Never Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  D.D. arched a brow at her CI.

  “I was a long-term victim,” Flora supplied in response to the next logical question. “In the beginning, maybe I did try to shut it out. I certainly don’t remember many specific details of the first . . . assault. But over time, the . . . continuity”—Flora picked the word carefully—“made the events less traumatic and more normal. At which point, I had plenty of opportunities to note and record more . . . data. So it’s not like I’m trying to recover one memory, which might be suspect, but a string of impressions I had months to form.”

  On the table, Edgar’s hand moved closer to Flora’s. Still not touching, D.D. noticed, but closer. In return, Flora’s hand drifted slightly toward his. Fascinating. D.D. had never known the woman to even look at a member of the opposite sex. Now this: a true-crime buff. She hoped Flora knew what she was doing. And she hoped like hell Keith Edgar saw Flora as a person, and not just the object of a macabre criminal case.

  “But there are other issues with memory recovery techniques,” D.D. stated now. “To keep with your analogy, it’s not enough for the data to be present. There’s the small matter of extracting it without corrupting it with other information—the power of suggestion.”

  “I wouldn’t do hypnosis,” Flora said immediately. “I’ve been doing some research and that’s my least favorite option.”

  D.D. and Quincy both eyed the woman.

  “I would prefer a visualization exercise, grounded in known triggers.”

  “I’ll bite,” D.D. said. “What?”

  “Smell is the strongest known trigger for memory. Therefore, some experts suggest starting a visualization exercise with what the subject knows to be true about the episode: say, the smell of urine-soaked pine wood.” Again, the woman didn’t flinch. “The taste of blood on my tongue. The feel of a sliver in my finger.”

  It took D.D. a moment to get it; then she wished she hadn’t. “You’re talking about sticking yourself back in the coffin? Re-creating your own captivity, for the sake of a memory?”

  Flora stared at her. Very gaunt now, D.D. saw. Very dark shadows under her eyes. “I think it’s worth trying.”

  “And Dr. Keynes—”

  “It’s my decision!”

  “I’ll take that to be a no.” D.D. turned to Quincy. “Did you know about this?”

  “No,” the agent said immediately. “And to be honest, I don’t agree with it. Re-creating trauma, particularly of that nature, risks sending you down the rabbit hole all over again. The psychological impact on you, where this might lead. It’s not a good idea.”

  “We need to find where Jacob lived—”

  “Not at the expense of your mental health,” D.D. snapped. “He took enough from you. Don’t give him any more.”

  “This is my choice. This is me fighting back!”

  “This is you sacrificing yourself. First you wouldn’t talk about anything, now you’re risking a complete meltdown. You do realize there are options in between, don’t you?”

  “Such as?”

  “Forget coffins for a second. For the sake of argument, we can try out your technique but go after a memory that’s much less traumatic. How about the night Jacob met Conrad? You described it as a dive bar. You said you ate and ate. Nachos, chicken wings, beer? Country music on the radio, maybe you know a particular song? If you’re going to use your five senses to attempt to trigger a memory, I think beer, hot wings, and country songs are a much safer place to start. With the assistance of Dr. Keynes, of course. Because this is way out of my league, and yours, too.” D.D. gestured to SSA Quincy.

  “You want more information on Conrad Carter,” the federal agent filled in.

  “That is the point of my investigation. But for the record, we made an interesting discovery today: Conrad Carter had hidden away half a dozen fake IDs. Not great ones, but good enough to get into a bar.”

  “You think he used the IDs as an alias when he traveled,” Quincy stated. “Including when he met up with Jacob Ness.”

  “If Flora could remember what name Jacob called him, that would confirm our suspicions. But also, what exactly did they talk about, did any other names come up? You want to find Jacob’s secret clubhouse—fair enough. But maybe the other way of coming after Jacob Ness is to identify the other members of the club. Especially if some of them are still alive . . .”

  “They might be able to provide information on Ness, including his cabin hideaway.” Keith Edgar spoke up.

  “Based on what SSA Quincy is saying, they were probably the ones who gave Jacob the pointers on how to keep it hidden.” D.D. looked at Flora. “What do you think?”

  The woman frowned. “I don’t know. I was drinking heavily that night. Meaning, the quality of the data recorded . . .”

  “At a certain point you were drunk. Drunks have notoriously lousy memories.”

  “But I don’t remember Jacob calling him Conrad. I think it might have been another name. And that was in the beginning. Maybe there is more I saw, or noticed, than I think. If Jacob had help—and it seems like he must’ve—then, yes, I’d like to go after those men, too.”

  “Not just one predator, but a whole network of them.” Keith Edgar sounded slightly breathless.

  D.D. frowned at him. “Not so fast, big boy. This is an active criminal case. Civilians need not apply.”

  “He’s not just a civilian.” Flora spoke up quickly. “He’s an expert on Jacob in his own right.”

  “Hey.” Quincy tapped the table. “I believe the FBI wears that crown.”

  “I’m not doing it,” Flora said, “if he’s not around.”

  D.D. stared at her CI. Yep, Flora had definitely gone rogue. And was possibly love-struck? Except that didn’t fit with the Flora she knew at all. Meaning . . .

  More and more questions. Where would D.D.’s case be without them?

  “He signs a nondisclosure.”

  “Done.” Edgar spoke up immediately.

  “We talk to Dr. Keynes and get his agreement.”

  “I’ll do it.” Flora already had out her phone.

  “You should tell your mother,” D.D. said, mostly because she was a mom and she just couldn’t help herself.

  She got back the answer she expected: a mutinous stare.

  D.D. sighed. She didn’t know if this was the best idea or worst idea she’d ever had. She respected Flora’s strength but worried about her self-destructive streak. D.D. needed some kind of fresh approach to get her investigation going, but a “recovered memory” from a night spent binge drinking definitely felt like a stretch.

  And yet, for the first time since D.D. had known Flora, the woman was willing to talk about Jacob. She was willing to look backward, at four hundred and seventy-two days of absolutely horrifying memories. There was a determination and resilience in evidence that D.D. had to admire.

  If Dr. Keynes helped them, if they started with something easier than Flora climbing back into a pine coffin . . .

  Maybe Flora could get the answers she now so desperately wanted. While Kimberly Quincy caught a new lead on six missing women, and D.D. found out what Conrad Carter had been doing on all his business trips and who, other than his wife, might want him dead.

  It sounded simple enough. Which probably explained the sinking feeling in D.D.’s stomach. The best-laid plans . . .

  Flora was still staring at her. SSA Quincy, too. Flora was going to do it one way or another, D.D. realized. She’d made up her mind sometime in the middle of the night. And once set on a course, she wasn’t the type of person to let anything stop her.

  “Fine,” D.D. announced. “A trip down memory lane it is.”

  Flora hit dial.

  CHAPTER 21

  FLORA

  WHEN I WALK INTO FBI headquarters two hours later with a bag of takeout nachos and chicken wings, no one gives me a second gl
ance. Wearing my usual uniform of worn cargo pants and a baggy sweatshirt beneath a bulky down coat, I probably look like a delivery person. Keith, trailing behind me with a six-pack of Bud cans, earns several startled looks, but that’s nothing compared to the attention Samuel gets just by waiting for us. My victim specialist, Dr. Keynes, has features that stand out in a crowd.

  Compared to Sergeant Warren, Samuel was surprisingly agreeable to my plan. If anything, I had the feeling he’d been waiting for such a call. He probably recognized my refusal to talk about Jacob was a form of denial that couldn’t go on forever.

  Now Samuel moves forward. I get a clasp on the shoulder, a show of warmth from a man who knows everything awful there is to know about me, including the fact I don’t do hugs. He shakes Keith’s hand, and the two take a moment to size up each other. Neither says anything, but Keith still appears a little starstruck.

  Samuel never initiates a conversation. His job is listening, not talking, as he once explained to me, but he’s also intensely private. If he knows every terrible thing about me, it took me five years to figure out he was secretly in love with my mom. Even then, I didn’t actually deduce anything; my mom had to announce they’d decided to start dating, but only if I was okay with it.

  I’m not sure I ever gave permission. I think I was too busy standing before her with my jaw hanging open. I still can’t picture my mom, in her free-spirit yoga clothes, driving a tractor around her organic potato farm, with a man addicted to Armani—but then, no kid wants to imagine her mom dating. I think they’re happy. I guess I even hope so. But mostly, I don’t want to know.

  Federal buildings have a lot of security. Samuel is meeting us because of the beer, which the guards either don’t like or surreptitiously hope to confiscate for later. Samuel takes one of them aside, murmurs a few words, and just like that, we’re through. Keith continues his wide-eyed stare. I roll my eyes at Samuel and don’t even bother to ask what he said. I’ve never seen Samuel not get his way. That and his cheekbones are like his superpowers.

  Upstairs, Sergeant Warren and SSA Quincy are already waiting. They both have cups of coffee and are chatting away like old friends. Territorial pissing match aside, they seem to have mutual respect for each other, which makes my life easier. Individually, they are solid investigators. Together, I should have double the chance of getting answers.

  I’m still very curious about D.D.’s earlier meeting with Conrad Carter’s wife. Did the woman really shoot her own husband? Because D.D. implied the case wasn’t as clear-cut as the news reported. I’m trying out some strategy of my own: assist with D.D.’s investigation now with this little trip down memory lane, then interrogate the detective on what she knows about Conrad Carter later.

  Samuel has booked a meeting room. Much like the one at BPD headquarters, it has a wall of windows, which will allow the others to observe from the hall. For the “visualization” exercise, Samuel has already said it should be only him and me in the room. I’m supposed to relax, which is already nearly impossible. Having other people around won’t help.

  Now I open up the takeout and arrange the nachos and chicken wings in the middle of the table. Already, the smell wafts across the room. I wait for scent alone to transport me. I mostly feel like I’m standing in the middle of a federal building with soggy tortilla chips.

  Samuel produces a glass. Keith does the honor of pouring out a beer. Again, we’re trying to be as specific as possible. Jacob always ordered Bud, always in a glass. Final touch, country music. I have a vague memory of it playing in the background. I’m less sure about the song. Keith already Googled country’s greatest hits from seven years ago and, while we were waiting for the food, compiled a playlist. He sets his phone on the table now and gets the party started.

  Again, I wait to feel . . . something. Mostly, I’m self-conscious and awkward.

  “We’re missing something.”

  Four pairs of eyes stare at me. Not helping.

  “Popcorn. There was popcorn in little red-and-white-checkered containers. And it shouldn’t be this bright. No honky-tonk is this bright.”

  Keith heads for the panel of light switches. Samuel disappears without ever saying a word, meaning he must know how to get popcorn.

  That leaves me with the two investigators. D.D. is eyeing the food in the middle of the table.

  “I’m hungry,” she says.

  “You’re always hungry,” Quincy replies.

  It’s like they’ve suddenly become besties. This, I have a feeling, will not be as good for me.

  Keith can’t figure out how to dim the overhead bulbs. In the end, he shuts them off. Given all the light still pouring in through the glass windows, the effect works out nicely. At least it takes the edge off the room, makes it feel less sterile.

  Samuel returns with a bag of microwave popcorn. He opens the bag, the smell hits, and for the first time I feel it. Like a door opening in my mind. I can smell the bar, the beer, popcorn, melted cheese. I pick up the glass, take a small sip, and then I can taste it, too. I’d been so thirsty, so hungry, so scared.

  Fake-Everett. That’s what I’d called him back then. Because he’d started my programming by taking away my name. No more Flora, just Molly. Molly in a hot-pink dress only a hooker would wear. And I was to call him by my father’s name. I didn’t even remember my father, but I had to believe he had loved me, so to call this beast by his name had hurt.

  Everett, which I said out loud. Fake-Everett, which I used in my head, because silent rebellions were all I had left.

  “Have a seat,” Samuel tells me, and I realize for the first time the others have already left. It’s just Samuel and me and beer and country music and the smell of popcorn and a memory of one evening, already trying to claw out of my head.

  “Where are you, Flora?”

  “Molly.”

  “Molly,” he amends.

  “I’m hungry. So, so hungry.” I press a hand to my stomach. Then I pick up the first kernel of popcorn, tasting the saltiness of it against my tongue. Another small sip of beer. “He left me for the whole week,” I murmur. “Each day hungrier and hungrier. But I couldn’t leave the motel. If I did, he’d find me. He’d kill me. He told me so. And then he’d head north and kill my whole family. So I waited. Starving and starving. I waited.”

  Sweatshirt is all wrong. Too warm, too comforting. I should be overexposed and shivering from the AC that always blasted away in the South.

  No thinking. Doing. Shed the sweatshirt, followed by my long-sleeve top, until my arms are exposed in my gray tank top. Goose bumps ripple up across my flesh. Better.

  “Where are you, Molly?” Samuel asks again. His voice is deep and rich. Hypnotic. It gives me a moment of uneasiness. I don’t want to be under anyone’s thrall. I don’t want to surrender control. Not when I’ve spent all these years fighting to get it back.

  My choice, my choice. Another kernel of popcorn, concentrating on the buttery goodness.

  Hungry. I’d been so desperately, acutely, stomach-growlingly hungry. And that, as much as anything, takes me back.

  * * *

  —

  “TWO BUDS,” I whisper. “Fake-Everett lets me have a beer. He hardly ever orders me food or alcohol. Waste of money, he’d say. The beer is nice. I’m grateful to him.”

  “Are you sitting or standing?”

  “I’m sitting. On a barstool. Fake-Everett stands behind me. Like he’s protecting me. I’m his girl.”

  “What do you smell?”

  “Popcorn. Oh my God, it smells so good! The bartender brings us some. Happy hour perk. I know the rules. I look at Fake-Everett. He nods. He’s going to let me eat free food. My hand is shaking so hard I can barely raise it. One kernel. One single kernel.”

  On the table, my hand rises. Takes one single kernel.

  “When you haven’t eaten in a while,” I whisper, “you
have to pace yourself. Otherwise, you’ll get sick. And I can’t afford to get sick. Not when I never know when I’ll get to eat again.”

  Another single kernel.

  “Tell me about the bar,” Samuel intones. “The bartender?”

  “Umm, white guy. Red flannel shirt over a black T-shirt. Busy. Nods at Fake-Everett once. Won’t look at me at all. Glasses above his head. Pulling them down, pouring beers from the tap, sliding them down the bar. Scooping out more popcorn. Moving, moving, moving, always in motion.”

  “Name tag?”

  “No.”

  “What does the bar look like?”

  “Dark wood. Very shellacked. Shiny. But sticky. Popcorn all over the floor. Pool tables behind me. Clink, clink, clink. Lots of people sitting around the bar. Guys in cowboy hats, women in tight jeans. I keep tugging my dress up. I feel ashamed. I don’t look at the bartender anymore. I don’t want to know what he thinks of me.”

  “Is the beer sitting on a coaster? A napkin? Directly on the bar?”

  I frown, squeeze my eyes shut, focus harder. “Coaster.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Bud Light.”

  “Are there any lights behind the bar? Glowing signs?”

  “Amber. Um . . . Abita Amber, glowing in orange and red.”

  “How’s the popcorn?”

  “Good! God, I’m hungry.”

  “Look around the room. What do you see?”

  “I can’t. Eyes straight ahead. Or Fake-Everett will get mad and I don’t want him to be mad. Not till I’ve gotten to eat more popcorn.”

  “What about beside you? Can you see anyone beside you?”

  “A man. He sits down. He looks at Fake-Everett and nods. Fake-Everett nods back. The man comments that I’m skinny. Fake-Everett says it’s my own fault. I eat more popcorn. I don’t look at either of them, but I’m confused that Fake-Everett is talking to a stranger. He never talks to anyone.”