White Out: A Thriller (Badlands Thriller)

by Danielle Girard

  “An image?” Mike asked. “Like a picture?”

  “Yes,” Cooper said, still talking to Iver. “It’s you grabbing hold of a woman.”

  “In the bar?” Mike asked.

  “Officer Gilbert said at the bar, not necessarily in the bar.”

  Iver looked at Mike, who was frowning. “What are you thinking?”

  Mike looked at Cooper. “We need to see that picture. Is that possible?”

  “It should be. Let me see what I can do.” Cooper moved to the door. Carl Gilbert was hovering in the hallway, hands on his hips.

  Cooper’s voice was soft as he spoke.

  Gilbert shook his head.

  Cooper kept speaking.

  Iver glanced at Mike, who watched the scene as well.

  “I think you’d better defer that decision to Sheriff Davis,” Cooper said, raising his own phone. “Either you can call him or I can.”

  Gilbert’s expression went tight, and Iver would have felt joy if he weren’t still so afraid. Gilbert stepped out of view, and a minute later, he returned and spoke softly to Cooper, his head bowed. Whatever happened, Cooper had won.

  A minute later, the attorney returned to the hospital room and shut the door behind him, leaving the frowning Gilbert outside.

  “What did you find out?” Mike asked.

  “I got the picture they have of you and the woman.”

  Iver felt his heart sink. There was real evidence against him.

  Cooper handed Iver his phone. An image filled the screen: Iver’s own face, pinched in rage. The sight of it made him sick. His outstretched hand held on to a thin arm. His field of vision started to go black, his right eye losing focus. He had a migraine coming on fast.

  “Can I see that?” Mike asked, and Iver passed him the phone.

  “Are you okay?” Cooper asked.

  “It’s my head,” Iver said, the words hammering. “Migraine.”

  Cooper reached past him, and the nurse call button pinged softly in the quiet room.

  “Iver,” Mike said. “Look at this.”

  Iver squinted, trying to focus on the phone Mike now held.

  Mike zoomed in on the image until the woman’s hand and forearm filled the screen.

  There, just above the wrist, was a small mark. “Sword,” Iver whispered.

  “Yes,” Mike said.

  “What do you see?” Cooper asked.

  Iver studied the image of the birthmark on his ex-wife’s wrist. “Debbie’s birthmark,” he said as a nurse entered the room, Carl Gilbert on her tail.

  “Please move aside, gentlemen,” the nurse directed.

  “I see the birthmark,” Cooper said as Carl Gilbert peered over his shoulder. “What does it mean?”

  “It means the woman Iver is grabbing here isn’t the victim. It’s his ex-wife, Debbie Wilson,” Mike said. “That picture was taken Wednesday night at the bar, right? Debbie and I were there.”

  Carl Gilbert looked frantically between Iver and Mike.

  “It’s true,” Iver said, leaning back and closing his eyes against the pain. “I recognize the birthmark.”

  “That’s not a birthmark,” Gilbert countered. “It’s just dirt.”

  “It’s a birthmark,” Mike said. “Here, I can show you another picture of it.”

  Iver opened one eye to see Mike scrolling through his phone.

  “There,” Mike announced, turning the phone so Gilbert could see the screen.

  Iver let his eyes fall closed again. He definitely didn’t need to see Mike’s pictures of his ex-wife.

  Someone patted his arm gently. “We’ve got some meds on board,” the nurse said. “Pain should be better momentarily.”

  “It still doesn’t prove anything,” Gilbert argued.

  “I disagree,” Cooper said calmly. “This photograph is no longer evidence of contact between my client and the victim.”

  “We don’t need it,” Gilbert said. “There’s other evidence. The mud on his shoes proves he was outside last night.”

  “Nurse? Does the staff check on patients overnight?” Cooper asked.

  “Yes,” the nurse said. “Normally. But we did have an active night. Fridays are usually pretty busy, so some of our nurses may have been pulled off their normal rounds.”

  “There was someone in here,” Iver said. “A custodian, I think.”

  “A custodian?” the nurse repeated.

  Iver opened one eye and nodded. “Emptying the trash, I think.”

  The room was quiet.

  “Is the pain improving?”

  Iver opened his eyes to see Dr. Prescott standing above him. “A little,” he said.

  “Dr. Prescott, was Iver given something last night to help him rest?” Gilbert asked.

  “She can’t tell you that,” Cooper cut in. “It’s a violation of patient confidentiality.”

  “We’ll just get a warrant,” Gilbert said.

  “Then you should do that,” Cooper countered.

  The pounding in his head lightened to a gentle ache as he pushed himself up on one elbow. “I’m telling you, you should talk to that custodian. He was here—middle of the night.”

  The nurse watched him, then glanced at Dr. Prescott, who was checking his vitals on the screen.

  When no one answered, Iver went on, “I’m sure you can find out who that guy was.”

  “What guy?” Gilbert asked.

  “The custodian—the janitor.” Iver sat upright. “He wheeled his garbage can in and emptied the trash can—the one right there, in that corner.” Iver pointed to the far corner of the room, just past the locker that Gilbert and the other officer had emptied. But the corner was empty. There was no trash can there. As he scanned the room, he saw no trash can anywhere.

  “Iver?” Mike said softly.

  But Iver was still searching the room for the trash can. “He was wearing a dark uniform, like a one-piece thing. Navy, I think.”

  No one spoke.

  “We’ll need to speak to this janitor,” Gilbert said.

  “Yeah. Talk to him.” But when Iver looked back at the group huddled by his bed, they were all looking at him. “What?”

  The nurse shook her head. “We don’t have night janitors,” she said. “The cleaning staff comes in during the day. And I believe they’re all female.”

  After a moment, Dr. Prescott cleared her throat. “I need to examine Mr. Larson, if everyone could leave the room for a few minutes.”

  Gilbert started to argue. “He’s—”

  “I’m not discharging him until I’ve done an examination,” Prescott said, gaze on Gilbert.

  Slowly, the room emptied. Iver kept his eye on the door until it had closed. Then he looked to the doctor. “Do you think I’m hallucinating?”

  Prescott shook her head. “It’s very unlikely that the dose of sedative you’re on could cause hallucinations.”

  “But not impossible,” he said.

  Prescott didn’t answer him as she shone her penlight into his eyes, left and then right. He imagined that picture, the sliver of his wife’s arm, his own face frozen in rage. But Debbie was alive. If he had any reason to kill a woman, it would be her.

  He drew a slow breath as the doctor turned off the light and made a note on his chart. She flipped it closed and headed for the door. As he watched her leave, the pressure seemed to ebb from his chest. For the first time in a long time, the voice in his head grew quiet, and he closed his eyes to the blissful silence.

  CHAPTER 44

  LILY

  Lily followed the deputy back through Molva’s small downtown, turning south for a few blocks before stopping in front of a squat yellow house with chipping paint. A makeshift ramp led from the driveway to the front door. The porch sagged slightly in the middle, barely supported by two stacked cinder blocks.

  Hesitating, Lily scanned the neighborhood. The other houses looked a lot like Melinda Danson’s, tired homes built when someone had thought Molva would be an economic center. Or perhaps it
had been, though any evidence of a boom was gone now. On the other side of the street sat a house with its door and front windows boarded. Neon spray paint marked the large slabs of particleboard covering the openings. Around them, the black tongue of flames scarred the house’s facade. In the driveway a sad-looking red tricycle lay on its side.

  When she turned back to Danson’s house, the deputy was standing on the front walkway, waiting for her. She left the window down for Cal and got out of the car.

  “Mindy’s real friendly.”

  She nodded and followed him up the makeshift ramp, which squawked beneath their weight. The sound only added to the chill that Lily carried as she walked toward the door.

  “Come on in, Andy,” came a frail voice even before he could ring the doorbell. The ramp made its own announcement.

  “Hey, Aunt Mindy,” the deputy said, pulling back the screen door and letting himself in.

  Lily followed a few steps behind. The first thing she noticed was the smell—cooked beans and the sweet, pungent sweat of the old. Ms. Danson sat in a wheelchair parked beside a small TV tray. On it were a pair of reading glasses and three remote controls. Andy greeted his aunt and motioned for Lily to sit before explaining to his aunt that he had to get back to work. Before he left, Danson directed him to the back bedroom. “It’s the shoebox on the desk there.”

  He returned a moment later, carrying a worn blue box, its color faded to white in places from years of handling. He set the box carefully on the small coffee table and glanced at Lily. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  And with that, Andy was out the door. The screen door slammed behind him, giving her a little start. The town of Molva made her uncomfortable. Lily wanted to ask her questions and get out.

  “Can I get you some water or tea?” Ms. Danson asked.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Lily noticed Danson’s empty glass, its bent straw dangling over the rim. “Would you like something?”

  “Oh, thank you, dear. If you would just fill this with water . . .” The old woman lifted the glass in a trembling hand, and Lily took it from her. “The kitchen is just through there.”

  “Of course. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Oh, no. I’ve got someone coming with lunch in a bit,” she answered, twisting a watch around her tiny wrist, though she made no move to look at it.

  Lily filled the water glass, noticing the general dinginess of the kitchen, how its surfaces had yellowed with age. A few dishes sat in the sink, and a sticky residue on the floor clung to her shoes as she walked. She set the glass on Danson’s tray and settled onto the couch across from the wheelchair. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

  Danson seemed to sense Lily’s hesitation. “Andy said you wanted to hear about Derek Hudson.”

  Did she want to learn about the monster who’d held her captive for sixteen months? Her fingers found the seams of her pants and gripped the hard denim. Had Andy told his aunt that she was one of Hudson’s victims? A survivor? But why else had she come here if not to learn about Hudson?

  “I would like to hear about him,” Lily said, the words accompanied by a wave of hot nausea.

  Danson grasped her hands together and made little circles with her thumbs, the crepe-like skin folding over on itself as she moved. “Well, we may as well start with Derek’s mother, Stephanie. She was just a few years younger than me, no family nearby.” The way Danson talked was comforting, her relaxed manner of speaking and the soft smile on her lips.

  “Was Derek an only child?”

  Danson’s mouth thinned as she shook her head. “There was an older boy, a real troublemaker. He’s been in prison most of his life. That’s where he was when Hudson took those girls. The police checked that first. I suspect he’s still in prison.”

  “But Mr. Hudson is deceased?”

  “The boys’ father? Oh yes. Frank Hudson died fifteen years ago, maybe longer now. He was a nasty fellow. Came to Molva from somewhere down south, wanting to live off the land. Mostly he drank and hunted. Back then, there were a few of them like that—maybe five or six families in all. They all set up on a big parcel of land just past mile marker nineteen. Place had been a campground—KOA-like—that they’d bought from the owners, cheap because there wasn’t much to the land. Hudson got the idea that they’d build a few cabins up there, create some kind of commune.

  “Stephanie was all for it. Not too bright, that one. She was pregnant before she ever finished high school. The commune never got off the ground. Most of the families moved within a year or two. The kids who stayed never went to school past about fifth grade. After that, they were supposedly homeschooled, but we all got the idea that they just ran around like animals, that bunch.”

  Lily listened. “Ten years ago, was the commune still running?”

  “I don’t think so. Most of the kids who grew up there were long gone. I don’t know that anyone knew exactly who was living up there all those years. The residents didn’t take too kindly to visitors, and the Hudsons were the only ones we ever saw in town, even when the commune was larger. Stephanie and Frank did all the shopping and selling for the commune. They sold whatever they grew and also some crafts and things that the women and children must have made. None of it very good quality.”

  “And after Frank died? Stephanie still came to town?”

  “Less and less after that. There was some disagreement with the man who owns our local mercantile, so they started heading over to other towns to do their business. Occasionally we’d see one of them—boys, mostly—driving through town for one thing or another.”

  Other boys. Something uncomfortable edged down her spine—something with legs. “But the others were gone ten years ago?”

  “That I don’t know,” Danson said. “There were at least three or four boys up there for a decade or more. I believe there might have been another boy or two up there for longer. Hard to know for sure when the last of them left. Course, they were all long gone when Derek kidnapped those girls. The police checked for others living up there then.”

  “Do you know who any of the other families were?” Lily asked.

  “I knew one of the other families,” Danson said. “They had a boy about Hudson’s age, and the mother was close with Stephanie, but they’ve been gone for years.”

  “When Derek Hudson took those girls, he was up there alone?” He had taken five girls and held them for sixteen months without help? The words came back to her. Always take what’s easy. Quick. Then you get back home. Don’t help nobody. Don’t stop for nothing. You don’t come back, you know what happens.

  Hudson must have sent them out for things, threatening to hurt the others if they didn’t return quickly or if they spoke to anyone.

  “That’s what the police told us—that Derek Hudson kidnapped those girls and held them all on his own,” Danson confirmed. “I barely knew anything about him before those girls escaped. Couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup. Not sure many of us in town could. Course, there was a lot of talk after that.”

  “What kind of talk?”

  “Well, the police spent a lot of time looking for an accomplice. It didn’t seem likely that little Derek Hudson could do all that on his own. According to the people who knew him, he was a gentle kid, much more like Stephanie than Frank and the older boy. Used to babysit, of all things.”

  Shudders raced along her shoulders and buzzed into her fingertips. “Babysit?”

  “The commune hadn’t been around more than a couple of years when Stephanie started teaching ballet. They probably needed the money. She rented a little studio right in downtown Molva. Derek used to come and entertain the younger ones while his mom taught the older ones. People said he was great with the kids. You can imagine the shock when people found out what he’d done.”

  “Why would he take those girls?” The words slipped from her mouth.

  “Later on, we all heard some stories about what young Derek went through. Some of them would
turn your stomach.”

  Lily waited. This was what you came for. To understand.

  Danson took her silence as a cue to continue. “Derek was a skinny kid—tall and lean like Stephanie. He was quite a bit younger than his brother, who was thick and bullying like his father. I guess there was a time when Derek was nine or ten that his father sent him out to the barn with a knife to slaughter one of the pigs to prepare for Christmas dinner.” At this point in her story, Danson looked up. “You raise animals? 4-H or anything?”

  Lily shook her head, though she wasn’t totally sure.

  “Well, pigs are no joke. The breeds most commonly raised for their meat aren’t as big as boars, but they get up to a couple hundred pounds, and they’re amazingly strong animals. A bite from a pig can easily cut to the bone. They are not to be messed with. And you certainly don’t send an eighty-pound kid to take down a two-hundred-pound pig. With a knife,” she added, her voice pitched high with alarm.

  “The story goes that Derek didn’t have much luck even getting at the pig, let alone killing it. Every time he came inside unsuccessful, his father sent him back out. That went on well past dark. I guess his father eventually said, ‘You either kill that pig, or you live outside until you do.’ Of course, this is December, so it’s freezing cold.

  “Middle of the night, the older boy came out. Maybe he was taking pity on his brother, or maybe his father sent him out there. He shot the pig with a handgun, then slit the pig open with the long knife. Derek thought it meant he could come inside now, but his brother said, ‘No. Because you didn’t kill it, you have to stay out here for the night.’ Like I said, it was December. He’d have frozen to death.” Danson shivered, her hands no longer fidgeting as she gripped them together.

  “What happened?”

  “Early the next morning, the sheriff’s department got a call about possible child abuse up there. People think it might’ve been Stephanie who made the call. The deputy who went up there said he’d never recover from what he saw.”