by Lisa Gardner
No snarling dogs charge around the corner. No alarms sound shrilly. No bullets fly by my head. Just the sound of the wood chipper, deep and throaty as it shreds the next . . . something.
My heart is racing. We probably should’ve left a message for D.D. Or last wills and testaments for our loved ones. Too late now.
We creep toward the first dilapidated structure. Again I catch a whiff of decay. Is that what’s triggering that intense sense of familiarity? The smell is earthy and moldy—the scent of neglect, not death.
We make it around the corner. Again, as if we’ve been doing this for years, I take up point, Keith ducks behind me, quickly works the lock on the door. He has to force it with his shoulder, and the screech of the rusted hinges makes us both draw up short. Whatever this building is used for, it clearly hasn’t been active for a long time.
Again, the sound of the wood chipper, whirring across the distance.
Keith disappears inside the shed. I sweat through all my clothes and am just considering charging in behind him, butterfly blade in hand, when he returns.
“Nothing,” he whispers, both of us tucking against the side of the building.
“Define nothing.”
“Rusted-out equipment. Vintage glass bottles. Stuff our grandparents would love. Stacked floor to ceiling, too. Trust me, no one is hiding anything in there any time soon.”
I frown at him. “We’re trying to find a serial killer, and we’ve stumbled upon a hoarder instead?”
“Um . . . kind of.”
The next building we approach is self-explanatory. A chicken coop, as Keith had suspected. Which leaves us with the two larger buildings. The one to our right appears to be an old two-story barn, the kind with a sliding wood door up high for loading bales of hay into the loft. Whereas straight ahead looms a low-slung log cabin that appears to tilt slightly to the right and has a front porch topped with an ancient-looking washer and an equally decrepit dryer.
Next to the barn is a tractor, John Deere green and clearly one of the newer items on the property. Otherwise it’s open ground between us and the barn. Once again I note the relatively new spotlights.
I feel like there’s something obvious that I’m missing. Cameras? Booby traps?
The barn itself appears as weather-beaten as the sheds. The roof is nearly covered in moss. The small high windows stay with the motif: dirt and more dirt.
In the distance, the wood chipper growls again. Then, abruptly, as if it can’t take one more bite, the whirring stops. The engine snaps off. The entire property falls silent.
I feel Keith shudder beside me. I don’t blame him. The wood chipper had been ominous. But the silence . . .
The silence is worse.
What did I miss? Because I’m reckless and aggressive, but I’m also experienced. And every instinct that has ever kept me alive is screaming. Abort mission. Retreat. Run while we still can.
I can tell Keith feels it, too. But where to go? We’re tucked in the only available cover—the shady side of a dilapidated shed. Between us and the woods, there is nothing but exposed acreage.
The barn, I think. If we could just tuck inside the barn, find a place to hide.
Then I get it. What I saw but didn’t register. It’s not just the lighting on the buildings that’s new—looped through the handles of the barn doors is a thick, modern chain and padlock, both completely devoid of rust.
The barn isn’t our sanctuary. The barn is exactly what we’re not supposed to see.
I’m still trying to work the trajectories, how to get out of this mess, when I swear the woods themselves come alive. One moment I’m judging the distance between the shed and trees, the next a scarecrow of a man is standing before me.
Tall, gaunt, with sparse gray hair that stands on end and a wiry strength that ripples through his too-skinny limbs.
Walt Davies, who clearly figured out he had company, and worked his own perimeter to sneak up on us.
He’s holding a shotgun, pointed straight at us.
I put my hands up. Beside me, Keith does the same.
I take a deep breath, then step into daylight, advancing five feet toward him, Keith right beside me. If we go down, apparently we’re doing it together.
“I’m sorry,” I begin to babble. “So sorry. We’re lost, our ATV ran out of gas, please, sir, can we use your phone . . .”
The old man responds in a way I don’t expect at all.
He drops the barrel of the shotgun. He stares at me, wild-eyed.
“No!” he cries. “It can’t be you. You’re dead! Dead, I tell you! Dead, dead, dead!”
CHAPTER 23
KIMBERLY
AFTER SPEAKING WITH MAYOR HOWARD about his wife’s alleged illegal kidney transplant, Kimberly paid a visit to the master bathroom, where—sure enough—she found a row of prescription bottles bearing Martha Counsel’s name. A quick internet search revealed most of the pills to be anti-rejection meds, to be taken for the “life of the working transplant organ.”
Kimberly returned to the room where the woman had hanged herself. D.D. was still there, supervising the ME’s removal of the body. As with all hangings, the ME had left the noose in place. Analysis of the knot would be an important part of the final report, helping to determine if the woman’s death was a suicide or a murder.
Right now, Kimberly had a suspicious death, which technically fell under the sheriff’s jurisdiction, not that of the federal taskforce. She doubted, however, that Sheriff Smithers would balk at outside assistance with the case, especially as Martha Counsel’s death had to be related to the bodies they’d recovered. It was impossible to think otherwise.
D.D. introduced the medical examiner, Dr. Dale Cabot, then his scrawny assistant, Arnold Cabot. Apparently, the coroner’s office was a family business.
“What can you tell me?” Kimberly asked, flashing her credentials.
“I can tell you a cup of coffee every morning is perfectly good for you,” Dr. Cabot replied drolly, working with his son to slowly lower Martha Counsel onto the waiting gurney. “And I can’t wait to have one this morning myself.”
She deserved that, asking for an opinion before the body was even on the stretcher. Even so, Kimberly held up a hand. “Hang on a moment.”
She stopped beside the gurney. Martha’s embroidered silk bathrobe remained open in front, but the kid, Cabot junior, had respectfully smoothed down her long white nightgown. No good way to do this.
“We’re told this woman received a kidney transplant,” Kimberly said. “Given the circumstances, I need to check.”
Dr. Cabot stepped back, gesturing for her to do what she had to do. His son, on the other hand, stared at her wide-eyed.
Kimberly never liked this part. It felt intrusive, donning a pair of gloves then slowly raising up the hem of a dead woman’s nightgown to better inspect the body. Mentally, she made her apologies as she drew Martha’s nightgown above her thighs, exposing plain white underwear with discreet lace trim, then finally Martha’s bare torso. There on the left-hand side: a significant surgical scar, still puckered and dark pink after all these years.
“Is that scar consistent with a kidney transplant?” Kimberly asked.
“Appears so. I can tell you more once I open her up.”
Kimberly nodded, held out her cell phone with the photo she had shot of the prescription bottles. “And these drugs?”
The ME took her phone, played with the photo till he could make out all the labels. “These are all standard anti-rejection meds, consistent with someone who received an organ transplant.”
He handed back the phone.
“Did you know a Dr. Gregory Hatch?” D.D. asked, coming to stand beside them.
“Dr. Hatch? He passed away years ago.”
“Would he have been qualified to perform a kidney transplant?”
�
��As a general surgeon, yes, but UNOS—the United Network for Organ Sharing—could tell you more. They should have a record of everyone.”
“Assuming the organ came through UNOS,” D.D. said levelly.
Dr. Cabot stared at them. Then he looked back at the body, the red bathrobe sash knotted around Martha’s neck. “I don’t know why someone would go to such lengths to live once,” he said slowly, “only to give up now.”
“Guilt?” Kimberly offered.
“The Dr. Hatch I knew . . . I wouldn’t rush to conclusions. Especially with the man not even alive to defend himself.”
“Who might still have access to his medical records?” Kimberly asked.
“Dr. Hatch was a private practice physician. Upon his death, patients would have been notified and given the opportunity to transfer their records to the new doctor of their choice.”
Kimberly exchanged a glance with D.D. Would a doctor even keep records of an illegal surgery? And yet, Martha had still required ongoing care, including the meds.
“Who would be in charge of transferring the files?” D.D. spoke up.
“Dr. Hatch’s assistant. Sorry. I can picture her, but I can’t seem to remember her name.”
“Amy Frankel,” his son offered immediately.
Kimberly and D.D. looked at him.
“Blond, beautiful,” said the boy. “What’s not to remember?”
Fair enough, Kimberly thought. D.D. was already jotting down the name. Kimberly went back to her photo of Martha Counsel’s meds. There, on the lower left-hand label, she could see the name of the prescribing doctor.
“Dr. Dean Hathaway,” she read off. “Do you know him?”
“No. But given the critical nature of maintaining the transplanted kidney’s health, it’s highly possible Mrs. Counsel was seeing a nephrologist out of Atlanta.”
Kimberly nodded and moved on to the red silk sash still tied around Martha’s neck.
She could just make out bruising above the fabric, from where it had ridden up on the neck from the force of the hanging. Kimberly had seen cases where someone had manually strangled a victim, then tried to cover it up by staging a hanging. In those cases, however, the distinct bruise pattern of fingers squeezing the victim’s throat always gave the murderer away.
At the moment, she didn’t see anything like that here. Of course, more would be visible once the sash was removed.
If this death looked and sounded like a suicide, why was she so uncomfortable?
She moved away from the gurney, thanked the ME for his time, and indicated that he and his son could go.
“I don’t like it,” D.D. said the moment they disappeared down the hall.
“We’re trained to be paranoid,” said Kimberly. “Doesn’t mean they’re really out to get us.”
“Ah, but my new friend dropped this.” D.D. held out a scrap of paper.
Kimberly looked at the hastily crayoned drawing of a hulking black figure with glowing red eyes. “Is that . . . what? Some kind of boogeyman?”
“I think it’s a monster.”
“The girl, the mayor’s mute niece, gave you a picture of a monster?”
“She dropped it on the floor when he wasn’t looking. She can’t talk, but she’s trying to tell us something.”
“The boogeyman did it?”
“Or his friend, the devil.”
Kimberly considered the matter. She didn’t understand the drawing and, given the girl’s young age and reported brain injury, wasn’t even sure if she qualified as a credible witness. On the other hand, it’s not like they had any better leads. “All right, let’s talk to her.”
Kimberly turned toward the door. D.D. grabbed her arm. “Wait. She’s underaged. We have to have the mayor’s permission for an interview.”
“We’ll ask for it. Denying us access will look suspicious. You know how it is; put on the spot, plenty of guilty parties consent to things they shouldn’t.”
“I don’t want to call attention to her. I don’t think we know everything that’s going on here.”
“No kidding.”
“The picture projects fear. We may not understand it, but we have to respect it.”
God, Kimberly was tired. She rubbed her temples, wished she was once more on the phone, talking to her husband, catching up with her girls. Deep breath. This was her job and she loved it. Most of the time. “All right. So our best approach . . . We’ll question her without singling her out.”
“Game plan?”
“We’ll inform Mayor Howard that we need to interview everyone who was in the building last night. Guests, staff, everyone. I’ll ask Sheriff Smithers to handle the guests, while you and I take the staff.”
D.D. nodded. “I don’t know that Mayor Howard will consent to us talking to his niece separately. My guess is he’ll say she can’t speak so he needs to be present to communicate on her behalf.”
“We’ll gather the staff and talk to them as a group. That will appear less threatening and make it harder for Mayor Howard to refuse without calling undue attention. His niece isn’t alone and the rest of the staff must be able to communicate with her in some fashion—otherwise, how else could they have worked together all these years? I’ll ask questions. You watch her fingers for your special coding system and we’ll see what we get.”
“I like it.”
“Of course. I’m brilliant. Which is why we get along so well.”
“And how we’re going to nail the son of a bitch who’s leaving a trail of dead women all over this town,” D.D. agreed.
Mayor Howard wasn’t thrilled with their assertion they needed to interview everyone present in the inn last night. He tried to argue his guests’ right for privacy, his and his staff’s need to mourn. The sheriff, however, stood firmly with them—and, denied local support, the mayor had no choice.
Sheriff Smithers sent an officer to rouse the four couples who’d stayed the night. Kimberly announced she and D.D. would handle questioning the staff, who were apparently huddled in the kitchen, awaiting news. In the meantime, she needed the mayor to identify which computer or personal tablet his wife might have used to write her suicide note.
The request sent another long shudder rippling through the mayor’s bent frame. He bowed his head, appeared once again to fight for breath. The man seemed genuinely distraught. As if this were the worst night of his life. As if he still couldn’t believe his wife was dead.
“She’s gone,” he said abruptly. “Martha, my wife, my partner, my best friend. Thirty years . . . There’s no hope for me now.” His tone was so hollow, it sent a shiver down Kimberly’s spine.
She kneeled beside him at the table. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I loved her.”
“I understand.”
“I did what she wanted.”
“I know.”
“I just wanted her to be healthy. Then she was. And God help me, I didn’t ask any questions. I never considered the cost. If not from me, then how did she get the kidney in the end?”
“Mayor Howard, I need you to go with Sheriff Smithers now. He’s going to help you find your wife’s computer. It’s important. Helping him will enable us to wrap up our investigation. I know this is hard. Just another hour or two, and we’ll be on our way. Who is in charge of your staff?”
“My wife—” The mayor caught himself. “Cook. She’s in the kitchen now. Prepping breakfast, I’m sure.”
Kimberly rose to standing. “Sheriff,” she prodded, indicating it was time for him to lead the mayor away.
Smithers got it. He put his hand on the mayor’s shoulder, both men looking equally grim. Kimberly understood. Sheriff Smithers was a county sheriff, not the town sheriff, but these were still his people. He had obviously known the mayor and Martha Counsel personally. These kinds of cases, where the trouble struck close t
o home, were never easy.
Mayor Howard climbed shakily to his feet, then followed the sheriff out of the front breakfast room.
Beside Kimberly, D.D. nodded slightly, acknowledging a job well done.
And yet, how to explain the unease rippling through Kimberly’s gut? They had an admission of guilt—a woman who’d killed herself because she was sorry for the kidney she had most likely stolen from one of their victims in the woods. They had the presence of medical supplies found in the mass grave—the IV port—which further supported this theory.
They had four victims, maybe all of whom had been used the same way: unwilling donors for illegal surgeries performed by a doctor dead eight years past. Illegal surgery explained the bodies, explained their timelines. Probably even explained the mass grave—three operations performed at once. Which made the victims what, medical waste?
Human nature never failed to disappoint. If there was a worst-case scenario out there, some person someplace had done it.
But the coroner’s words haunted her: Why would a woman who desired to live enough to resort to an illegal surgery decide to end it all, suddenly, just like that?
“Ready?” D.D. asked.
“Ready enough.”
D.D. indicated the swinging door connecting the kitchen. “No time like the present.” She shoved her way through, Kimberly at her heels.
“Hey, Cook. We have some questions for you.”
CHAPTER 24
FLORA
DEAD.
The word that Walt Davies shouted hangs in the air. I glance at Keith, who looks as confused as I feel.
“How’d you get here?” Davies asks now. He no longer has the pump-action shotgun pointed at our chests, but is swinging it around in a manner that’s hardly any safer.
“Our ATV . . .”
“Clipped your way through the barbed wire, then. Been meaning to add more cameras. Damn land. Got too fucking much of it. But my great-granddaddy would come back from the grave if I sold an inch.” Walt jerks his head to the side. I think he might actually be talking to his great-granddaddy. Whatever risks Keith and I thought we were taking, the reality seems far worse.