Watch Her Vanish: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller (Rockwell and Decker Book 1)

by Ellery A Kane

  Will flashed his badge to the officers stationed outside the entrance to Gallows’ Lane, and they waved him through. Since he’d left Olivia at the Hickory Pit, the fog had descended like a dream, white and gossamery. But here, among the redwoods, the dream turned dark. Sinister giants, their trunks appeared with no warning as his truck rumbled up the dirt road toward Laura Ricci’s house.

  As he passed the tree where he’d discovered Laura’s corpse, Will told himself to get a grip. But the meeting with Olivia had left him unsettled. He couldn’t pinpoint the shifting feeling in his gut. After all, he was no shrink. Still, it rattled him like a minor earthquake, subtle and terrifying.

  The first house on the left, JB had told him in the message. I’ll be there at 7 with the warrant. Don’t make me wait. Will parked facing Laura’s house and shook his head. His dash clock read 7:15. No sign of JB.

  In the scrutinous glare of his headlights, the house seemed to draw back further into the woods, into the fog, shrinking away from him and exciting the part of him that liked to give chase. So, he left the truck running, zipped up his jacket, and cracked the door, shining his flashlight into the trees around him. The thin beam didn’t go far, the fog rising up like a wall to meet it.

  According to the bank statement JB had emailed him, Laura had been in dire financial straits since the fire, and it showed in the sagging porch that creaked under his weight; the peeling white paint; the old beater of a car in the driveway. Leaned against a nearby redwood, Will spotted part of an ornate wooden sign, RICCI’S RESTAU written in red paint. The rest of it gone in the fire, he supposed. JB had told him the insurance company ruled the fire suspicious, leaving Laura to clean up the mess. Slinging slop in the prison chow hall, she couldn’t have been happy.

  Will expected the house to be empty. Laura’s parents had died years ago; she had no siblings. The houses nearby had been so long abandoned the road had grown over. As if the forest had reclaimed the land for itself. But Will obeyed protocol anyway, steering clear of the door. He’d wait for JB and the search warrant. In his head, he heard Olivia’s voice. You’re one to talk. Alright, so he followed the rules. The important ones anyway. It hit him then. Like an unexpected tap on the shoulder. Olivia unnerved him because she reminded him of himself.

  Will swept his flashlight across the porch. Moisture from the fog had begun to settle on the windowsills, on the wooden swing suspended from chains so red with rust they appeared blood-covered. He glanced back toward the road, hopeful he’d see JB’s lights, but the fog had swallowed it whole, leaving him completely alone.

  Anxious for a distraction, Will approached the picture window adjacent to the door and shined his beam inside. Sofa, television, fireplace. A silhouette darted through it all, heading for the back.

  Will held his breath, certain he must be wrong. Just a misfire of leftover adrenaline from this never-ending war of a day. But when he heard the yawn of the back door, he drew his gun and took off toward the sound around the side of the house to where the weeds grew tall enough to smack him in the face. He spit them out and stomped them down, lifting his knees as he ran. When he rounded the corner, he nearly tripped on a discarded tire, barely clearing it in a hurried leap. A man sprinted just out of his reach into the woods, scattering leaves behind him as he ran.

  “Stop. Police!”

  Will kept his light trained on the path in front of him, listening for the man’s footsteps in the foliage as he followed. But the leaves weren’t leaves at all, they were crisp one-hundred dollar bills. He tracked them like footprints, even as the redwoods worked against him. The fog too. Obscuring. Misleading. Disorienting. Until the money trail stopped and Will stood breathless in a small clearing.

  A flicker of movement behind a tree trunk. He dropped his flashlight as he spun toward it, launching himself onto the man’s back and pinning him to the ground.

  “Don’t move.”

  Cast in the flashlight’s shadows, Will struggled to see the face, the frothing mouth, the body grappling beneath him, wrestling to get free. One flail of the man’s arm and his gun took flight, landing somewhere in the abyss of the forest.

  Will bore down hard, heard the satisfying crunch of his fist connecting with something breakable. The man went limp just long enough for Will to seize his left hand with his own and slammed it into the dirt. Then, his right. “I said, don’t move.”

  Will sucked in a few ragged breaths, wishing he had a set of cuffs. But he’d expected this to be a routine search. Nothing more.

  He came up on his knees and secured the man’s hands behind his back, holding them there with his own. Maybe, just maybe, if he moved fast enough he could reach his cell in his pocket.

  But then, he heard a familiar voice. “Fog Harbor Police, show yourself!”

  A light flickered through the fog.

  Time played its tricks, slowing down, speeding up. It seemed to happen all at once.

  Will looked down at the man he’d straddled, at the tattoo on his neck. Oaktown Boys.

  JB charged through the tree cover, his gun raised. “Hands up,” he yelled, pointing the barrel at Will.

  “It’s me. Your partner.”

  The man beneath him saw an opening. A brief lapse in concentration. Will felt it too late. Along with a solid elbow to the jaw that knocked him on his ass and left him seeing stars. He reached out as the man’s legs rustled past him, his hands grasping nothing but the cold night air.

  Blue and red. Blue and red. The lights from the three police cruisers out front washed Laura’s walls in the color of disaster. Will stood in the living room, jaw aching, ego bruised. His brain, still a little stunned. JB paced nearby, sucking on the end of a Marlboro.

  “You really didn’t recognize me?” he asked JB, not for the first time.

  “I told you, City Boy. The fog was so thick I couldn’t see a damn thing. For a minute there, I thought you two were just a couple feral pigs wrestlin’ in the mud.”

  Will sighed, long and heavy. “How much money did they recover?”

  “They’re still counting it. Last I heard, at least thirty thousand. And that’s just what he dropped in the woods. We got another fifteen in the go-bag we found.”

  Under Laura’s sofa, they’d discovered a duffel packed and ready with a Glock, cash, and a fake passport. Another duffel sat opened in the living room, a few stacks of cash strewn about. Will figured he’d interrupted the thief mid-pilfer. “What does a dining hall supervisor need a go-bag for?”

  “I reckon it’s got something to do with your Oak Tree Boys.”

  “Oaktown, JB. Oaktown. I think you’re right. Laura got herself involved in something so dangerous she needed a gun and a back-up plan.”

  “Maybe James wasn’t the only one trafficking cell phones.”

  “It’s definitely worth looking into.” Will rubbed his jaw, wincing when he heard a disconcerting pop. “Where were you, anyway? You said seven.”

  “You sound like my ex-wife.”

  “Which one?”

  JB chuckled, then coughed, expelling a puff of white smoke. “I had to swing by Forensics. They’re still working on the tire tracks from the crime scene. But they got some info on those footprints. Size ten work boot. Brand, Correct-Tex. It’s clear as day on the print. I figured you’d want to know.”

  “Correct-Tex.” Will pulled out his phone and typed the brand into the search bar, clicking on the first result. “As in, ‘we supply work boots ideal for inmate and detainee use.’ I wonder what size Drake wears.”

  “Only one way to find out. What do you say we swing by the prison in the morning and see if we can find our Cinderella?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Olivia didn’t drive home. Not yet. She imagined Emily there, curled up on the sofa in the light of the Christmas tree, watching reality television and sipping a glass of red wine. If she showed up now, she’d face the firing squad of questions. From a girl who thought sailing in Bora Bora with the Bachelor counted as a real date.


  Instead, she headed to her thinking place. The bluff overlooking Little Gull lighthouse. She had perspective out here, even if she couldn’t tell where the black sky ended and the ocean began. Even if the fog had grown thick as smoke. Like the North Star, the lighthouse beacon shimmered through it all, promising you could still find your way.

  As a girl, she’d read about the ghost of Little Gull, a Yurok woman who had thrown herself onto the rocks from this very bluff, when she’d fallen in love with a fur trapper who had frozen to death in the harsh winter. Legend said you could hear her wailing in the cries of the gulls that lined the shore.

  The manila folder had remained unopened, a safe distance away on the passenger seat as she’d driven here, but it beckoned to her now. One look wouldn’t hurt. She could return it to Deck tomorrow and say nothing. She fingered the tab, daring herself. Her curiosity had always been her downfall. That, and unavailable men.

  Exhibit A: Her father. It didn’t get much more unavailable than a life term behind bars.

  With the exception of Exhibit B: Erik, who spent his summer internship sleeping his way through the paralegals at a prestigious law firm in San Francisco.

  Which had somehow led her to Exhibit C: Graham. The antithesis of unavailable. He’d latched on like an octopus arm and now she couldn’t get rid of him. She cringed thinking of the text he’d sent her from the bar, with a link attached, the ugliness of that single capitalized word. Have you seen this? He’s a SNITCH!

  Olivia cut the engine but left the keys in the ignition, flicking on the interior light. It spotlighted the file as she brought it to her lap and splayed it open, surveying its contents. No different than one of Dr. Clancy’s autopsy cases.

  She always started with the pictures of the scene, laid side by side, with the feeling she got beneath the disgust, beneath the urge to look away. That was the thing about a photo; it didn’t judge. It simply showed. If you looked long enough it might give away its secrets.

  Olivia tried to disconnect. She’d always been good at it. You can’t therapize murderers without a strong compartmentalization game. But no matter how hard she tried, she still saw Bonnie, laughing in the hallway. Laura, proudly cooking up a feast for the prison’s Thanksgiving staff dinner. Her eyes welled up before she realized the first secret the pictures told her wasn’t a secret at all. The victims knew each other. They knew their killer as well. Olivia felt certain of that. The scenes were organized. No prints left behind. The bodies moved and placed so they’d be easy to find. Bonnie’s, right outside her own memorial, for God’s sake. Like he’s showing off, making a statement. Bonnie had been more important to him psychologically since he’d held onto her body for days. Clothing askew on both women, but no clear evidence of sexual assault. Possible staging, she thought, turning to the close-ups.

  She gasped. It had been too dark in the drainpipe and she’d been too frantic to see much of the garrote around Bonnie’s neck. But here, she saw it all, just as Dr. Clancy had photographed it. The denim blue, the CDCR stamp. Both garrotes the same.

  Olivia snapped the folder shut, Deck’s voice clear as a bell. I think there’s a chance he could be involved in these murders.

  As she sat there, her nerves rattling, Deck’s business card fluttered to her feet, landing face up on the floorboard. She picked it up, studied it, turned it over. Found herself wishing he’d written something there.

  She focused on the gleaming light of Little Gull, opened the file, and began again.

  Disoriented, she sat straight up, banging her knee on the underside of the dash. The folder slid across her lap, threatening to spill its contents between the seat and the console. Mouth dry, heart racing, she rubbed her sleepy eyes and peered out the windshield and into the dark.

  The thin beam of a flashlight illuminated the wooden staircase which led from the bluff to the small rocky beach below. Three shadowy figures moved down the steps, their drunken laughter grating against the stillness of the night.

  “Oooo… Oooo… The ghost of Little Gull is right behind—”

  “Shut up, Emily. You’re freaking me out.”

  Olivia tensed, listened harder. Surely, this wasn’t her Emily.

  “Relax, Shauna.” A man’s voice. “She’s just teasing. I think.”

  “C’mon. We’ll show you where she hit the rocks.”

  Panicked, Olivia tugged on her jacket. She grabbed her phone, clicked the flashlight app, and opened the door, following the sound of their voices and the roiling water at high tide. When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she shined her light down the beach.

  “Emily Jane Rockwell!”

  “Oh, shit.” An exaggerated whisper. “It’s my sister.”

  Olivia trudged across the wet sand, avoiding the drowned creatures she knew to be sea kelp. At night, everything looked alien. Including Emily.

  Her sister’s curls moved wildly across her face, her cheeks whipped raw from the wind. She tried to hide behind Shauna, then collapsed to her knees in a fit of giggles.

  “We just came to see the lighthouse. I’ll drive the girls back. I’ve only had one beer.”

  Olivia had been so laser-focused on her sister, she hadn’t noticed this third person, his jacket down at his feet, his shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned. “Hank? What are you—”

  “Don’t freak out, Liv. Shauna came over and we were totally sad about Laura and Bonnie so we watched The Bachelor and then we got mad because Matt eliminated Kelsey and we decided to drive to the Hickory Pit to find you, and then Hank was there and we started talking about the lighthouse and the ghost and how he’d never been out here at night and neither had Shauna, so…” Breathless, she shrugged. “Just don’t freak out.”

  “Are you kidding me? You’re what, forty? Fifty?” Olivia fired the questions at Hank, wishing they were poison-tipped arrows. He didn’t look at her, focusing his attention on doing up his shirt buttons. “You realize my sister is twenty-five. And… how old are you, Shauna?”

  “Twenty-three.” The words squeaked out of her bright red mouth. She and Emily huddled together, looking as if Olivia had stolen their balloons and popped them with a straight pin. Sorry, kiddos. That’s what big sisters are for.

  “I get it. You’re pissed. But don’t you think you’re overreactin’ a tad? Your sister’s an adult. So is Shauna. Nothin’ happened. No harm, no foul.”

  “We’re leaving. Now. Both of you.” Olivia pointed at the stairs, and Emily and Shauna stumbled toward them, arms linked. After they’d begun the ascent to the bluff, she turned back to Hank. Flashing a contrite smile, he put on his jacket.

  “I’m sorry, Doc. It really was just a little harmless fun. The girls seemed pretty upset about Laura and that press release. I was too. I wanted to cheer us all up. By the way, I’m only thirty-nine. Hardly a dirty old man.”

  “If I ever see you talking to Emily again, I’ll report you for sexual harassment.”

  “Sexual harassment? Of Emily? Talkin’ hardly qualifies for—”

  “Of me and a lot of other women at Crescent Bay. All those little shoulder grabs and arm pats and creepy compliments. Just remember, Drake didn’t call you Handsy Hank for nothing.”

  Olivia’s chest flamed hot as she stormed away from him. She stopped at the base of the stairs, still fuming. But unsettled, too. She took in a deep breath and told herself to suck it up.

  As the waves flung themselves against the rocks, the sudden scream of a gull pierced the night.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Olivia asked, eyeing Emily in the rearview mirror.

  Shauna had already fallen asleep in the backseat, snoring as her head lolled against the window. She looked younger than twenty-three. Not old enough to have a bachelor’s degree in psychology. Certainly not old enough to work part-time at Crescent Bay as the Changes group facilitator.

  “There’s a murderer—maybe even a serial killer—in Fog Harbor targeting women who work at the prison. The second body turned up this morning. And you think
now’s a good time to get drunk and go tell ghost stories at the lighthouse with a guy twice your age who you hardly know.”

  “He’s not twice my age and he’s not a serial killer.”

  “Oh really. I’m sure that’s exactly what some poor woman said about Ted Bundy, too. The guy is a total creep. They call him Handsy Hank.”

  “I know. We felt sorry for him. He was at the bar hitting on Jane and getting nowhere, and we were sad and bored and drunk. Thanks for killing my buzz, by the way.” Sister warfare wasn’t fair at all. Because Emily knew all Olivia’s soft spots. Like the way she worried one of them would turn out to be a part-time drunk like their mother. “How was your date? We thought you might still be there.”

  “It wasn’t a date, and don’t change the subject.”

  “Must’ve crashed and burned if you were out here. That, or you really like him.”

  Flustered, Olivia started the car, suddenly anxious to be anywhere but here. “Seatbelt, please.” She forced herself to breathe. To reverse slowly and carefully. “Did Hank try anything with you?”

  “No!” Emily clasped her hand across her mouth as Shauna stirred. She started again, in a whisper. “Of course not. I think he’s got a thing for Shauna, though. She can be kind of a tease when she’s been drinking. Actually, she can be a tease even when she’s not drinking. It was her idea to dare him to go skinny-dipping.”

  Olivia shook her head at her sister. But she’d already faced away, staring out the window as Hank climbed the stairs, hangdog. He raised his eyes when he reached the top, stared at her for a moment. Until she looked away. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I got here when I did. When are you going to start acting like a grownup, Em?”

  “Maybe when you start treating me like one. I want to make my own mistakes.”

  “Like getting plastered with your work colleagues? Like talking to our loser dad without telling me? Congratulations. You’re off to a great start.”