by A J Rivers
“There's another property,” Dean points out.
“Exactly,” I say. “FireStarter is listed as owning those particular pieces of land. But the Prometheus ledger shows they own property near the area of that cornfield.”
“It just says ‘property’,” Dean points out. “All these other ones are specific. The temple, a house, a restaurant. But then it just says ‘property’. Could it be talking about the cornfield? Would they have not specified what it is so that they could hide it?”
“No,” Xavier says. “They wouldn’t leave themselves exposed. Like a wire. They would—they would thread it through something else to protect it. So it could go unnoticed. Underground. Something in the same shape, made to bury it in one spot and come out in another.”
“Like a conduit?”
Xavier nods. “Two ends of the same thing in two different places.”
“You’re right. The location numbers are different,” notes Dean, crouching low to double-check the discrepancy between my phone and computer. “Do we have a map of the area so we can triangulate this?”
I pull out all of the papers I brought back to the hotel so I could continue researching. One of them is an aerial map of the entire area drawn up to show the contested land. Xavier points out the corn maze, then the field of bones. The listing in the ledger is several hundred yards away and at a diagonal. He shows how their relationship to each other coordinates with the layout of the land and is able to identify the space referenced in the ledger.
“See, nothing's there,” Dean says. “It's just an empty space. It's not near that house. It's just space.”
“So, why doesn't it say farmland?” Xavier asks. “Or woods?”
I stare at it for a few more seconds and swallow hard.
“Because this is exactly what they mean. Property. This isn't talking about a building or the land. This is a person.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ten years after death …
Her face had long since become a memory. It would never be forgotten. But that was the problem. It didn't just fade away. It didn't become nothingness. Her face was gone now. Melted, liquefied, pulled to leather, and sunken in the bone. It was nothing.
And yet, out there, beyond the covering and above the dirt, where there was still sunlight and wind, moonlight and stars, more than just raindrops and snowmelt, her face was everywhere.
Ten years, people kept saying. Ten years and nothing.
Ten years and nothing but questions.
Ten years and nothing but questions with no answers.
But there were answers. More answers than there were questions. None of them true. All of them crafted, conjured, imagined. Some made people feel better. Some worse.
None of them told her secrets.
Her face was gone, and yet it was everywhere. And that was the problem.
Ten years is a long time, and yet not long enough to be forgotten.
That should have been the way it worked out. It should have been so easy. Just let it go. Let it go away, and all would be forgiven. All would be released.
Her face was a reminder. Not really of her. Not of when she smiled or laughed or breathed.
It was a reminder of oxygen depleting and neurons firing in one final blast. Of no more heartbeat and blood pooling where it stopped. Of a body raging against nothingness. Against the eternal, final dark.
That face represented something completely different now. Just lies. So many lies.
The lies scattered people. Her face everywhere reminded some they should be looking. For others, it meant to never look again. After all, she was somewhere else. Laughing, smiling, everything behind her, so she could just live.
But, of course, that wasn't true.
No matter how many people thought they saw it. No matter how many stories were told or absolute assurances given.
For some, it brought comfort. For others, anger. For others, confusion.
But it brought none of them to her.
Her face everywhere reminded them it had been ten years.
It brought attention to the other face that kept appearing beside hers. So much good in those eyes.
Ten years of rain, cold, heat, and bugs. Ten years of losing everything that was her.
And no one knew she was there.
There were people all around. She was never alone.
But none knew she was there, just yards away.
If only they had looked a little harder.
Chapter Fourteen
“I need to go talk to Lilith Duprey,” I say.
“Haven't you already talked to her?” Dean asks.
“A few times,” I acknowledge. “But I have to again. The house she owns was rented to a member of Prometheus. Now she lives on a piece of land right next to where Prometheus lists owning property, and where FireStarter owns a huge segment of land.”
“It's entirely possible she moved into that house, met members of Prometheus, and mentioned she was looking for somebody to rent her house. They knew of Mason, so they connected them. It could be that easy an explanation,” Dean says.
“It could be,” I say. “I hope it is.”
“But you don't think so,” Dean observes.
I look into his eyes for a few seconds and let out a long breath.
“I'm coming with you this time,” Xavier pipes up. “No reason I can’t, right?”
“No,” I tell him.
“You're going to where she was, aren't you?” he asks.
“Lakyn?” I ask. “Yes. We will be near there.”
“I—I want to see it,” he says.
I hesitate. My eyes slide over to Dean, and he shakes his head slightly, but not with enough commitment to be completely rejecting the idea.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “It's pretty disturbing out there.”
“Don't you think I see it every day?” he asks. “Don't you think it’s in my nightmares? Every night, as soon as I close my eyelids? Don’t you think I see everything you told me? She was there because of me, Emma. I didn't kill her, but if she had never met me, she would be alive.”
“You can't think that way,” I say. “You can't do that to yourself.”
“It's not something I'm doing to myself,” he replies. “I can't create reality. Not anyone else's, anyway. But I can tell you it’s the truth. She listened to me when I told her what was happening. She believed me. She took my tangled mess and unraveled the truth. And she was willing to do whatever she could to prove my innocence. That meant unveiling The Order, and she came so close. She died for it.”
“Then I guess it's my fault,” I say.
“What do you mean?” he asks. “You didn't even know her. There's nothing you could have done.”
“But you said I was here because this has been waiting for me. That you have been waiting for me. If that's true, she died so that I would come,” I say.
The words taste bitter on my tongue and make my stomach feel queasy, but I need him to hear it. I can't let Xavier torment himself over Lakyn's death. What she did was her choice. She didn't deserve it. She was doing something incredibly courageous and selfless. But it won’t be in vain. And I won’t allow Xavier’s life to be lost for it, too.
“You aren't to blame, Emma.”
“And neither are you,” I say.
“I still want to see where she died,” he says. “I need to see it. I need to put those nightmares away. I need to brush away the worst parts; the parts my mind keeps showing me. I need to unravel it and see the truth. Like she did for me. So I can say goodbye. I never got that chance.”
I want to discourage him, but I can't force him to stay. This is a piece of his life. He deserves to experience it.
Xavier is silent as we drive toward the cornfield. He never stops moving. His head sways from side to side slowly, his eyes moving to cover every inch of the windows and windshield. He's taking it all in, scanning each pixel of reality so he can commit it to memory.
“I've been here before,
” he suddenly says.
“You have?”
“Yes,” he nods. “I didn't know where I was or why. But we drove by here.”
“You and Andrew?” I ask.
“Me and Millie Haynes,” he says.
My breath catches in my throat. “Millie? Sterling Jennings' sister?”
“Yes,” he says. “I loved her once, but she's forgotten me now.”
I'm dying to know more, but we've gotten to the cornfield, and the expression on Xavier's face has totally changed. He's not distant anymore, not behind a misty veil of thought and memory. He’s locked in place. He looks on edge, as if he's going to climb out of the car in the next few seconds, whether I'm stopped or not.
I bring my car to a stop at one of the carefully placed markers positioned on the field. They were put in those specific places so that no vehicles drove over sections of the grid that hadn't yet been examined. Two officers stand guard to prevent anybody from getting too close to what is still a very active crime scene.
Most of the grid has been examined by now. But there are still sections to go, and as much as all of us hope the cornfield has already given up all its bodies, I feel the chances of that are slim to none.
“Evening, Agent Griffin,” Officer Parks says as I approach. “Is there something I can do to help you?”
“Just here to see something,” I say.
He steps out of the way, and I gesture for Dean and Xavier to go in front of me. The two officers try to watch us over their shoulders as we move into the cornfield. The stalks have been carefully cut down to clear the ground for the grid. But as we move farther away, it's harder for them to watch us without turning all the way around. Soon, they give up.
I silently lead Xavier toward the back of the field. I don't need any guidance or even time to stop and evaluate where I am. I'll never forget my way to this spot.
It's so different now than it was the night Dean and I followed Lakyn’s voice to come here, as if she was haunting us while she was still alive. We finally get to the blackened patch of growth. Her body killed everything trying to grow there. But next year, the land will flourish.
“This is where she was?” Xavier asks quietly.
I nod. “Yes.”
“You mentioned there was a cage over her,” he says.
“There was,” I say. “It was the only thing that kept the animals from tearing her apart.” I cringe. “I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. That's their way. They can't help it. They didn't know her, and she wasn't even her by the time they came. Which is why I wonder who put that cage there,” he says.
“We don't know,” I say. “The cage was processed, but there wasn't any interesting evidence on it. No DNA or fibers or hairs.”
“Was it heavy?” he asks.
“The cage?” I ask.
“Yes. Was it heavy?”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t much stronger than chicken wire.”
He nods slowly. “Interesting.”
His head tilts to the side, and he turns slightly, rotating his body so his head is almost upside down and his hip faces toward where the body once lay. He's still staring at the ground. It looks like he's trying to figure something out. He stands up and points across the field.
“She came from that direction,” he says.
“How do you know that?” I ask.
He stands in the contorted position again and points at the blackened area on the ground. It's not quite the outline of her body, but by the way he points at it, it makes the recognizable shapes stand out.
“The way the plants died. Where her body fluids were pooled. Saturation. They would be heaviest where her internal organs were, and then her mouth and nose. That means most likely this is where her torso was, and this is where her legs were.”
“That's right,” I nod. “That's exactly how she was lying when I found her.”
“Most likely, she was dragged across the cornfield,” he says. “She wasn't going to give in easily. It was her way. Her nature. She would fight.”
“Yes,” I say. “There wasn't really enough of her left to perform an autopsy, but the medical examiner was able to do some examination on the body. She had numerous defensive wounds and injuries consistent with being dragged forcibly.”
“Exactly,” he nods. “So, she was being dragged across the field, after they were—,” he chokes back emotion, “—they were done with her.”
I reach a hand to touch his shoulder. He takes a deep breath and continues.
“They just tossed her down. She would tumble to the side that was most natural for her body makeup. If she was lying this way, she fell from that spot,” he points and drags his finger to another direction. “Which means she came from that direction.”
“That's incredible,” I tell him, my mouth hanging open. “I never would have put that together.”
“You would have,” he says. “I just saved you some time.”
“Do you want a minute?” I ask.
He looks at me and nods. Dean and I walk away, heading further down the row. The evidence flags in this area of the cornfield are nowhere near as dense as they were closer to the middle and on the farther side. I resist the urge to watch him.
Standing quietly, I become aware of the sounds around us. They are distant, but I can hear screams and shouts from the corn maze. It's active now, awake in the Halloween season. I have to ask myself how many of the people exploring through the meticulously groomed and shaped maze came just for the proximity to the killing field.
We've already talked to the owner of the maze. He knows the critical importance of keeping anybody who might come to his maze away from the cornfield. We have the officers stationed near the active part of the grid but also have an officer over at the maze. The owner put up additional barriers around the edge to prevent people from going through and trying to sneak over.
Even so, I have no doubt there are plenty of thrill-seekers eager to catch a glimpse at the horror that has been on every news channel in the area for weeks.
Several minutes pass before Xavier comes toward us.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Thank you for that. For bringing me here.”
“Of course,” I say.
He looks around, seeming to admire the layout of the grid and the evidence flags.
“What are those?” he asks, gesturing toward one of the bright pink flags.
“We put those in every place where we found anything at all. A bone fragment, a tooth, a piece of cloth, a shoe, a piece of jewelry. Anything that could possibly have to do with one of the people who ended up here, we mark it.”
He looks around again, and his eyes catch something in the distance.
“How about that?” he says, gesturing toward the lone flag around twenty feet away.
“That was a grave,” I say.
He walks toward it, stopping several inches away from the edge and leaning so he could look down into the roughly hewn hole.
“Who was in here?” he asks.
“The body hasn't been identified yet,” I say.
“But it was just one body?” he asks.
“Yes,” I nod. “Fairly well intact.”
“And no parts of others?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him. “Why?”
“It doesn't fit the puzzle,” he says.
“The—puzzle?” Dean frowns.
“Look around you. You’ve marked every puzzle piece you found. Scattered all across this field. Even Lakyn would have been scattered too if it wasn't for that cage. So, why a grave? Doesn’t fit the puzzle.”
Chapter Fifteen
I take note of Xavier's comment, folding it up and tucking it away in a little pocket in my mind where I've learned to keep things he says. They don't always make sense when he first says them. In fact, they almost never make sense when he first says them. But if I leave them there long enough, I start to understand.
But I don't have the time right now.
I have to go talk to Lilith. It's getting late, and I need to make sure I can get to her tonight.
“Come on,” I say. “It's time to go to Lilith's house. It's just over here.”
Xavier isn't moving. But he's not looking at the grave anymore. Instead, his head is tilted toward the sounds of the screams and laughter coming from the corn maze, his expression one of concentration. He looks at me.
“What is that?” he asks.
“People going through the maze,” I tell him.
“It's open?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I figured they would close this year because of everything that's going on, but they didn't. There's a maze and a pumpkin patch. The patch is probably closed now because it's dark, but that's when people like to go through the corn mazes.”
“I want to go,” he says.
Shocked by the assertion, I stare at him for a few seconds. I'm waiting for him to tell me he's joking, and we do not quite understand what's funny about it. But he looks completely serious.
“You want to go through the corn maze?” I ask.
He nods. “I haven’t been through one since I was just a little boy.”
“I'm not so sure it's a good idea,” I start. “There are a lot of people and scare actors. It can get really confusing in there.”
“Come on, Emma,” Dean chimes in. “It's Halloween. Let him have some fun. I doubt things are very festive in the jail at Halloween.”
“We aren't even allowed costumes,” Xavier says.
There isn't a hint of humor on his face. He says it as if it's a travesty against nature, one of the miseries he suffered. I can't help but commiserate with him at least a little bit. Halloween has always been one of my favorite times of the year. I might not have thrown on a cape and gone trick-or-treating in a long time, but it's hard to imagine not having any celebration at all.
“I'll go with him,” Dean says. “You don't need us there, anyway. She'll probably respond better to just talking to you, anyway. Just meet us over at the maze when you're done.”