When You See Me

by Lisa Gardner

  “Asphyxiation,” Keith murmured.

  “Highly possible. We did get one break. This newest grave yielded several seed pods that were most likely interred with the bodies. Based on a preliminary analysis”—Thank you, Harold, thought Kimberly—“we assume the bodies were buried early spring. So that at least gives us a start on a more exact timeline.”

  “Except we don’t know which year,” Keith spoke up.

  “We’re starting fifteen years ago, working around that. Now tell us about your efforts today,” Kimberly addressed Keith and Flora.

  “I ate,” Flora said.

  “So I heard.”

  The entire taskforce regarded Flora curiously. The woman cleared her throat, sat up straighter. She appeared defensive, but maybe that’s the best a survivor could do, surrounded by a room of professional law enforcement types.

  “Jacob liked food. Lots of food.” Flora looked around the room, at the empty aluminum casserole pans. It was hard for Kimberly not to feel guilty. “Sergeant Warren recommended I try out some of the local establishments, see if any of the food tasted familiar. But, um, I just don’t know. It was too long ago. I don’t remember enough.” The woman sat back abruptly. Kimberly had a feeling there was more to it than that. She waited, but Flora didn’t speak again.

  “You and Keith did make one major discovery for the day.” Kimberly nodded at Keith to do the honors.

  “We worked on the logistical issue of getting four bodies up a mountainside, while also having to consider carrying an assortment of tools for digging a grave,” Keith rattled off. “It seemed to us, having already hiked up and down to the grave site a couple of times—”

  Around the room, people nodded.

  “—that wasn’t the most feasible way of accessing the area. And certainly not something one of our suspects, Jacob Ness, would even attempt.”

  More nodding.

  “Upon further investigation, an ATV seemed the most likely mode of transportation. So we approached a local dealer, established there is at least one trail running just above the grave sites that would yield easier access, and then, well, we rented a four-wheeler. Sure enough, we arrived at the second burial site pretty quickly.”

  “You nearly ran over the second burial site,” Kimberly corrected.

  Neither Keith nor Flora said a word.

  “Which did prove your theory,” she grudgingly allowed. “And I appreciate your thinking. Hiking up bodies, tools, and now if we consider one of the victims may have been sick and/or incapacitated enough to require an IV . . . an ATV does make more sense as a mode of transportation.”

  “We also learned many of the locals own ATVs and even groom their own private trails,” Keith said. He looked at Sheriff Smithers. “So it may be our perpetrator didn’t even come from the main road, but accessed the byway from a path on their own property.”

  “Four-wheeling is popular around these parts,” the sheriff considered. “I can have one of my deputies check it.”

  “Which brings us to your day,” Kimberly transitioned, turning focus to the sheriff and D.D.

  “We interviewed local leaders and the town clerk,” the sheriff reported. “Reached out to local hotels on generating whatever reports they could on guests going back fifteen years. Timeline is an issue. The biggest property in Niche, the Mountain Laurel B and B, which is run by the mayor and his wife—they got a new computer system ten years ago, so they can’t even tell you who was around before then.”

  “Shrimp,” Kimberly murmured, remembering the sheriff’s discreet oath from their first meeting.

  “Exactly. Um . . .” The sheriff cleared his throat. “We got one name to chase, Walt Davies. Apparently an antisocial type. Lives alone in the woods and prefers it that way. Possibly brews his own moonshine and/or grows his own dope. Which will add to the tensions if a bunch of uniforms suddenly show up on his property.”

  “Moonshine and weed?” Flora spoke up.

  The sheriff nodded. Flora sat back, eyes narrowed in thought. The sheriff cleared his throat, continued on: “I’ll assign a couple of my boys to pay him a visit tomorrow. Local deputies, which hopefully will appear less threatening than, say, the feds. Either way, sounds like we should approach with caution.”

  “You want to call in reinforcements? SWAT?” Kimberly asked evenly.

  “Nah. I’m afraid showing up with the cavalry will start a war. I think we should try out some local charm first. Proceed from there. We got a list of other properties from the town clerk that fit our parameters as possible cabins Ness could’ve holed up in eight years ago. We should assign a couple pairs of investigators to check each location in person. Don’t know if you want to be part of that?” The sheriff looked at Flora.

  “I wasn’t outside, so looking at exteriors, I won’t be any help. But the basement . . . I might be able to recognize the basement. Especially the brown carpet. I spent a lot of time studying that carpet.”

  “How many properties?” Kimberly asked.

  “Eighteen.”

  She nodded. “Okay, send out pairs first. If there are some that are particularly promising—say, set back enough from neighbors and have a basement with brown carpet—Flora can review the finalists.”

  “I think we have to look harder at the locals,” D.D. spoke up.

  Kimberly gestured for the detective to continue.

  “When we spoke to the town clerk, Dorothea, she mentioned business around here is seasonal. Spring and summer is super busy with hikers—meaning sure, someone like Jacob or another predator could appear or disappear without anyone taking note. Now, you’re saying you believe at least one of the graves is from the spring. Combining that with the ATV info”—D.D. nodded toward Keith and Flora—“I think that smacks of local knowledge. Who would know where to bury the bodies when the trails are crawling with thru hikers? How to access that area with maximum privacy? And have access to an ATV that doesn’t draw any notice?”

  “You don’t think it’s Jacob?” Flora spoke up quietly.

  D.D. shrugged. “I haven’t ruled him out. But four bodies, three in one site . . . This is different. This isn’t lone-predator activity—at least not any kind of lone predator I’ve ever heard about.”

  Keith nodded vigorously.

  “I think we’re back to our first theory,” D.D. continued. “Murder as a team sport.”

  “Why the IV?” Kimberly pushed.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Where’s the closest hospital?” Kimberly asked the sheriff.

  “There’s a couple,” Sheriff Smithers offered. “Nothing too close, though.”

  “I wouldn’t go straight to hospitals,” D.D. volunteered. “I’d start with people with medical backgrounds. Nurses, EMTs, a retired doctor, even a vet. An IV isn’t that difficult, right?” She turned to the sheriff. “Is that something Dorothea could help us with, being the town busybody and all?”

  Sheriff Smithers nodded. “I could ask her.”

  “Where do you get an IV?” Keith asked.

  “Medical supply company,” said Kimberly. “Online retailer. I asked Dr. Jackson. Tubing, cannula, medical tape, those items are easy to come by.”

  “Especially around here,” the sheriff added. “In the mountains we always have some survivalist types, and they keep a fair amount of medical supplies on hand. You know, for the coming plague and all.”

  More nodding from around the room.

  “All right,” Kimberly said. “This is the plan. Tomorrow, teams of two visit our list of properties. Sheriff, you’re in charge of those efforts.”

  He nodded.

  “Sergeant Warren—”

  “I’ll continue interviewing locals,” D.D. immediately spoke up. She gave Kimberly a measured look, and belatedly Kimberly got it. The girl—whomever it was D.D. had met today, she planned on going back. Kimberly di
dn’t get it, but she trusted D.D.’s instincts.

  “Okay. We need to start running the lists of hotel guests, such as they are.”

  As expected, her fellow agents nodded. Crunching massive amounts of data was any FBI agent’s bread and butter, and exactly who Kimberly would want to do the job.

  “And, um . . .” She turned to Keith and Flora, then realized she really didn’t know what they should be doing. “Eat more?” she suggested.

  “No, thank you,” Flora said.

  “I think we should walk around,” Keith said. “Visit stores, other establishments. Team sport, right?” Keith glanced at D.D. “Let’s see if anyone recognizes Flora. Or if her appearance . . .”

  “Spooks anyone?” D.D. filled in, with a pointed look at Keith.

  “Exactly.”

  Kimberly shrugged. They were civilians, so she could hardly give them official tasks. “Scare away,” she ordered.

  Then hoped the words didn’t come back to haunt them.

  CHAPTER 20

  HE’S BACK.

  I don’t need to see him to know the Bad Man has arrived. The house tells me. It holds its breath, hunkering down in the growing dark, already fearing the worst.

  I sit on the mat in my tiny room, knees tucked against my chest, arms wrapped tight around my legs. I stare at the door, wearing my old summertime uniform that leaves my scarred forearm completely exposed.

  The most beautiful thing about me, he had said, as he’d cut the intricate pattern into my skin.

  I wonder if tonight I’m the one he’ll come for. Because when the Bad Man visits, someone must pay the price.

  I think of the blond police lady who came by this morning. She talked to me. She wanted to know if I was safe. She even held out her bright, shiny cell phone, as if to help. I know phones. I see other people use them. Even young children, their fingers flying across the surface, picking and arranging boxes of squiggly lines that hold meaning to everyone but me.

  I don’t understand the shapes. Small kids do. But not me.

  Footsteps. Heavy thuds from down the cold, stone-tiled hall. Moving fast, with purpose.

  I pull my legs in tighter.

  The blond lady said I didn’t have to stay. But she doesn’t understand and I don’t have enough fingers to tell her everything. She and the kind-eyed sheriff are looking for some man who apparently has already come and gone. I vaguely recognized his mean look, or maybe I’ve just seen too many men like him. With expressions that promise pain.

  The man in the photo they showed is a bad man. But he is not the Bad Man.

  I don’t know how to tell the pretty blond police lady that, any more than I know how to move my lips and work my throat to share the full horror of this place or list the other girls who are long gone but still need me to deliver their names back to their families.

  I have a duty. Like my mother. Run, she tried to warn me. I ignored her. But still, she tried. She was strong and brave. She stood up to the Bad Man. Performed some small act of rebellion that brought him to our home that final night. I’ve spent years wondering about it. It used to make me angry—why couldn’t she have done nothing, just continued with our little lives in our little house?

  But now, with my own time winding down, realizing more and more that I will never leave this place, I understand her need to make some kind of stand. To feel, for one moment, like someone who mattered. Because the Bad Man loves to make us less. To dance his blade across our skin until we scream. Then he smiles, and admires his handiwork. And leaves even me whimpering, as I clutch at my ravaged arm.

  My mother had a patchwork quilt of lines across her back. As a child, I would trace them with my finger. She never said a word. Now, of course, I wonder.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. The footsteps, much closer now.

  The house holds its breath.

  He’s here. Standing on the other side of my door. His hand closing on the knob. One twist. The door will open. One step. He will loom before me, blade by his side, smile on his face.

  Just like that, it will be my turn.

  I should offer him dinner, I think wildly. Fix him a plate. Will he remember my mother? Recall that night? Or are we all alike to him? Just girls, disposable in the end?

  I have to bear the pain, I remind myself. I will close my eyes, fist my hands, scream if I must. And then . . . it’ll be done. I’ll be gone. And my soul—will it be the color purple like Stacey’s, or silver like my mother’s? It will rise up, bring me to my mami and we’ll be a pack of two, again. Mamita and chiquita. Because I belong to her, and she belongs to me, and not even the Bad Man can keep us apart forever. I have to believe that.

  I stare at the door.

  Bear the pain.

  Bear the pain.

  Bear the . . .

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Footsteps. Starting up again.

  The man, moving on, away from my door, farther down the hall.

  I stop rocking. Hold perfectly still. If not me, then who?

  I think of my mother again.

  I know what I have to do next.

  * * *

  —

  I CAN’T TALK OR TELL stories or whisper to some well-meaning police lady the full truths of this house. But I can slide slowly down the basement hall, quiet as a ghost, dragging my weak leg behind me. I am nothing, I tell myself. Just a small voiceless girl. And just like that, I vanish.

  This time of night, the guests sleep obliviously on the floors above. I used to wonder at their blank, smiling faces in the morning. But all these years later, I understand. No one sees what they don’t want to see. And no one (except the blond lady?) has ever wanted to see girls like me.

  I pass by closed doors. Some may have occupants, huddled in corners, biting their lips against their building terror. There is at least another maid down here, Hélène, who often works with me. There are other girls, however, that come and go. I don’t know anything about them, don’t even know if any of them are here now.

  The Bad Man disappears around the corner. I move faster, the stone floor cold against my bare feet. My worn uniform is too thin for these tunnels, which are dimly lit and carved deep into the earth. This is the part of the house guests never visit. It is the realm of Bad Things and Bad People.

  Monsters are real and they live in the bowels of the earth, where the darkness feeds their appetites and breeds their rages. But I don’t know how many fingers to hold up to tell the blond police woman that, so I do this instead.

  A pair of heavy wooden doors looms ahead. Old and solid. Like this house, these mountains. I have been in this room before. I know it smells of candle wax and blood. I know it’s the house’s very core and the house itself wishes it didn’t exist. The day the Bad Man carved up my forearm, then left me curled in a pool of my own urine, I dreamt of pulling burning logs from the monstrous stone fireplace inside this room, then flinging them around this space.

  The house would applaud, I think. It would smile as its walls caught flame. It would whisper “thank you” as it collapsed on itself and became no more.

  But this room is fashioned from more stone than wood. The house might go. This awful centerpiece will never burn.

  The Bad Man disappears through the partially opened doors. I place my hand against the wall beside me. I will my body to disappear into the shadows. And because the house is my friend, I can feel it wrap itself around me, offer what protection it can.

  I hold very still, then hear the Bad Man’s voice.

  “What the hell do you mean by this?”

  The answering voice trembles, then finds itself. Mayor Howard. The master of the house. Of course, the Bad Man knows differently.

  “The sheriff came by today. Some Boston detective, too. They’re asking questions—”

  “Let them.”

  “It’s not safe.” A wom
an’s voice now. Mistress of the house. Except once again, the Bad Man knows differently.

  “Did they ask to search this place?”

  “Of course not. They have no reason—”

  “Exactly.”

  “But they’re showing pictures.” The master again. “Jacob Ness, his rig. Rumors are his last victim is here, too, Flora Dane.”

  “Ness is dead.”

  “People may still remember—”

  “Then they can rat out a dead man. Who cares?”

  “The police are everywhere.” The mistress, her voice shrill. “Federal agents, local officers. We’ve been talking to others—”

  “Excuse me?”

  The mistress falters. “I’m just suggesting . . . The police have discovered at least two of the graves. They’re pulling records, conducting interviews, even learning the trails. We need to stop, think—”

  “Shut. Up. You do not think. You do not consult others. Need I remind you exactly how this works?”

  “Please.” The master’s voice, lower, placating. “Just consider. This has been a good arrangement. For you, for us, for everyone. It’s all been extremely fortuitous—”

  “Profitable.”

  “Surely it doesn’t hurt to take a small break. Just till the risk lessens.”

  Silence. The Bad Man thinking? The Bad Man considering?

  “When will the police attention lessen?” he asks at last. There’s a tone to his voice, a silky smoothness that suddenly makes the hair stand up at the nape of my neck. I have heard that note before, in another room far, far away from here. “As you say, the town is crawling with investigators. They’ve found bodies. They’re not just going to go away.”

  “We could give them what’s left of the cabin.” The mistress, less shrill, more tentative.

  “No.”

  “But you said . . . rat out the dead man.”

  “It won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s here. And if she sees, she might remember. Then it won’t be about one dead man.”

  “I mentioned Walt Davies.” The master again. “You know how he is. Shoots first, questions later. With any luck, they’ll fill him with lead, then we can lay all of this at his feet.”