by Rita Herron
With the girls disappearing hundreds of miles apart in dozens of different jurisdictions, no one else had made the connection.
Penny Matthews’ gap-toothed smile flashed behind his eyes. The little girl reminded him of Kim.
He opened his laptop and searched for the name of the police officer in charge of the investigation.
Detective Ellie Reeves.
His pulse jumped. Was she related to Sheriff Randall Reeves?
He quickly ran a background search. Yes. Ellie Reeves was his daughter. Randall Reeves, the sheriff of Bluff County at the time Kim went missing.
The man who’d allowed his little sister’s case to go cold.
Maybe it was time he paid the sheriff and his daughter a visit.
If Penny Matthews hadn’t simply wandered off, and he was right about the connection between the missing girls, a serial killer was stalking the Appalachian Trail—and had been for over twenty years.
10.
Crooked Creek
Angelica pushed the microphone at Ellie as soon as she stepped outside the Matthews’ house.
“Any updates, Detective Reeves?”
Ellie gritted her teeth. “Not yet. Rest assured we’re working diligently to find this missing child before it gets any darker. Again, we ask for anyone with information to phone the authorities.” Pulling up her hood to ward off the rain, she elbowed her way past the reporter, dove in her vehicle and hoped the press didn’t follow. She had to canvass the neighbors, get their take on the Matthews’ family.
The homes in the area all looked to have been built in the fifties, on quarter acre lots, and many had been renovated, although a few still bore the original paint and roofing and sat vacant, needing repairs.
The neighborhood was also near the park in town, and the road leading to Cold Creek Falls, a waterfall which drew tourists and photographers, especially in the fall and spring when white water rafting, canoeing, kayaking, camping, hiking, and exploring the mountains attracted tourists and locals alike.
Ellie spent the next hour and a half knocking on doors, asking about the Matthews family and fending off questions from curious neighbors who were terrified a crime had happened in their own backyards.
Finally, the rain slackened, giving her a momentary reprieve from the pounding downpour.
It turned out the house closest to the Matthews belonged to a woman named Bernice, an acquaintance of Ellie’s mother. Bernice was visibly upset when she answered the door. The scent of her homemade cinnamon bread wafted toward Ellie. Her mother had mentioned that Bernice was baking for the festival. Last year Ellie had bought one of her homemade pound cakes and a peach cobbler to support the youth groups’ mission trip to Honduras.
“Hey, Ellie, I saw you on the news,” Bernice said. “Have you found that precious little girl?”
Ellie sighed. “Not yet, Ma’am. Search parties will be looking around the clock. I’m doing some background work on the family. Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Matthews?”
Bernice fluttered a hand to her chenille robe. “I do, although I know Susan better than the daddy. She and Penny bring me dinner once a week, and I give them free cookies. Penny likes my peanut butter and chocolate chip ones.”
“Sounds delicious.” Susan was shaping up to be a saint.
“Do Susan and Penny get along?”
“They were so sweet together, it reminded me of my daughter, Lola, when she was little. Although I don’t get to see her so much anymore. She moved to California with her husband. He’s real uppity and doesn’t like the country.” She laughed softly. “Thinks just because we talk slow, we’re dumb as dirt here. But these hills are my home and I’m proud of it.”
“I hear you. Now tell me about the father,” Ellie said, steering her back on track. “How was Stan with Penny?”
Bernice’s white eyebrows knitted together. “He kicked the soccer ball with her. Taught her how to ride her bike.”
“But he was on the road a lot with his job?” Ellie asked.
“Yeah, drove that big rig. Man had a temper, you know. Once he pulled out of the drive so fast, he knocked the trash can over. Another time he sideswiped the mailbox.” She tsked. “Good thing that little girl wasn’t back there, or he could have run over her.”
It could mean nothing. Or it could point to a pattern of violence on Stan Matthews’ part.
“Did you ever notice anyone watching Penny? Maybe a stranger or a friend of Stan’s? Someone at the bus stop?”
Bernice clacked her teeth. “Not that I recall. Susan always walked Penny to the bus stop and stayed with her until she got on and sat down.”
Ellie handed Bernice her business card. “If you think of anything else that might be helpful, please give me a call.”
Next, Ellie went across the street. A light was burning in the window, a rusted station wagon in the drive. A hound dog loped up and licked her hand as she approached. She stooped down and gave the dog a back scratch, then made her way to the door. The yard was overgrown, the cement path to the front door cracked, the shutters loose and flapping in the wind.
She scanned the property. No signs of a child.
Everything appeared calm, so she raised her hand and knocked. Footsteps sounded from inside, then a voice shouted, “Yeah, coming.”
The wind whistled off the mountain, a clap of thunder echoing in the distance, promising more rain. Ellie clenched her hands by her sides. The clock was ticking. Night had set in fast and furious, the sun obliterated behind gray storm clouds. With winter storm Tempest careening their way, sleet and snow would follow soon and wind chills that could be deadly. If Penny was lost, she prayed she’d found shelter.
The sound of the lock turning echoed from inside, then a moment later, the wooden door screeched open. The scent of cigarette smoke and stale beer hit her so strong that she coughed.
The silver-haired man on the other side made no apology as he puffed on his non-filtered Camel. Slight-framed with stooped shoulders and age-spotted hands, he looked to be in his late seventies. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up with a crooked finger as he squinted at her. The dog brushed past Ellie and trotted inside.
She introduced herself, but he cut her off. “I know who you are. Seen you on the news with that reporter.”
Of course he had. Everyone else in the county would see it too. She just hoped she didn’t let down the people counting on her. “Your name, sir?”
“Lewis Farmer.”
“Do you live alone or is there someone else here?”
“Wife passed about thirty years ago. Just me and Gomer now. You found that little girl yet?”
“No, sir, that’s the reason I’m here. Have you noticed anything odd around the Matthews house lately? Perhaps someone watching Penny play outside? A stranger in a car? Maybe someone taking pictures? Walking a pet?”
He knocked the ashes from his cigarette into an aluminum can he held in his gnarled hand. “Naw. Although yesterday Stan had it out with some man in the front yard. Susan yelled at him to calm down, but Stan said no teacher had any right to come to his house and say such things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Something about how Stan disciplines her. You know some folks believe spare the rod, spoil the child.”
Ellie’s breath quickened. “Does Stan believe in corporal punishment?”
“Hell, I don’t know. But Stan yelled at the guy to get off his property or else.”
11.
Ellie sat at the kitchen table with Penny’s mother again. Susan cradled her daughter’s yellow teddy bear in her arms as if it was a baby.
“Susan, one of your neighbors mentioned that Stan had an argument with Penny’s teacher.”
Susan dumped sugar into her tea and stirred it vigorously. “He did. But it really was nothing.”
“Tell me about it,” Ellie coaxed.
“Penny drew a family picture at school, and Mr. Zimmerman got the wrong idea.”
“What idea was that?”
> Susan picked at her cuticles. “She drew Stan with a monster face. But it didn’t mean anything. She’s a child and was mad because she wanted a pony and Stan said we couldn’t afford it.” She shook her head as if to dismiss the incident. “Anyway, Mr. Zimmerman stopped by the house and had the gall to accuse Stan of hurting Penny.”
Ellie remained silent, hoping Susan would elaborate, but she seemed to be lost in the memory. “Was he?”
“No. For heaven’s sake, Mr. Zimmerman overreacted. Stan loves that child.”
She paced to the window and Ellie wondered what she saw. Her husband and daughter playing chase in the yard?
Or Penny running scared from her father?
Ten minutes later, Ellie flipped on the radio and set out to drive around Crooked Creek to check out some abandoned properties. Dark gray clouds still hovered overhead, adding to her anxiety. Penny was out there alone. Frightened. Cold. Missing her mommy.
Just like Ellie had been that night she was lost.
Her headlights lit on a sign that read Bryce Waters for Sheriff, the first of several he’d plastered along the highway. A visual that cut through her like a knife.
The weather report drew her back to the overcast skies “This is Cara Soronto, Eleven Alive meteorologist, bringing you the latest breaking news. Winter storm Tempest has already struck New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia, causing several deaths and stranding motorists all along the highways. Major airports are shutting down for the next forty-eight hours and travelers are advised to stay put, hunker down and prepare to be snowed in. Residents in North Carolina, Tennessee and Georgia should expect record snowfall, frigid temperatures dipping into single digits, and a wind chill factor that feels more like subzero than freezing.”
Ellie shivered and punched the radio off, battling an image of poor little Penny freezing to death in the woods all alone.
Focus. You’re not that scared little girl anymore.
Do your job and find her.
So far, the inclement weather forecast had not deterred tourists. The Crooked Creek Inn parking lot was full, and in conjunction with Bluff County, the restaurants and shops had been decorated for the festival. The committee chairs had marked off spaces for vendors to set up. There would be arts and crafts booths, antiques, local produce stalls with jams and jellies, homemade fudge and honey.
Food trucks would park near the stage, which would be showcasing musicians and entertainment. A chili cookoff between local business owners was one of the highlights, along with the varieties of cornbread for tasting. The festival usually marked the beginning of spring, bringing the first wave of tourists to the mountains. Ellie had loved it when she was a kid, because she and her father would plan their first whitewater rafting trip of the season for right after. Her heart gave a pang.
As if he sensed she was thinking about him, her phone buzzed and his name appeared on the screen. She let it roll to voicemail and drove past the Stichin’ Sisters’ Quilt Shop and the Beauty Barn, where the gossip mongers thrived. The owner Maude Hazelnut—Meddlin’ Maude Ellie called her—was just locking up, her head bent as if sharing something salacious with Edwina Waters, Bryce’s mother.
A second later, her cell rang again. This time it was Cord.
She punched connect. “Please tell me you have good news.”
“I wish I could. So far nothing. Randall said he called, and you didn’t answer. Where are you?”
“Working. Did you find something?”
“Not yet. By the way, your father stumbled on those teenagers that Matthews spotted. They were setting up camp near the falls. They claim they hadn’t seen the little girl. No indication she’d been around their camp or nearby. We’ve sent them home, with a stern word from the SAR team about respecting mountain weather.” Cord paused. He sounded out of breath. “Randall is following up with the parents. We’re rotating search teams for the night.”
“I’m going to check some of the abandoned buildings around town just in case someone kidnapped Penny and is hiding out. Shondra’s doing the same in Stony Gap.” She could think of at least two nationally known cases where police chased just one theory without considering another. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake.
“Good idea,” Cord agreed.
Ending the call, Ellie phoned the owner of Crooked Creek Cottages, then the inn, and asked them to be on the lookout for anyone suspicious, specifically anyone with a child. Kidnappers had been known to disguise a child as the opposite sex, even cutting their hair and dressing them in gender-neutral or opposite-sex clothing.
Next, she phoned Benjamin Fields, the local real estate agent, and asked for a list of any abandoned or vacant properties around the area.
A tense heartbeat passed. “There’s a vacant warehouse by the gulley on the edge of town. It was used as storage for factory equipment. And then there’s the old Dugan farm. I’ll do some research and text you if I find more.”
After he gave her the details he had, she ended the call and sped toward the warehouse. Five minutes later, she parked at the end of the alley between a furniture mart and the warehouse, scanning the property.
The furniture mart, which seemed to specialize in handcrafted Amish pieces, was closed for the night, and there were no cars or other signs anyone had stayed behind late. Even so, hiding out inside the vacant warehouse would be difficult with an operating business next door. Still, she pulled her weapon and flashlight, crossing to the boxy metal building. Finding the door chained and locked, she climbed on a dumpster to peer through a grimy window.
Shining her flashlight inside, she saw the entire space had been cleaned out. She couldn’t even see a footprint in the dust.
Satisfied Penny wasn’t there, she returned to her Jeep, started the engine and headed toward the Dugan farm. The land had access to the approach trail leading to Falcon’s Nest, a popular gathering spot to view birds of prey.
The crumbling farmhouse on the property had been deserted for nearly a decade. It would be the perfect place to hide.
12.
Ellie grabbed her flashlight once more, climbed from her Jeep and scanned the farm. Years ago, fall at the Dugans’ meant pumpkin picking, hayrides, a corn maze and a booth where visitors could hand-make their own fall and Halloween wreaths.
Now, it looked almost ghost-like. A rusted broken-down truck sat abandoned on the property, its tires missing, windows cracked. The barn was rotting, and the roof needed patching. The mud-smeared windows on the house were boarded up, the porch was sagging, and the wind battered the ‘For Sale’ sign in the front yard.
The house and barn appeared empty, but Ellie walked toward them anyway, searching for footprints, tire tracks, any sign someone had recently been here.
Nothing stood out, but she kept her senses alert as she approached the barn. Shining the flashlight through the open door, she panned it across the interior. The dirt and hay floor were just as she remembered, but the tables and wreaths were long gone. She eased through the door and scanned the interior. No sign anyone was inside.
She exited the barn then crossed the lawn to the house. After surveying the exterior, and checking the perimeter, she determined the windows and doors were all locked. So was the crawl space. Fields had told her there was a spare key for the back door beneath an old plant pot. She retrieved it and, after turning the stiff lock, she flashed her light inside.
A musty smell assaulted her, and then she noticed trash on the floor. In the kitchen, she found several empty aluminum cans along with a load of bread, moldy food-crusted paper plates, and a plastic jug of water.
Someone had been here. Recently.
A noise sounded behind her.
The whisper of a breath? Or was it the wind?
The floor creaked, and she turned, but a shadow lunged toward her, then something hard slammed across the back of the head. The blow was so sharp that she pitched forward, staggering to stay on her feet. Another sharp crack came before she could reach her gun and stars swam behind h
er eyes.
She hit the floor face-first then the world went dark.
13.
Eula Ann Frampton wrapped her homemade scarf around her wiry gray bun as she stepped onto the rickety porch of her Victorian house. The wind blew off the mountain with a savage sound, swirling the brittle, brown leaves on her lawn into a blinding haze and nearly obliterating her view of her rose garden.
She knew what the folks in town said. She heard the whispers and felt their hateful, frightened stares. “That crazy old Ms. Eula killed her husband Ernie and buried him in her own yard, right there under the roses.”
Meddlin’ Maude lead the troupe of gossip mongers. “She’s a freak.”
“Spooky, if you ask me.”
“Don’t let your children get near her house.”
A cackle bubbled in her throat.
Only she and Ernie really knew what had happened. And it would stay between them, where it belonged, just like all good secrets did.
Tonight, though, it wasn’t Ernie’s throaty whisper that floated to her from the grave.
It was the voices of the little girls.
She hadn’t asked to hear from the dead, but the voices broke through the night anyway. It had started when she was just a kid. First, when her granny passed of the awful flu. Then again when Mama went to heaven after being hit by that blasted chicken truck. People still talked about the cages that had come open when the truck crashed, and the hundred chickens that had gone clacking and waddling all across the road. Eula hadn’t eaten chicken since.
A snowflake fell, the glossy white crystal landing on the tip of her magnolia tree and reminding her of the next time the voices had come.
The night the first girl had gone missing.
A shiver ruffled Eula’s scarf, and tore it from her hair, dragging a strand from her bun as if a spool of thread had come loose. Maybe it was her mind that had come loose when she’d heard that first child’s cry.