off the road. They would have been traveling toward Black Falls on a road with spotty or nonexistent cell service.”

  “Most of the woods out there have spotty or nonexistent cell service,” the blonde woman said. She had a southern accent Juarez hadn’t expected, and she was tall and angular—striking, actually, with clear blue eyes and a ballerina’s build. Her nose was pierced, her hair pulled up in a dancer’s bun. Despite the activity in the room, all four of her dogs were lying down, seemingly unconcerned. “And the woods out that way are thick enough on some of those logging roads that you wouldn’t even see a vehicle if it’d gone into the trees.”

  “Which is why I think it’s important we do more than fly-bys trying to find them,” Juarez said.

  “As long as we have the rough area down like you say,” the woman said, “I’ll take the guys out there and we’ll get started. I’m more concerned about Rainier, though.”

  Cyr spoke up. “We’ll be careful, James,” he said to her. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

  She leveled him with an icy stare. “The hell I don’t—I’ve been getting that party line too long now. I’m assuming he’s armed, yeah?”

  Juarez nodded.

  “Yeah,” she said with a frown. “Exactly. So if we’re out there looking for him, I want some fire power on my side. And I’d encourage anybody who runs across him to shoot first and ask questions later. Especially now.”

  “Let’s just hold on with that, all right?” Juarez interrupted. “Nobody’s shooting anyone—especially not when Diggs and Erin may be in the immediate vicinity and there’s a forest full of search-and-rescue wandering around. Let’s put the emphasis on the ‘rescue’ in that phrase, please.”

  She looked at him like he was a complete idiot, but she didn’t argue.

  “I have a press conference here at ten o’clock,” Juarez continued. “At this point, I don’t want any of this information going out to the public. I’ll release Rainier’s photo with instructions to contact the authorities if he’s spotted. News of Bonnie Saucier’s death has already been leaked, but I don’t want anyone breathing a word about anything else that was discovered there. That means no one should be discussing any theories you might have about what happened or didn’t happen or what else may be linked to this case. If you need to speculate, I’d appreciate it if you kept those speculations to yourself. Do not discuss this case with anyone.”

  Two more officers entered at the back of the room and looked meaningfully at Juarez. He nodded to them, then returned his attention to the rest of the group.

  “Everyone should have my cell number. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions or any thoughts that might prove helpful in the search. I’ll join you out there myself as soon as possible.”

  He dismissed the group and watched as they filed out, talking quietly amongst themselves. The dog woman waited until everyone was gone, then approached. Her dogs—a bloodhound, two German shepherds, and what looked like a pit bull mix of some kind—all remained where they were.

  “You know about Rainier?” she asked Juarez as soon as they were alone.

  “Know what about Rainier?” The dogs were watching him with unnerving attention.

  “Know he’s a psychopath,” sh
e said. “Ask any woman around here—they’ll tell you. I’ve been saying it for years now. It’s nice somebody’s finally listening.”

  “I’d prefer it if people go out there without the idea that they’re on a kill-or-be-killed manhunt, though,” Juarez said. He thought of Erin again, flashing once more on the way Rainier had looked at her the other night at the bar. He let his curiosity get the better of him for a moment. “What do you know about Rainier?”

  “He raped one of my girls,” she said promptly. “One of the women who works with me. We were up here looking for some kids, and she ended up on his property. Killed one of my best dogs, too.”

  Juarez tightened his hands around the folder he held, struggling to keep his face impassive. “Why isn’t he in jail?”

  “The girl was scared,” Jamie said briefly. “And I could never prove what he did to my dog. But trust me… You don’t want your girlfriend out there alone with this guy.”

  Juarez started to deny the charge. At the look in her eyes, he shut his mouth. Instead, he gave her a few parting instructions that he suspected she would ignore, then watched as she whistled for the dogs and all four sprang to life. As she was leaving, the cops who had signaled Juarez during the meeting reappeared. This time, they flanked a prisoner in a blue jumpsuit and shackles. He shied away from the dogs as they passed.

  “You’re Hank Gendreau?” Juarez asked.

  Hank nodded. He looked tired and confused, and more than slightly anxious at the marked disruptions to his routine at the state prison. Juarez nodded to the sheriff’s office, now empty. The guards led Hank through the door. Juarez followed behind. Once they were inside, he nodded to Hank’s wrists.

  “You can remove the handcuffs,” he said. One of the officers started to protest. Juarez looked at him evenly. “I’ll take responsibility if anything happens. Uncuff him, please. Then you can leave us.”

  The moment they were alone, Juarez pushed the photograph Diggs had found across the desk toward him.

  “Do you recognize that?” he asked.

  Gendreau looked puzzled for a moment before a flicker of panic crossed his face. He did his best to get the reaction under control, but failed. A bad liar, then.

  “That’s me and Will Rainier when we were kids. What about it?”

  “Look at the date on there,” Juarez instructed.

  He did, then looked away for another moment before he recovered. “September twenty-seventh. So what?”

  “That’s the weekend Jeff and Erin Lincoln disappeared,” Juarez said.

  “I was in Quebec that weekend.” Hank shrugged. “That’s been my story all along—how’s this picture supposed to be a bad thing for me?”

  “It’s not so much the when or the where,” Juarez said casually. “As it is what you’re wearing. That belt…?”

  It was over from there. Hank blanched and stuttered and started a few stories before Juarez cut him off at the pass.

  “You killed Erin Lincoln,” he said calmly. “You raped and murdered a twelve-year-old girl, and then seventeen years later you tortured and strangled your own daughter.” He made no attempt to keep the revulsion from his voice. “And along the way, you and Will Rainier killed how many others?”

  Hank shook his head frantically. “No! It wasn’t me—I’m telling you, I didn’t have a thing to do with any of it. I didn’t kill any of those girls.”

  “You were there when Erin Lincoln died,” Juarez continued, undeterred by the man’s denial. He stood, planting his hands on the table, and leaned in until he was just inches from Hank’s face. “You tortured her for a week, you raped her, you strangled her nearly to death, and then you let her go so you could do it all over again—”

  “No!” Hank shouted. He slammed his fist on the desk. “No, goddammit, I’m telling you. We didn’t kill her.”

  “But you were there that weekend,” Juarez said. “How did that belt wind up around her neck? The same belt you were wearing the day her boat was found capsized in the middle of Eagle Lake?”

  “I want my lawyer,” Hank said suddenly. His face had gone from terrified to that impenetrable mask Juarez had seen in countless interrogations before. “I want to talk to Max. I’m telling you, I didn’t kill Erin Lincoln.”

  “Look, I can bring your lawyer into this. Which means word will probably get out back at the prison that we’re looking at you for the deaths of a bunch of other girls besides your own daughter. If that’s the way you want it, that’s fine with me. I’ve read your file—I know how hard you’ve worked to convince the other inmates there that you’re innocent… How many do you think will believe you when they find out you’re connected with the murders of these other girls? Once they get the details of all that was done to this twelve-year-old child?”

  “You can’t do that.”

  Juarez didn’t blink. “Watch me.” He straightened and retrieved his cell phone. He was just walking toward the door when Hank stopped him.

  “Wait!”

  Juarez turned calmly. The man looked terrified. His eyes shone with tears Juarez was certain would fall before he was through.

  “What happened that weekend?”

  “It wasn’t me,” Hank repeated. “I didn’t do any of it.”

  Juarez sat down at the table again. He leaned back, calmer now. “So who did?”

  Hank hesitated. All Juarez had to do was look toward the door this time before the man folded. “It was Will,” he said brokenly. “It was this stupid thing we did… I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill any of them. Will did Erin, but it was all Jeff’s idea. That was where it all started. Jeff Lincoln started everything.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I woke in the cave an indeterminate amount of time later to pain—the kind that digs in deep and holds on so tight it feels like your whole body’s being rung out. I reached for my phone and turned it on long enough to get my bearings. Light filtered in through an entrance above us that I hadn’t noticed before, so at least I could see something of what was going on around me. According to the iPhone gods, it was ten o’clock in the morning. Diggs was sitting on the ground with his back against the cave wall, his eyes closed. It was warmer than it had been, but it was still damp and dark and dank. Still a cave, in other words.

  “You okay?” Diggs asked.

  Our fight came back immediately: everything he’d said. Everything I’d said. All I’d done to get us here.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m good. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’m up.”

  “You haven’t been out that long. I can stay up a little longer.”

  “I’m all right. I won’t be able to get back to sleep anyway. You go ahead.”

  He came over and waited while I extricated myself from the sleeping bag. I put too much pressure on my broken wrist and had to stop for a second, waiting it out while the world dipped and spun. I felt Diggs’ hand at the small of my back.

  “Sol?”

  I got up. Backed away a little. “I’m fine—I just need to be a little more careful. What about you?”

  “I’m good. Or as good as can be expected given the circumstances.”

  I gave a stilted laugh that sounded even more stilted in our subterranean prison. When I stopped, the whole world went silent. Diggs stood a foot away from me, but it was like the Berlin Wall had been resurrected between us.

  “Well… I’ll just go over there,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I walked past him, thinking of his words this morning: You don’t think.

  And look where it had gotten us.

  I sat down on the cool ground, trying not to see any of the unknown creepy crawlies I was bound to find if I looked too hard. Diggs cleared his throat.

  “Hey, Sol?”

  I looked up. “Yeah?”

  There was a long pause. I saw him shake his head. “Nothing, forget it. Just wake me if you get tired.”

  “I will.”

  I sat there in the semi-da
rkness and watched him toss and turn until eventually his breathing evened out.

  While Diggs slept the sleep of the damned, I dug out Erin Lincoln’s journal and sat in the miniscule shaft of light funneling in from outside. I opened to the entry I’d left off at, and happily retreated to the past.

  January 20, 1970

  Me and Bonnie and Sarah had a sleepover last night at Sarah’s house. I didn’t want to go—I don’t like to leave J. and Daddy alone together after last time, but J. said he’d spend the night at Hank’s. Sarah’s mother (Maman) had so much food I thought I’d split, and then Luke came in and drew a picture of me while we were sitting there. He says I’m an angel. I told him angels can’t spit halfway across the room or land a free throw better than any boy in town.

  Hank and J. and Creepy Will tried to sneak in the window but Sarah screamed and got her Maman. She came running in and told the boys to get the HELL out of there or they’d be sorry. Then she made Luke go to bed, too.

  Bonnie says she can see the future, because her memere could. She’s an Indian, and a witch. She says she can see everything that ever happened when me and J. were in Lynn. She says Daddy is a bad man.

  I told J. what she said, but he said not to get too worried. He says you don’t have to be a fortune teller to know Daddy’s no good.

  February 3, 1970

  I haven’t written in a while because J. got sick again. I’ve been taking care of him. He’s been coughing and had a fever and he’s got the same white patches all up and down his throat as he did last time. I finally convinced him to go to the doctor on his own, because Daddy won’t ever take him. All I’d need to do is sneeze and Daddy would move heaven and earth to get me to the finest doctor in New England. J. could be dying and Daddy would just let him go, same as he did with Mama.

  He has strep throat, and the doctor said maybe he should get his tonsils removed since this is the third time this year.

  If he’d stop kissing so many gross townie girls, I bet he wouldn’t get it at all.