“I noticed that, too. Still, doesn’t tell us much.”
June stood in the center of the courtyard, hands on her hips, and looked around. “Callie said she hid during the chaos of them leaving. If they were that desperate to get out quickly, do you think they would have left it this empty? Wouldn’t they have left something behind?”
“You’d think so. But maybe they didn’t own much. If they didn’t have much to take, maybe they didn’t miss anything.”
“They missed an entire person, according to her.”
I nodded. June was right, this place didn’t look like a cult had left it only two months before. But that didn’t prove anything.
“We need more information,” June said, heading for the fence.
“How do you propose we do that?”
“Go back to town, of course.”
I crouched so she could get on my shoulders. I didn’t like where this was going. “And what are we going to do in town?”
“Talk to the bikers.”
Ah, hell.
* * *
Not a shred of fear showed on June’s face as we walked in the biker bar. It was dimly lit by a few exposed light bulbs on the ceiling and the glow of neon signs. A big screen TV showed a baseball game in the back. The walls were covered in old posters, bumper stickers, and vintage license plates. One had a huge painted mural of the Free Renegades logo.
Seated along the bar and at some of the tables were some of the scariest motherfuckers I’d ever seen. Thick beards, thicker bodies, grizzled scowls. Most wore leather—the women and the men—and every one of them looked up with suspicion on their faces when we walked in the door.
“You need something, sweetheart?” the bartender asked, his voice low and raspy. He had a long gray beard and a patch over one eye.
I went to grab June’s elbow and get her the hell out of here, but she was already walking toward the bar.
“June,” I hissed.
She marched over, head held high. “Good evening. Yes, I’m looking for some information.”
Oh god. All eyes were on her and most of them looked like they were gauging her height and weight so they could decide where to stash her body. I rushed to get behind her.
The bartender raised an eyebrow—the one over his good eye—but didn’t answer.
“I’m trying to find out—”
“What do we have here?” A guy with a leather vest and full sleeve tattoos on both arms—some looked homemade—turned on his stool. “A little girl asking questions?”
“Yes, and if you’ll let me finish, I can explain—”
“We don’t like questions,” the bartender growled.
“And we don’t like little girls,” the guy on the stool said.
The attention of the entire bar was on June. The men playing pool abandoned their games, and drinks sat untouched on tables. All eyes on her. Men cracked knuckles and women gave each other knowing looks. She stuck out worse than a sore thumb. Blond ponytail, blouse and cardigan. She also seemed to be the only person in the room who didn’t realize how much danger she was in.
“I realize my appearance compared to that of many people in this establishment might suggest youthfulness, but I’m twenty-nine, which does not fit the standard definition of little girl.”
I grabbed her arm to steer her out of here.
“George, I have a few simple questions for them that have nothing to do with any alleged criminal activity.”
“What did you say?” the guy on the stool asked.
“I’m not here to ask about your alleged criminal activities. I have questions about—”
“Let’s go,” I said, pulling her arm.
“Hey, is that GT Thompson?” a voice called from deeper in the bar.
I froze. Please let them be fans.
“Holy shit, it is.”
“GT Thompson?”
“Didn’t he retire?”
“Best receiver in the league.”
“Damn straight he’s the best.”
I let out a breath, but kept my hand on June’s arm. The mood of the room shifted so suddenly it made my heart race. The scowls turned to interest, and a few guys even smiled at me.
“Well holy shit,” the bartender said, his demeanor suddenly friendly. “GT Thompson. What are you doing way out here?”
“Y’all Philly fans?”
“Hell yes,” the bartender said, and there were nods of agreement all around.
Oh thank god. “Awesome. Sorry I couldn’t make it another season.”
“You had a great run,” the bartender said. “Tell you what, drinks are on the house. What can I get you and your lady friend?”
As much as I didn’t want to stay and have a drink in a bar full of bikers that had looked like they might murder my girlfriend thirty seconds ago, I didn’t think I had much choice.
“A beer would be great,” I said. “Appreciate it.”
A guy in a black shirt with the sleeves torn off moved, offering me his stool. I motioned for June to sit and the bartender slid two frothy beers across the bar.
“How ’bout an autograph?” the bartender asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Be right back.”
“George, I need to ask about the compound,” June said.
“Shh. I know.”
“But we’re not here for you to give autographs.”
“June,” I said, softly into her ear. “They were about five seconds from murdering you and dumping your body out back.”
“I admit, most appear rough around the edges, but—”
“Trust me, June Bug.”
She took a deep breath and mercifully stayed quiet.
The bartender came back with one of my jerseys. He passed it across along with a Sharpie.
I made sure the bar was dry, then laid the jersey out so I could sign the front. My heart was still pounding from the rush of adrenaline and I could feel the eyes of everyone in here, boring into me.
“There you go.” I gave the jersey back to the bartender. “Thanks for your support.”
The bartender gave me a nod. “Now what was it that brought you two in here?”
I put an arm around June’s shoulders, showing them she was mine. “My girlfriend wants to know about a piece of property about ten minutes northeast of town. There’s an old gate and the whole thing is fenced in.”
“What about it?”
“Anyone lived there recently?”
The bartender shook his head. “No. It’s been empty for years.”
June almost shot off her stool, but I held her down.
“Huh, okay. So there wasn’t a group living out there? A religious group?”
He looked at me like that was a stupid question. “Religious group?”
“A cult,” June said.
There was some grumbling from the patrons closest to us.
“You talking about that Kendall girl on the news?” the bartender asked. “Nope. No cults around here.”
“Because you wouldn’t allow that in your territory, would you?” June asked.
I was realizing very quickly that the guy behind the bar wasn’t the bartender. Or if he was, that was not all he was. I’d grown up playing sports. I knew the way players looked at their coach. And every guy in this bar, old or young, was looking to him.
He was no bartender. He was the gang leader.
“Smart girl,” he said.
I decided we should cut out while they were still acting friendly. They couldn’t be happy about the police out here investigating Callie’s story, and I didn’t want him to think we were a part of that. “Thanks. We appreciate the information.”
“Thanks for the autograph,” he said.
Transaction complete.
I pulled June off the stool and guided her, somewhat forcibly, toward the door. She started to say something but I hushed her. “They're letting us leave. We need to go.”
We got outside and into my car and I blew out a long breath.
/>
“Most of those men were carrying guns,” June said, her tone matter-of-fact.
“Yes. Yes, they were. That didn’t bother you at all?”
“They’re members of a criminal biker gang. I expected they’d have weapons.”
“And you didn’t think about whether or not they’d turn those weapons on you?” I asked.
“Of course I thought about it,” she said. “I weighed the risks and deemed our chances of success high enough to make the attempt.”
“You’re a little bit badass, June Tucker.”
The corner of her mouth turned up in a smile. “Good thing they were fans.”
I shook my head. “No shit.”
“You know what this means?” June asked, her voice tinged with excitement. Her eyes were big and bright. “Callie Kendall’s story is a lie.”
28
June
After the trip to Hollis Corner, I was left with as many questions as answers. It was clear Callie’s cult—if there had been a cult at all—hadn’t been where she’d said it was. But what that meant in the grand scheme of things was still a mystery.
George reminded me that the simplest explanation was that she’d gotten the town’s name wrong. Maybe she’d believed she was somewhere else, and we’d been looking in the wrong town.
However, I argued that she’d been found on the highway just outside Hollis Corner. He had to concede my point.
So if she hadn’t been living in a compound outside Hollis Corner, where had she been? And why had she lied? Was she covering for the cult she’d left? Did the cult exist at all?
The questions tormented me. I ran through the options again and again, jotting down notes in a spiral notebook. The clues. The little bit of evidence I had.
The Kendalls had been silent in the media since their one public statement. There were a few straggling stories about Callie, mostly on conspiracy blogs, but for the most part, the attention had died down. The reporters and bloggers were busy chasing the next sensation.
My dad seemed to have decided he didn’t wish to talk about Callie’s case. I’d made attempts at engaging him in conversation, but he always changed the subject. Cassidy was similarly tight-lipped, with me at least.
That didn’t leave me much to work with.
I sat at my desk with my laptop, going through the fourteen—and counting—browser tabs I had open. Most of what I could find was information I’d been through before. Until I got to tab number eleven.
It was yet another story about Callie’s miraculous reappearance, but this one had a photo of her on a sidewalk. I saved the photo and opened it in another program so I could zoom in and study the details.
As I scrolled across the enlarged photo, Callie herself came into view, taking up most of the screen. I moved the photo to see her face. She didn’t appear to be aware she was being photographed. I zoomed out again so I could see her from head to toe. Nothing out of the ordinary. It looked like she’d come outside to check the mail or perform some other menial task.
And then I realized something. Her sleeves were rolled up.
Callie had always worn long sleeves. As teens, we hadn’t thought much about that. I hadn’t, at least, although I’d never paid attention to what other people wore in general. But after discovering Callie’s sweater, it had been mentioned that she’d always worn long sleeves, even in the summer.
Cassidy had discovered why. Mrs. Kendall had given her photos of Callie’s arms. According to her mother, she’d been cutting—harming herself. She’d worn long sleeves to hide the wounds and scars. But that information had never made it into the media.
I zoomed in on the photo, centering on her arms. It was hard to be certain, but I didn’t think I could see any scars.
Tempting as it was to slam my laptop closed and dash out the door with my newfound revelation, I wanted to be thorough. I spent another several hours doing further research. Solidifying my position. Double- and triple-checking. Following the trail of possibilities and looking for additional confirmation.
When I finished, I closed my laptop and scooped it under my arm. Jonah was in the kitchen and he said something—probably where are you going—but I was already out the door.
It wasn’t until I pulled up outside the sheriff’s office that I realized I’d forgotten shoes. I decided this was no time to worry about proper footwear. I grabbed my laptop from the passenger seat and went inside.
Bex gave me a friendly smile. “Well, hey there June. What can I do you for?”
“I need to see Cassidy.” My sister’s voice ran through my head, reminding me to have manners. “Please.”
“Sure thing.” She disappeared for a moment and returned with Cassidy.
“Juney, is something wrong?” Cassidy asked.
“Yes,” I said. Her eyes widened and I realized my error. “No, nothing is wrong with any of our family members or friends. This is an emergency, but a different kind.”
“Let’s go in the conference room. And why aren’t you wearing shoes?”
“I forgot.”
She led me in and closed the door behind us. I wasted no time opening my laptop.
“Should I get Dad?” she asked.
“Not yet.” My screen came to life and I turned it so she could see. “This isn’t Callie Kendall.”
“Wait. You’re going to have to back way up, because I have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about.”
I took a deep breath. “This woman claims she’s Callie Kendall. I think she’s lying.”
“And why do you think that?”
“She told the police she spent the last twelve years since her disappearance living with a cult outside Hollis Corner.”
“Right.”
“There is a compound outside Hollis Corner, but it’s been unoccupied for years,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“I investigated.”
Cassidy crossed her arms. “And how did you do that?”
“We found the location and climbed the—”
“Stop.” She held up a hand. “I think it’s better if I don’t know the details. Juney, what were you thinking?”
“That’s fine, the compound didn’t reveal any solid evidence. It was empty, but that didn’t tell us enough.”
“All right, so…” She made a circular motion with her hand, gesturing for me to continue.
“Hollis Corner is under the control of the Free Renegades. They confirmed there was no religious cult living in their territory.”
“I don’t even want to know how you confirmed that with a biker gang.”
I waved my hand. “It was fine. George was there. So I already knew her story about the cult was a fabrication.”
“But—” She tilted her head, staring at my computer screen, as if something had caught her attention. “Wait a second.”
“Do you see it too?”
“Are her sleeves rolled up? Can you zoom in?”
I enlarged the photo, centering it on her arms. Cassidy stared for a long moment, shaking her head. “No scars.”
“Precisely.”
“I’ll be right back,” Cassidy said. “Stay here.”
She was gone for a few minutes. I waited, my brain buzzing. She came back with a plain manila envelope and shut the door behind her again.
“These are Callie.” She pulled a set of photos out of the envelope and set them on the table next to my laptop.
A wave of discomfort rolled through me. They were difficult to view. She’d told me about these photos, but I hadn’t seen them for myself. Bloody cuts ran across Callie’s forearms, deep slices that seeped thick, red blood.
“These injuries would scar,” Cassidy said. “You can actually see scars from previous wounds beneath the fresh ones.”
I pointed to the photo on my laptop. “Then I’m right. This can’t be the same person.”
Cassidy took a deep breath, like she was considering the evidence. That was like her. She didn’t jump to conclus
ions. “Based on this, I’d say there’s reason to question Callie’s identity.”
“Then you need to reopen the investigation.”
“It’s not that simple. She’s not a missing person anymore. Her father positively identified her.”
“I took that into account,” I said, navigating to a different tab. “This kind of thing has happened before. Three years ago, a young man was arrested for impersonating a missing boy from Kansas. The child had disappeared at the age of thirteen. Two years later, he supposedly turned up in Europe. He claimed to have been kidnapped and sold into sex trafficking. He came back to the States and lived with the family for three months before his real identity was discovered. He’d researched the details of the boy’s case and obtained enough information to convince them, at least temporarily.”
“Are you serious?” Cassidy asked, squinting at my screen. “It took them three months to realize he wasn’t their son?”
“He didn’t even have the same hair or eye color, and the family still believed him.”
“I suppose they wanted it to be him pretty badly,” she said.
“Maybe the Kendalls want this woman to be Callie. Maybe they’re willing to overlook the facts so their reality aligns with their fantasy of having their daughter back.”
“It’s possible,” she said. “But why would someone impersonate Callie Kendall?”
“Many reasons. Perhaps greed. Judge and Mrs. Kendall are people of considerable means. Or attention. It’s hard to say. The man who impersonated the missing boy in Kansas had done it multiple times. He’d even served jail time in France for a similar offense.”
“I’ve come across a lot of strange criminal activity, but this is something else,” she said. “But… how can this woman look enough like her that she’s fooled the Kendalls?”
“I researched that aspect as well,” I said, clicking to yet another tab. “This website is called Find My Twin. There’s a theory that among the seven billion people on the planet, there are always duplicate faces, even without shared genetics.”
I scrolled through some of the matches on the homepage. There were dozens of them—people who appeared identical, but weren’t related to each other.
Bourbon Bliss: Bootleg Springs Book Four Page 19
