by Lisa Gardner
“Can Franny give you a description of the man who caused the commotion? Any detail at all. Set her down, make her visualize.”
“You think it was a setup?”
“I think it would be too much of a coincidence to be otherwise. Housecleaning, remember? First Martha, then Hélène, now Howard. For all we know, the cook is dead, too.”
Though D.D. doubted that last statement; that woman was too mean to die. If anyone could hold her own with some evil UNSUB, even work as his right-hand person, it would be her.
“How’d he get the damn blanket?” Sheriff Smithers was now asking someone.
“He said he was cold, sir. I didn’t think. I’m sorry, sir. I’m very, very sorry.” A young man’s voice, most likely Deputy Chad. It was the kind of mistake that haunted an officer.
Another sigh, then more noises from the background.
“I never got to talk to Howard.” Sheriff Smithers returned to the phone. “By the time I got here, the deed was done and bedlam already erupting.”
“You don’t know the username or password,” D.D. filled in.
“No, ma’am.”
D.D.’s turn to sigh. “I’ll let Keith know. But, Sheriff, don’t be too hard on yourself. I’ve seen Keith in action before. Howard’s death slows us down, but we’re not out.”
“I’m very sorry, ma’am.”
Which was echoed by more apologizing from the background. Franny again, probably wringing her hands or clutching her golden cross.
“We already knew they were one step ahead of us,” D.D. said. “All the more reason to keep moving forward. Maybe you should join us at the Mountain Laurel. Usernames and passwords are often based on personal information. It’s possible there’s something written down or a key photo in the office or bedroom that might help us out.”
“I’ll help,” Franny was saying in the background. “Please let me do something. I feel terrible!”
D.D. rolled her eyes. She didn’t care who came, as long as it was someone.
“Give me an hour or so,” the sheriff said. “Gotta sort out the body here, then we’ll be by.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” D.D. ended the call. Bonita was gazing at her expectantly. “Howard Counsel is dead,” D.D. told her.
A flicker of expression crossed the girl’s face, then nothing. Had she hated the Counsels for treating her like a maid? Or had she been grateful that they’d taken her in when she had nothing left? Maybe a bit of both. It was possible to love and hate your captors—just ask Flora.
Bonita finished leading the way down the stairs. They stopped at the office long enough to give Keith the news.
He was no longer working the desktop, but had a laptop open in front of him. Now, he shrugged philosophically. “Found the Tor browser. This is the machine.”
“At least we have some progress for the morning. The sheriff will be by to see if he can help search for the username and password.”
Another shrug. “Lotta data in this office. I can start with birth dates, anniversary dates, name of their favorite cat, that sort of thing. I’ll get it eventually.”
“Exactly what I told him.”
“Where are you going?”
“Down to the basement. It was where the servants lived.”
Keith frowned. “In these grand old homes, the servants’ quarters were generally in the attic. Homeowners needed the chillier temps in the cellar for storing root vegetables and other perishables. Add to that a large enough space to hold all the coal and wood used to heat a home of this size, plus a much smaller, contained room for dumping kitchen offal, other . . . waste products.” Keith wrinkled his nose. “Basically a nice cool cellar was too valuable to waste on servants.”
D.D. had no idea. “This basement has a dozen tiny rooms and hallways. Maybe the Counsels did it later.”
Keith clearly didn’t like her answer. “I have to back up the original hard drive before I can start working,” he said slowly. “While I wait, I think I’ll go with you.”
“You really want to tour the basement?”
“Yes. I really do.”
CHAPTER 36
FLORA
I HAD SEX LAST NIGHT.
It brings a surreal quality to my morning. After so many years of believing I would never be that woman, never have that experience again . . .
Do I look different?
Am I different?
I’m grateful to partner with Kimberly today. D.D. would study me. She’d know. Kimberly and I don’t have that kind of relationship.
Keith kissed me lightly before departure. Then stood with his forehead pressed against my own, a quiet moment that said even more. No awkward morning after for us. Instead, we’d gone from bedroom to crime scene. I’m not sure how many couples do that, but with Keith, it doesn’t feel extraordinary at all. Just another day in the life.
Now, I try to pull myself together. Maybe I had a sublime night. Maybe I’m even more excited for this evening. But some things haven’t changed. The pile of dead bodies. A town where nothing is as it seems. And now a morning call on a man who probably isn’t right in the head and will be greeting us with a shotgun.
We’d switched vehicles with D.D., giving her the official fed car while we commandeered the rental. Kimberly had taken to heart what I said—Walt isn’t the type of guy who’d take kindly to police on his property. Kimberly had ditched her credentials as well as her sidearm. I don’t believe for a moment, however, that she’s weaponless. I’m guessing ankle holster. Fits well with my knife.
Just two armed, paranoid women paying a visit to an even more paranoid man. What could possibly go wrong?
Walt’s gate at the edge of his property is locked up tight. Kimberly pulls over to the side and we both get out. Given Walt’s propensity for cameras, I already have an easy expression pasted on my face. Kimberly appears faintly bored, wearing a tight-fitting black tee with jeans. She appears wiry and athletic. In a fight, I wouldn’t bet against her.
I walk up to the gate, pick out the camera mounted on the post. I stand right before it, wave, then wait.
A minute passes. Then another. The gate doesn’t magically open, but it’s not that kind of mechanical beast. Walt’s property is an odd mix of new security technology with old buildings and fence lines. He’s going to have to walk down and unfasten the padlock himself. The question is, will he?
Kimberly yawns, stretches. Again, playing the role of my disinterested friend.
We never hear Walt coming, but in an instant he appears on the other side of the metal gate. Both Kimberly and I startle.
For the first time, I see a flicker of unease in Kimberly’s expression. Especially once she takes in Walt’s pump-action shotgun.
“You’re back,” he says.
“I have a few more questions.”
“Got a new friend.”
“This is Kimberly.”
“ATF, FBI, Statie?” He stares at Kimberly. “You ain’t no civilian, that’s for sure.”
Kimberly regards him coolly. “FBI,” she says at last. “But this morning, I’m here for Flora.”
Walt, however, is no dumb bunny. “I’ve seen you before.”
I remember just as Walt connects the dots.
“You were on the TV. You led the raid that killed my boy.”
Kimberly doesn’t say a word.
“You rid the world of a beast,” Walt tells her flatly. Then he works his key in the padlock, and lets us in.
We follow Walt through the woods to his cabin, with its cluttered front porch and age-darkened exterior. He keeps the shotgun loose at his side. I can’t help but stare at it suspiciously. Did Keith and I survive this man once, just so I could deliver up both myself and the federal agent who’d been involved in Jacob’s death the next day?
Walt has a lot of reasons to use that shotgun. Th
ough Kimberly and I are hardly defenseless, his property, his gun, his motives, give him the clear advantage. I straighten my shoulders, force myself to pay attention, focus on every line of his body. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that all predators telegraph their intent right before they attack.
Walking beside me, Kimberly is doing her best to mentally note all the various outbuildings, while appearing to look at nothing at all. Neither Walt nor I are fooled. We are a curious little trio of mutual suspicion. Plus, we all share Jacob. And I guess, if Walt is truly to be believed, we all had our reasons for wanting Jacob dead.
Walt takes up position in a hard wooden chair on his front porch. It seems to be his vantage point of choice—where he can sit and survey his kingdom. This forces Kimberly and me to perch on the broken-down love seat wedged across from him, with our backs to the yard. Kimberly is definitely uncomfortable. I didn’t like it yesterday, and I don’t like it now.
Most serial predators are eventually caught due to their own arrogance. The more misdeeds they survive, the more careless they grow. I wonder if the same is true for vigilantes.
“Do you know Howard and Martha Counsel of the Mountain Laurel inn?” I ask Walt.
He shrugs. “Mayor Howard? Everyone knows him.”
“Martha was found hanged yesterday. And today, one of the maids from the B and B was left hanging outside our motel. She hadn’t just been murdered. Someone worked her over with a knife beforehand.”
Walt’s expression doesn’t change. Neither do his hands move from the shotgun resting on his lap. “These woods are a scary place,” he says at last.
I lean forward, stare at him intently. “The trees might scream at night, Walt. But trees don’t murder young women. Men do. Men like Jacob.”
“Jacob’s dead.”
“But this town isn’t settled. These mountains, the forest, the community. There are bodies and bones everywhere. You’re not living in the wild, Walt. You’re living on a graveyard.”
Walt gazes off. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Or maybe what he’s hearing—the wind howling, girls screaming? Clever and crazy. An old man who by his own admission fried his brain with drugs and alcohol years ago. Still, I think he knows more than he’s telling. But I’m also willing to believe even he’s not sure what’s real anymore.
Isolation can play tricks on the mind. Something Walt and I both understand well.
“Talk to me,” I murmur. “You and me, Walt. Talk, and I will listen.”
Beside me, Kimberly doesn’t move. If she approves or disapproves of my approach, I have no idea. But she’s still letting me take the lead, and I appreciate the show of confidence.
“Counsels are high and mighty,” Walt says at last.
“You met them?”
“Town this small? Can hardly avoid knowing each other.”
“The Counsels are the ones who told us to look you up. They said you were crazy, maybe even violent. They blamed you for the bodies in the woods.”
Walt shrugs. “People blame me for a lotta things. Makes it easier on them.”
Kimberly spoke up for the first time. “Do you think Mayor Howard is the violent type? Could he have killed his own wife?”
“Nah. Howard’s just a talker. Doesn’t have the stomach for real action.”
“Someone is killing people around here.”
Again, Walt doesn’t speak right away.
“You deliver your microgreens to Atlanta yourself, Walt?” I ask innocently.
For the first time his hand twitches on the barrel of his shotgun. “Most times.”
“Ever bring anything back?”
“Like what?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t do bad things anymore. Told you that yesterday. Woods set me straight.”
My turn to shrug. “Lots of people swear to reform. To give up violence, rage, the need to just . . . tap off some of that darkness inside. It’s hard to do. I know, Walt, I know.”
“My boy was evil.”
I don’t speak.
“When he came back, showed up in that tavern . . . I didn’t believe for a moment he came back to see his old man. No good reason, not after all these years.”
“Maybe he wanted to check out his hometown.”
“Boy was five when he left. You remember much when you were five?”
I shake my head. Then, a moment later, I think I understand. “I always assumed he brought me here because he felt comfortable. Knew the area. But you’re saying he couldn’t have known these mountains, this town. He was too young when he left.”
Walt nodded.
“So how did he know about the abandoned cabin? How did he know to bring me here?”
Another shrug. But I understand now Walt isn’t being obtuse. He doesn’t know the answers to these questions, and he’s wondered about it himself. What truly brought Jacob back to Niche, Georgia? Because in Walt’s own estimation, it couldn’t have been homesickness, or a sudden desire to connect with dear old Dad.
Kimberly’s turn. “Jacob wouldn’t be the type to hang out with the Counsels. At least I can’t picture it.”
“Nah.”
“So who would he hang out with? Who would bring him here, Walt?”
“I don’t always drive to Atlanta,” Walt says abruptly.
Kimberly and I both wait.
“Late spring to early fall, temperatures can be very hot. My old van, the AC doesn’t work so well. I worried about my plants wilting before I got there.”
I nod encouragingly.
“One night, I’m sitting in the tavern—”
“You spend a lot of time in bars for a guy who claims he doesn’t drink.”
“Man’s gotta eat. So I’m sitting there. And a fellow comes over. We get to chatting. He tells me he has a delivery business. Runs flowers, fresh fish, whatever, in his refrigerated truck up from Atlanta to local inns and restaurants. Man was bragging about his rig.”
“Okay.”
“We chat a little more, and it comes to me. Hot months, he could take my greens down, bring his fish and flowers back up. Good for me, good for him. We shake, and that’s it. Done deal for the past several years.”
“You trusted this man, some stranger, with your microgreens?” I already don’t believe him.
“That’s the thing. I shouldn’t have. No good reason to. But this guy, he had a way of speaking. Later, I got to thinking. Seems to me, he already knew. About my greens. My business. He knew everything before I ever sat down. Wasn’t some kind of coincidence. More like a setup.”
“But you continued the arrangement?”
“No reason not to. Man picks up, delivers, without missing a date. I might be half-cracked, but I ain’t stupid. And business is business.”
“Who’s the man, Walt?” Kimberly now, her voice a tad impatient.
“Clayton. Grew up around here. Not sure where he calls home now. One of those guys, comes and goes as he pleases.”
“Is Clayton a first or last name?”
“Didn’t bother to ask.”
“How do you pay him?”
“Cash.” Walt stares at her. “Like I’m trusting my money to some bank.”
“What does Clayton look like?”
“Big guy. Dark hair, brown eyes. Not that young, not that old. Hell, we don’t exchange pleasantries.”
There’s something he’s still not telling us. “Come on, Walt.”
After a moment’s hesitation: “He carries a knife. Big ol’ thing with an ugly-ass serrated blade. But he doesn’t keep it tucked away. He wants everyone to see it. He wants you to know.”
“Know what?”
“He’s one of us. Like Jacob. Like I used to be. A mean son of a bitch who makes no apologies. That knife, it’s not just for show. And all those run
s to Atlanta with his fancy refrigerated truck . . . Lots of things you can carry in a rig like that.”
“Where do we find Clayton?” Kimberly asks.
“Around. Like I said, he doesn’t exactly have an address. But sooner or later, he shows up again.”
“How do you get in touch with him when you have a delivery?”
“I don’t. He comes by. Every two weeks. Can’t fault the man for reliability.”
“When is the next pickup?”
“Five days.”
“We don’t have five days, Walt,” I say honestly. “I’m not even sure we have five hours.”
“Name of the tavern where you first met him?” Kimberly presses.
That faint hesitation again. Then a sigh. Long, uneven. It reminds me a bit of a death rattle, but maybe I’m just letting the conversation spook me.
“There’s something I should show you,” Walt says. He stands up, shotgun held before him. Belatedly, Kimberly and I rise to our feet. “You know I talk about the woods. You know what I believe. About the dark. The trees. That all that moaning and shrieking ain’t just the wind ripping through the forest.”
I nod.
“People think I’m crazy, talking like that. I know. I’ve heard them. For years now.” Walt stares at me. “I didn’t save you.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.
“Never saved anyone really. Just inflicted my share of violence, then fathered a boy who did even worse. That’s my legacy. Death and microgreens.”
I still don’t say anything.
“I know why the woods scream at night,” he murmurs. “And if you don’t mind going for a little hike, I can prove it.”
CHAPTER 37
D.D.
D.D. LET BONITA BE THEIR guide upon leaving the office. She expected the girl to head straight for the basement stairs, but instead she veered into the foyer, then crossed the pretty breakfast room into the kitchen. Bonita halted in front of the long, stainless steel commercial dishwasher. She pantomimed picking something up, then once again slashed at her leg.