The Girl from Silent Lake

by Leslie Wolfe

  Forty-Seven

  Conversations

  Kay gave Sam Stinson a hug and placed a kiss on his cheek, then climbed behind the wheel of her Ford, noting in passing that it had been hours since he’d received a service call. From that morning around ten, when she’d seen him driving on the interstate, until now, at two in the afternoon, when Triple A had texted a work order for him, almost four hours had passed during which time he hadn’t earned any money.

  She let him leave, waving him off with a smile. As soon as the truck disappeared from view, so did Kay’s smile, replaced by a flurry of mixed emotions.

  The unsub had taken another woman. Who was she? Was she traveling with a child?

  And if she’d been right in profiling the killer, he wasn’t going to take anyone else until the ground thawed, and that meant he wasn’t going to need Sam’s truck until spring. Her best lead had proven to be fruitless, at least for now. Yes, the unsub was using the tow truck, just as she’d anticipated, but he was wearing gloves in all the videos she’d seen. After Sam had taken off, she realized that, regardless, the forensic team should’ve probably gone through that truck’s cabin with a fine-tooth comb, just to cover all bases. Although she knew the perpetrator well enough to know he would’ve never made the mistake to leave any evidence behind.

  A knock on the window made her jump out of her skin.

  It was Elliot.

  She breathed out and lowered her window.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, no greeting, no apologies for the previous night’s outburst.

  “Visiting an old friend,” she replied coldly. “Why? You ran out of people to accuse?”

  He lowered his gaze for a brief moment. “Don’t lie to me, please, Kay.”

  “I’m still mad at you,” she said, instead of answering his question. She rested her elbow on the door and looked at him, studying his reactions. That shame was still there, the guilt for whatever he thought he’d done wrong. “Isn’t your boss telling you we can’t work together anymore?”

  He ran his hand over his forehead, shielding his eyes for a brief moment. “No. He, um, checked you out, and he said no way your father is mixed up in all this.” He cleared his throat, and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe what you said about him. You would’ve probably done the same.”

  She shrugged, feeling a little vindicated, but not entirely. “No,” she replied candidly. “I would’ve probably chosen to believe my partner instead of applying statistical fallacies without thinking.”

  “What statistical fallacies?”

  She sighed and repressed a smile, but decided to explain. He seemed miserable enough without her making it worse. “Yes, it’s statistically true that perps have a tendency to insert themselves into investigations, so they can keep an eye on things and even derail the outcomes if they can. But that doesn’t mean everyone who becomes involved in an investigation is necessarily the unsub or is protecting the unsub.”

  Silence fell heavily between them for a moment.

  “I see,” he replied, the look in his eyes heavy, burdened. “Well, I’ve had me plenty of time to think about it. I spent last night in jail.”

  That explained his attire and disheveled look, maybe even the absence of his wide-brimmed hat. She realized she had never seen him without it. He had a tall forehead and light hair. “How come?”

  “Technically, a DUI, but I wasn’t drunk; I was set up. Not sure how, but I’m willing to bet my gold star against a pile of steaming manure he pulled the strings and framed me.” He lowered his gaze again, only for a split second. “We must be getting really close to him.”

  She mulled things over for a brief moment. The unsub had managed to come after both of them, effectively, without either of them seeing him coming. “He’s not only local,” she said, “he’s also connected.”

  He nodded once. “I got the results from Doc Whitmore on the blanket fibers. We struck out again. The blankets look Native, but they were made in China, and there’s no telling where or how they were shipped here. To whom.”

  There could be some telling, but it required the best analysts from the FBI pulling mountains of Chinese import data together, gathering customs declarations, and cross-referencing them nationwide to registered owners of blue Cadillac Escalades. It would take time. Too much time.

  “He took another woman, Elliot,” she announced grimly, her own powerlessness suffocating.

  “How do you know?”

  “Sam Stinson had a no-show call last night, over the ridge from Katse, and this morning, he found someone had messed with his truck while he was sleeping. Left it with the radio on.”

  “So that’s how he does it,” Elliot exclaimed, raising his hands in the air. “So, where to next, partner?” he asked, venturing a tense smile.

  “You’ll get video surveillance installed here, so we’ll catch him when he takes Sam’s truck again.”

  “But you said—”

  “Yes, it could be months until he does.” She pressed her lips together, determined to not let her discouragement seep out. They’d lost Alison; regardless of everything they tried, they’d only found her body. Not her, alive, and not her daughter Hazel. The unsub still had Hazel. But maybe this new woman had a chance. “You do that, Elliot, and I’ll keep asking questions, see who could’ve got so close to Sam Stinson without anyone noticing.”

  “You don’t have a badge anymore,” Elliot pushed back. “You shouldn’t be conducting investigations on your own.”

  “I’m not,” she replied firmly. “I’m just visiting old friends, catching up.”

  They stared at each other for a brief moment, then Elliot walked away with a heavy sigh. Kay was about to start her engine, when her phone buzzed. She took the call on her car’s media system, and a man’s voice filled the space.

  “Dr. Sharp? This is Shane Joplin, returning your call. Your brother’s attorney?”

  That was a call she hadn’t really been expecting. “Yes, hi,” she said, thinking quickly how best to approach the conversation. “I was wondering if we could speak for a moment about my brother’s sentencing, which seems significantly more severe than the norm.”

  She paused, giving him time to respond.

  “Um, yes, well, this is entirely up to the judge in these cases, and Judge Hewitt is famous for imposing harsh sentences in physical assault cases. I defended the case to the best of my abilities, but—”

  She’d looked Judge Hewitt up on the internet, right after Jacob had mentioned his name, and Joplin’s statement was correct. But even His Honor should’ve seen the trumped-up charge for what it was.

  “Felony assault with premeditation?” Kay said, allowing her frustration to become apparent in her voice.

  “The DA wanted to, um, make an example out of him. Your brother could’ve pleaded it out, but he refused. Jacob insisted he wasn’t guilty of any premeditation, and that we’d be able to prove it in court. But juries are finnicky, as you well know, and they found him guilty after all. Then the judge—”

  “What could we do for Jacob at this point?” she asked, unwilling to hear him make any more excuses. “I will pay for your services.” She waited for an answer, but none came. “And I’d really want to understand how a simple bar brawl ended in a six-month prison sentence for a first-time offender. I don’t believe I’m getting the full picture here.”

  “Dr. Sharp,” Joplin said, his tone lower, as if he was trying to keep his words from being overheard. “Let’s meet face to face. I believe the conversation would be better handled that way.”

  She wholeheartedly agreed, yet there was no time. Not until she found the unsub. But it was her own brother whose every day behind bars could be his last. “Yes, I believe it would be better if we met in person.”

  “Excellent,” Joplin replied. “When can you meet? Time is of the essence, I’m sure you understand. I could meet with you right now, if you’d like.”

  She he
sitated for a beat, then replied, “How’s tomorrow around lunch? Should I come to San Francisco?”

  “No, Dr. Sharp, I’ll meet you up there, where you live.”

  She thanked him and ended the call, then started the engine and drove off Sam Stinson’s property, turning onto the state highway and heading to town. She replayed her conversation with Joplin in her mind, wondering what secrets lay beneath her brother’s unusual charge and harsh sentencing, and if there was a coincidence anywhere, with Elliot having spent his night in jail over a bogus charge. Was the unsub someone who held power or influence in law enforcement, or maybe somewhere else in the justice system?

  As she drove away, deeply immersed in her own thoughts, she failed to notice the dark Escalade trailing her from a distance.

  Forty-Eight

  Meg

  Meg Stinson lived in one of the newer ranches, a small one overlooking the snow-covered peak of Mount Chester. She looked just as Kay remembered, the only traces of time passing showed in the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Her hair was still chestnut, wavy and wild, not a visible trace of gray anywhere. She wore it long, like a teenager would, and her turtleneck, white sweater was youthful too, loose over skinny jeans.

  Kay teared up in Meg’s arms. She’d missed her dearly, the smell of rising bread in her hair, the sound of wind chimes on her porch, the touch of her warm hand against her cheek. Meg was like a second mother for Kay, and since Pearl’s passing, Meg had been in Kay’s thoughts many times. But she’d stayed away, more afraid to come to Mount Chester and open old wounds than eager to see the people she loved.

  She sniffled and withdrew from the embrace, afraid the flood gates would open, and she’d end up breaking down in Meg’s arms, all the unwanted tears accompanying the recent anguish in her life threatening to burst out.

  “I missed you,” Kay confessed, then turned her head to hide her face as she wiped another rebel tear. “You look amazing,” she added. “You haven’t aged a bit.”

  “Only on the surface, my dear,” Meg replied. “Come, sit with me,” she said, patting a spot next to her on the cedar swing.

  She gladly accepted, and they sat there together for a while, silently, looking at the mountain peak in the distance, enjoying the serenity of the breezy afternoon.

  “New wind chimes?” Kay asked.

  “Yes, you noticed,” Meg replied, smiling. “Every now and then I drive to the Pacific coast and collect some shells from the beach. That gives me something to do. A divorced schoolteacher has a lot of free time on her hands.” She slid off the swing, setting it into a slow, relaxing motion. “I’ll get us a cup of tea.”

  Kay followed her inside while she made the tea, eastern hemlock, her absolute favorite for chilly days. Meg had introduced her to the tribal tradition of drinking the brew when she was barely tall enough to reach the counter. It smelled of mountain air, of pine forests, of evergreens uncovered by thawing snow.

  Meg had arranged the small house neatly, with little furniture, all of it functional and reminiscent of Native interiors. Sheepskins covered the couch and one of the armchairs, and another lay on the floor, by the couch, in front of the fireplace. An area rug with a geometrical pattern covered a section of the wooden floor, a small dining room table with four chairs centered on it. Another hung on the wall, behind the couch, bringing color and warmth to the interior. The house smelled faintly of sweetgrass and fresh cookies, the scents of her childhood, the ones she loved to remember. Others, she still struggled to forget.

  Kay noticed some framed photos on the wall by the kitchen and walked over there to take a look. One of the photos showed Judy, Sam, and her in front of the Stinson house, taken the summer the girls had turned twelve. Another showed Judy and Kay, older, all dressed up for prom, and Sam threatening to shoot his water pistol at them. That one made her chuckle; she still remembered how terrified she was that Sam would pull the trigger and she’d end up going to the prom wet as a cat caught in the rain. A third one, a little to the side, showed young Meg and Mr. Stinson, holding hands. Meg was about twenty-five years old in that photo and smiled happily, the smile of a woman in love. Yet Kay’s heart froze when she noticed Meg’s hair in the photo. It was braided tightly, not one loose strand anywhere, and the two braids were tied with ornamental hair ties made from leather and small feathers.

  Just like the girls from Silent Lake.

  Slack-jawed, she stared at the photo, taking in every detail, barely aware her throat was parched dry and words weren’t coming out. She swallowed with difficulty, then asked, pointing at the picture, “When… what was this about?”

  Meg wiped her hands off her jeans and approached to see which photo Kay was asking about.

  “Roy and I met at a powwow, don’t know if you knew that,” Meg replied, a fond smile stretching her lips. She handed Kay a hot cup of tea. “This is one of the last times he and I went to a powwow together,” she added, a hint of sadness in her voice. “His parents demanded that I convert to Catholicism if we wanted to be married, so I did.” Meg paused for a moment, and Kay didn’t interrupt her thoughts. “Different times, back then.” She looked at Kay with an apologetic smile. “I would’ve acted differently today. But thirty years ago, I said yes, and left my tribe behind.”

  “Did you miss it?” Kay set her teacup on the dining room table and pulled herself a chair.

  Meg sat next to Kay and squeezed her forearm gently. “More than you’d think. Truth be told, I never really converted, not deep inside,” she said, touching her chest briefly. “In my heart, I’m still Pomoan.” Her smile was loaded with sadness, with unspoken regret. “But if you want to look at old photos, I have some right here,” she said, her voice a bit more cheerful than before.

  She stood and went over to a dresser, then opened a few drawers, looking for something.

  Kay was drawn toward the photo, as if it was a window into the unsub’s twisted soul. Yet asking about it, talking about it with Meg seemed surreal, sending shivers down her spine as if she was about to conjure evil and look it in the eye.

  “Is there a significance to the braided hair, the way you wore it in that photo?” Kay asked, her tense voice barely above a whisper.

  “Some say the braiding represents the connection with the infinite,” Meg replied, approaching the table with a large photo album. She set it on the table, while Kay moved the teacups over to make room for it. “But I believe it was more practical than anything else, not having hair in your eyes when working or cooking. Or dancing,” she added, laughing quietly. “Because Pomoan Indians never cut their hair unless they’re grieving the death of a loved one.”

  “I knew that,” Kay replied. “I just didn’t know about the braiding. And those hair ties? They’re so beautiful,” she added. “Do you remember where you got them from?”

  “I made them,” Meg replied proudly. “Before I got married, I used to make all sorts of things and sell them at powwows. It was a little bit of money my family needed.” She opened the album and turned the transparent, protective sheet between the pages. “This is me and my Native family, my mother and father,” she said, showing her the yellowed photo of Meg as a young girl, maybe fifteen or so, with both her parents dressed in ceremonial attire. “It was someone’s wedding; I don’t remember whose.”

  Kay saw Meg growing up in one photo after another, then a photo from her own wedding.

  “Wow, you were an amazing bride,” Kay said, looking at the weathered image.

  “Thank you, my dear. That was thirty-seven years ago.”

  Kay thought to ask about her divorce, but bit her lip. If Meg wanted to talk about it, she’d bring it up.

  Meg turned another page in the album, then almost rushed to turn another. Kay stopped her, and caught her frown in the corner of her eye, while she stared at a photo that brought back forgotten memories. It was a picture of Meg and three children: Judy, Sam, and an older boy, taller than his siblings, almost as tall as his mother.

  “Who’s
this? He looks familiar, but I can’t remember, I’m sorry,” Kay whispered, running her hand over the photo’s protective sleeve. There used to be another boy, but she realized that she’d forgotten all about him. He was older, and they never really played together. Judy must’ve been eleven or twelve in that photo, and Judy was her age. One summer he’d just vanished.

  Meg averted her eyes. Her expression had changed, showing lines of sadness that flanked her mouth and cast shadows over her eyes. “We don’t talk about him,” she replied in a cold, firm voice. “He’s gone.”

  Kay wrapped her arm around Meg’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry, Meg. I had no idea. Losing a child must be terrible.”

  “It is,” she said, keeping her eyes shielded. Kay heard the threat of tears in her voice.

  “How did he die?” Kay asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  Meg didn’t speak for a while, staring into the distance, as if somewhere in the sweetgrass scented air of the living room was the answer she was looking for.

  “He didn’t,” she eventually said, while a tear rolled down her cheek. “Nick left the year we took that photo. He argued with us a lot. He had… a difficult time growing up.”

  “How, exactly?” Kay asked, embarrassed to be pushing Meg into a difficult conversation. Her instinct unfurled a sense of foreboding in her gut, seeding goosebumps on her skin.

  “At first, I thought it was all a coincidence,” Meg replied, stifling a shattered breath. “I kept finding dead animals in our barn. Mrs. Wilkinson’s cat, a stray dog one time, strangled. It was awful.” She stopped for a moment, visibly struggling to continue.

  Kay squeezed her frozen fingers, wondering how come she knew nothing of what had happened to her closest friends. She guessed that nobody thought it necessary to share such things with twelve-year-old girls.

  “I—we confronted him,” Meg continued, “and he denied everything. We argued badly, then a few nights later, the barn caught fire when we were at work, and the children, supposedly, at school. Later, we learned he’d skipped geography class that afternoon and couldn’t account for his time.”