by Sarah Sutton
“Just on the news,” he affirmed. He held the pictures back out to her.
Tara took the pictures from him, knowing this was yet another dead end, and she sat back down, defeated.
But all of a sudden, Warren briskly walked back into the living room, and she knew immediately he had something.
“Mills,” he said. “We gotta go.”
Tara quickly thanked the man for his time and soon after she was following Warren to the car.
“What is it?” she asked, as they approached the car.
He reached for the door handle as he spoke.
“Two more hikers went missing.”
Chapter Fifteen
Warren pulled onto the parkway as Tara finished entering the address into the GPS but paused briefly when entering the state—Vermont.
“The hikers went missing in Vermont?” Tara asked as she placed the GPS back down.
Warren nodded. “About fifteen miles southwest of Hanover,” he confirmed.
He had already filled her in on what he knew, but the fact that they had gone missing in a different state was a new detail to her. He had already informed her that it was another couple in their early twenties—that the local police got a call that very morning from the girlfriend’s worried aunt. Her niece was supposed to check in with her that morning, but after hours went by and she received no call, she got worried—especially knowing the events that happened on the trail in New Hampshire. And, after getting a general location of where the couple camped the night prior, it didn’t take long to find where they stayed. All that was left behind was a trail of blood and a compass, and they knew immediately that it was connected to the other cases.
Warren’s phone vibrated in the center console and he quickly picked it up and held it to his ear. Tara listened intently. She couldn’t hear the voice on the other end, but there was an urgency in Warren’s face and tone and she knew it was something important. The call was brief and he soon placed the phone back down.
“Who was it?” Tara asked.
“The National Park Service,” Warren replied as he glanced between her and the road. “They’re closing down a twenty-mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail in New Hampshire and Vermont.”
“How will they keep people off of it though?”
Tara knew that to inform every hiker in that area would be a difficult job, and to keep people off of it could be next to impossible due to the multiple access points. But, if carried out successfully, it could certainly keep hikers safe until the killer was caught.
“They’re sectioning off territories to the local PD. It’s their job to keep hikers off of it.”
Tara nodded. She hoped hikers would listen and that the efforts of the local PD would be successful, but they also didn’t know where the killer would strike next, or if that twenty-mile stretch would cover it.
The car fell into silence and Tara stared out the window. There was a barn far off in the field that sat next to the parkway they were now on, but just as quickly as she saw it, they had passed it and it was soon behind them. Suddenly, it occurred to her just how quickly the killer must be moving.
“I think it’s pretty clear now that the killer’s not on foot.” she stated as she glanced back at Warren.
He nodded. “My guess is a four-wheeler.”
Tara thought the same. They both knew it was the only form of transportation that would be easily maneuverable on the trails and be able to transport bodies. It was a theory that fit and she toyed with the thought as she turned back toward the window and the car fell into silence once again.
But as time went by and no words were spoken, Tara’s mind drifted and an unsettling feeling swirled within her. Another couple went missing—it filled Tara to the rim with a sudden burden of responsibility to the point of near suffocation. I failed them, she thought. It was a feeling she was unfortunately privy to, and had brought her through years of therapy, initiated her nightmares, and caused her sudden panic attacks. It was a guilt she’d had since childhood, from hiding in the closet while her mother suffered. She was only a child, that much she knew, and it had taken her years of therapy and growing older to realize there was nothing her young self could’ve done, but she still remembered that torturous feeling that made her want to tear that piece of memory out of her mind.
All of a sudden, it occurred to her that she had never thanked Warren for keeping her on the case. He had spared her, more than he knew. Having this piece of her life taken away from her—one that she’d worked so hard for—would’ve been the ultimate blow.
She turned her head toward him. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” he asked.
“For not telling Reinhardt. I didn’t thank you earlier.”
Warren nodded his head. “No problem, Mills.” He sighed. “I know this job can be a lot to adjust to.” A long silence lingered between them, “Did you want to talk about it?” he asked hesitantly.
Tara looked up in surprise as her heart beat harder. It was not something she spoke about often, if at all—only her therapist, John, and those who picked up the newspaper in their small town many years ago knew the story. John’s parents knew some of it too, but only partially. They knew her mother was murdered, that Tara grew up with her grandmother—but she made sure John told them that she never had a father and that the murder was a break-in gone wrong. Somehow, it was an easier story to face them with.
“You know, it could help if you talk about it. I’ve been in this business a long time. I’ve seen many reactions to scenes in this job,” he added.
Tara swirled the idea around in her head. Maybe he’s right, she thought. Whenever she’d told the truth about her past, it had calmed her anxiety. It had happened with John, with his parents. They never spoke much about it afterward, but it was as if her mind could relax once the elephant in the room was discussed. Maybe it was what she needed.
“The scene just reminded me of something in my past. Something I often try to forget.” Her words trailed off as she looked down toward her hands fidgeting in her lap.
“I mean, that’s usually what happens,” Warren responded. “You wouldn’t have gotten this far and gotten through the academy if you’re afraid of death or blood, so I kind of assumed it was something a bit more personal.”
Tara could sense him look over at her, but she kept her head down and just nodded.
“Believe it or not, seeking a job for subconscious reasons is not unusual.” He paused. “I guess it’s just a natural reaction to seek closure. Joining the FBI could be seen as having power over situations similar to ones in an agent’s past.”
Tara looked up at him. It was as if he could see right through her.
“It doesn’t make you a bad agent, Mills. But you got to figure it out.”
Tara hesitated and chose her next words carefully.
“But what do agents do when it interferes with work?” she asked.
Warren let out a big sigh. “Well,” he began, “that does happen too, Mills. You’re not the only one.” He looked over at her. “That’s the crazy thing…” He shook his head at his words. “We go into this seeking power or closure—and ninety-nine percent of the time we are oblivious to why we even sought out this profession, but for whatever reason, we go into it. And all it does is reopen the wounds we tried so hard to close. Some people have to get out of it. Some find other ways to cope.” He paused for a brief second. “Do you like your job, Mills? Given what it brought up inside you?”
“Yeah, I do,” she replied.
“Well good.” He smiled. “I thought so too, that’s why I didn’t tell Reinhardt.”
Tara’s hands stopped fidgeting. “So how do people cope?” she asked. “The ones who stick around, I mean.”
“Well, what is it exactly from your past that’s troubling you?”
Tara felt a sudden shock at his directness, but she knew it was now safe to tell him.
“My mom was murdered,” she said.
She wai
ted for a reaction from Warren, but it was as if the words were no more than what he was expecting and he just nodded his head and kept his eyes on the road.
“My father killed her and I walked in on it.”
The words fell out of her mouth and she shot her gaze back down at her feet. She had only spoken that out loud to a few people, and yet the pain of saying it still always hit her.
Warren’s voice was a bit softer when he spoke.
“Well, Mills.” He paused briefly as he picked his next words carefully. “First, you need to know that that was not your fault. Oftentimes we take blame irrationally, when really we were powerless in the situation.” He shot her a glance as though to double-check that she was okay and then looked back out onto the road. “If you blame yourself, you need to also learn to forgive yourself.” There was a brief silence. “And you need to be raw and honest with yourself,” he added.
Raw and honest. She let the words roll around in her head.
“You need to face that past if it’s still troubling you. You can’t just bury it. A wound that big needs more than a Band-Aid to heal or it’ll never close properly and then the pain will seep out of you in other ways…like that day,” Warren added, referring to her panic attack.
Tara nodded. “Thanks, Warren.”
“Of course,” he responded. “What’s the GPS say, by the way? How long we got?”
Tara reached for it on the dashboard and took a quick look. They had about five minutes and once she let him know, she turned again toward the window and untangled Warren’s words in her mind.
She had already faced her past. She had gone to therapy, she had come to terms with the fact that she was a child and that there was nothing she could do. But something else still sat like a splinter in her memory, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she had to face that too.
Chapter Sixteen
Tara and Warren pulled onto the side street and were immediately met with a swarm of news vans and reporters. Warren put the car in park.
As they stepped out of the car, Tara saw a female cop walk over. She was a tall woman with a perfectly poised posture that made her look even taller. Her black hair was tightly slicked back into a bun on her head. The reporters quickly caught on and were soon behind her.
“Agent Warren?” she asked once she was close enough.
Warren nodded. “Sheriff Brady?”
It was clear that he had already spoken to her by phone, and Warren had mentioned her briefly on the ride over. She was the sheriff of this territory in Vermont.
He was about to introduce Tara but the swarm of reporters gathered around them like vultures, and he lost his words.
“Sir, can we ask you a couple questions?” one reporter asked.
“Any idea on the whereabouts of the missing hikers?” another shouted out.
Sheriff Brady yelled over the chaos for the agents to follow her as she turned and quickly made her way through the mob. They followed her to a footpath just beyond the parking lot, where yellow tape lined the trees. When the sheriff was close enough, she lifted up the tape and stepped behind it and continued to walk a few more feet. Once they were out of earshot, she turned toward Warren.
“These reporters are driving me nuts,” she said as she glanced at them, making sure they truly were far enough away. “We need to open this trail back up as quickly as possible,” she added.
“That’s our goal too,” Warren replied before proceeding to introduce her to Tara.
“Nice to meet you,” Tara said as she held out her hand.
“Yeah, you too,” she responded as they shook hands. The sheriff then quickly reached for the walkie-talkie on her belt and spoke into it. “I’m with Agent Warren and Agent Mills. I’m bringing them in now.”
“What else do we know about the victims so far?” Warren asked.
Sheriff Brady looked back briefly at the reporters and lowered her voice as she spoke.
“Early twenties, from New York, making their way up to Maine. They’ve been hiking for about a week.” She paused. “The crime scene’s about three miles in.” She gestured to some four-wheelers sitting nearby on the trail. “We’ll ride these.”
***
Tara accelerated her four-wheeler as she forced it up a small hill on the trail. At first, riding the vehicle was a bit difficult, but with some quick instruction from Warren who had ridden them before, she learned how to get it moving. Now, after two and a half miles, to ride almost felt natural.
The trail was heavily shaded by the tall trees above them, but at times the sun would peek through and Tara could feel it beat down on her back, causing her to sweat. Just when she wondered if they were almost there, she saw three four-wheelers parked and unattended on the trail in front of them. Sheriff Brady slowed down up ahead and Warren and Tara did the same.
“We have to walk now,” Brady yelled to them over the hum of the motors.
She pointed off the trail where other officers moved amongst the trees, far off in the distance.
They parked their four-wheelers next to the others and then made their way deeper into the woods. As they got closer, the trees opened up, revealing a perfect place to set up camp. The other officers picked up their heads, and one of them walked over.
The sheriff introduced him as Officer Dane and soon he motioned with his hand for them to follow him as they moved toward a group of forensic analysts scanning the ground. When close, it was apparent what they were all looking at as Tara watched one analyst place a bloody leaf into an evidence bag. She looked down toward the ground where they blanketed the forest floor.
“This was what we first spotted,” Officer Dane said. “Where he got one of the victims.”
He then walked a bit deeper into the woods, a few feet away, until he pointed down again to a streak of blood. “We think he got the other one here,” he added as he traced the air with his finger, gesturing to the trail of blood in front of them.
Tara knew it was very unlikely that either of them survived, given the amount of blood. The crime scene was eerily similar to the others. Nothing else was left behind—no tent, no clothing, nothing. The only object that remained was a fire pit, but nothing more.
She walked toward it and she could see where stakes were pulled from the ground. They were four holes perfectly spaced apart, creating the four corners of a square. It was where the tent was most likely placed the night before, and she knew it was the killer who had taken it, along with everything else.
But there was still one thing left to see that could set the crime scene apart.
“Where’s the compass?” Tara asked.
Officer Dane’s eyes turned toward a tree in the distance, where Sheriff Brady stood speaking with another officer.
Moments later Tara and Warren stood by their side, staring at the tree they were discussing. It was perfectly identical to the other scenes. The words they never leave carved in jagged strides, the sun, setting or rising, and of course, the compass, perfectly placed upon a low-hanging branch—so strategically that they wouldn’t miss it.
But as Tara looked at the compass needle—the one detail she thought would set them apart—she was surprised to see it pointing south, the same direction as the second compass they found.
“I’m guessing it’s stuck too?” she asked. “The needle, I mean.”
Sheriff Brady nodded. It was just as Tara expected. But something else suddenly occurred to her.
“Who else would use four-wheelers on this trail, besides law enforcement?” Tara asked as she looked at each one of the officers.
“Well, the Mid-Atlantic trail crew often uses them,” Sheriff Brady said. “They’re in charge of trail upkeep. Oftentimes volunteers will use them.” She then stopped to think a moment. “And I suppose hunters once in a while, although they’re really not supposed to be driving them on here, but of course some do anyway.”
The same thought she had earlier rang in her mind, that the killer had some reason for targeting the
Appalachian Trail. She hadn’t even thought about volunteers, who would have a deep knowledge of the trail and access to four-wheelers.
“Can we get a list of volunteers who have access to them?” Tara asked.
Sure,” Sheriff Brady responded.
Tara turned to Warren. “In the meantime, I think we’ll need a bigger map.”
***
Tara stood with Warren in a room at the police station. She rolled out a large map of the Appalachian Trail and flattened it out on the table in front of her. Warren stared down at it briefly, and then handed her the compass in its evidence bag. They had just gotten it back from the forensics lab, where it had been dusted for prints, but, as Tara assumed, there weren’t any.
She held it up to the light, the silver compass needle shimmering as it persistently pointed south. They had already marked where the other crime scenes were on the map, drawing an arrow from each point in the direction that the compass at that scene showed. And after Warren marked the one they just found, she looked down at the map, taking it in as a whole.
They stood there in silence, before Tara finally raised her head.
“I think our original theory was right,” she confirmed. “I think it’s pointing to where the killer will strike next.”
It made perfect sense to her. The first two victims, the couple, who went missing by Hanover, New Hampshire—the compass pointed north from that crime scene. And north, Tara confirmed, was where the third victim was found on the porch. At that crime scene, the compass pointed south, which was where they stood moments earlier on the trail, south of the second crime scene. And if Tara’s theory were right, the killer would strike south, yet again.
Warren sighed, “I agree,” he finally said. “But we need to be careful.” He paused. “You never know if a killer is just trying to throw us off.”
Tara mulled his words over in her head. It wasn’t something she had seriously considered before. What if, she thought, the killer was doing this purposely—making them think they knew something, making them think they were ahead of him, only to toy with them and do something drastic later? It was a thought that suddenly made her feel uneasy. She knew this killer was smart, but was he smart enough to outsmart them?