I slowly push myself off the sofa and face her. “Any crazier than what happened to you in the mine?”
Her lashes flutter, a quaver of insecurity, but she doesn’t say a word.
I turn around to address the rest of my friends. “To any of us? I know we swore we’d never talk about it, but do you really mean to tell me that you all can explain what happened to you down there? Because I sure the hell can’t.”
No one wants to talk about it.
“I’m not saying there’s a monster roaming the forests, but if Greer’s attack is connected to Deputy Weller and that fisherman—”
“Then there’s a chance one of us could be next,” Terrence says. At least someone’s getting what I’m throwing down.
“Shouldn’t we let the police investigate this?” Sonya pleads. “Lying about our trip is one thing. Interfering in a murder investigation is something else entirely.”
“Look,” Frankie says, grabbing her purse from the floor, “you guys can run around playing Nancy Drew if you want.” She starts up the staircase. “But I’m out of here.”
“Hey!” Rob calls, starting after her. “We’re all in this together. You can’t just—”
Jack grabs his arm. “Let her go. It’s no use talking to her when she’s like this.”
“When is it ever good to talk to her?” Terrence asks.
Jack whirls on him. “She’s better in a crisis than you are.”
Seriously? “We can do this without her,” I say, not even attempting to hide my annoyance. Why is he always defending her?
“Do what?” Sonya says.
I point to the book. “There are clues in here. Avenues of research.”
“Such as?” Rob asks.
I open the book to the middle. “There are dozens of victims. We can look into the specifics of their deaths.” I glance up at Sonya. “Maybe find out what the official word was on each case?”
“No!” she says.
“No what?” Terrence asks.
I look at Sonya pointedly while she chews on a fingernail and stares at the floor. “She’s got access to the database of all police cases, dating back fifty years.”
A look of euphoria crosses Terrence’s face. “Do you know how many cover-ups might be cataloged in there?” He drops to one knee in front of Sonya. “Marry me?”
“Cut it out, Romeo,” I say, pulling Terrence to his feet.
“I’m not using my mom’s access code for this,” she says. “Period.”
But she’ll use it for her own amusement. “Can you at least look into the deaths?” I ask. “If there’s anyone who could find a tenable connection between them, it’s you.”
“I’ll help,” Terrence says eagerly. “I bet I already have dossiers on some of them.”
“Creepy, dude,” Rob says.
“I think we should leave it alone,” Sonya says. “This is dangerous.”
Jack stands up. “I agree.”
I thought he understood. “Jack, we can’t just let this go. If someone else is killed—”
He cuts me off. “You said we’d tell them about the book and let them decide.” He turns to Rob, Sonya, and Terrence in turn. “What do you think? All in favor of leaving this investigation to the police?”
Sonya’s hand shoots up, followed by Rob’s. Then, slowly, reluctantly, Terrence raises his as well.
“I’m sorry, Annie,” Jack says. “The majority has spoken.”
“Fine.” They may not be willing to pursue this, but I’m not going to let that stop me. I pick up the book and tuck it under my arm. “We’ll leave it alone,” I lie.
I follow Jack up the stairs, still disappointed in his lack of support, when Rob calls after us. “Graham’s going to be at the hospital all night. I thought I’d go visit him there in the morning. Bring coffee or something.”
That’s the most considerate thing I’ve ever heard come out of Rob’s mouth. “Can we join?” I ask, volunteering Jack without his permission.
“More the merrier,” Rob says. “Meet you there.”
TWENTY-SIX
GRAHAM IS ALREADY IN GREER’S ROOM WHEN WE ARRIVE AT the ICU the next day, and the nurse directs us to the waiting area while she informs him that we’re here. Though I’ve never spent time in the ICU, I’ve been in Mercy General so many times I can’t even begin to count them. Not that I want to. Enumerating my countless trips to oncology with my mom—first for appointments, then for chemo, and finally, for the surgery, which was, we all knew, a Hail Mary pass—would only depress me further.
As a child, I’d found this hospital oddly comforting—like a carnival, always moving and swirling with action and excitement. I didn’t understand death and suffering, didn’t know that a visit to its upper floors could bring news so devastating I’d feel like I’d been stabbed through the heart. Back then it was a place where people hurried to and fro with purposeful steps, clipboards and charts clasped firmly in their hands; where gurneys and wheelchairs whizzed around corners like bumper cars; and where, even if I got a shot, there was a lollipop waiting for me after. Now, Mercy General reminded me of illness and pain, of postchemo vomit and postsurgery bandage changes. And of being left alone by my father to deal with all of it.
I close my eyes and suck my upper lip between my teeth. I’m suddenly nauseous, and the small headache I woke up with has blossomed into a 6.5-on-the-Richter-scale kind of throbbing. The Advil should have kicked in by now. Why am I still in pain?
Because memories are painful.
“Hey.”
At the sound of Graham’s voice, my eyes fly open, but aside from the longish dirty blond hair and familiar Redding High School Cross Country team hoodie, I wouldn’t have recognized him.
Deep gray bags hang limply beneath his eyes, puffy and bloodshot. It looks as if he’s taken two left jabs to the face. His cheeks are hollowed out, his skin has turned a sickly yellowish hue, and his mouth, usually upturned into a carefree grin, is pulled down at the corners in an unnaturally pained way.
Rob rockets to his feet. “Hey, man.” He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “How are you doing?”
Graham stares at Rob with unseeing eyes. “My sister’s in a coma.”
“Right.” Jack claps his hand on Graham’s shoulder. “She’s strong, man. She’ll pull through.”
Graham’s eyes grow wet, then he clears his throat. “Doctor says you can visit her but you have to keep it short. Only two at a time. First room on the right.”
Rob nods at Jack. “You guys go. I’ll hang out.”
I allow Jack to lead the way past the nurse’s station. I cling to his hand, feeling my own palms grow sweaty. I don’t want to see Greer. I’m picturing Deputy Weller’s eyeless face, his jaw hanging limp and dislocated, and I’m not sure I can handle seeing that again.
Jack pauses at the door. “Are you sure you want to go in?”
I smile, appreciating his thoughtfulness. And though logically I know I should probably take this opportunity to opt out, that after what I’ve already seen I’m not ready for this, I kind of need to see for myself what this killer has done to Greer. Because now more than ever, I’m convinced that whoever killed Deputy Weller also attacked Greer, and I’m worried that someone else I care about will be next.
“I’m okay.” And as if to prove it to myself, I step around Jack and into Greer’s room.
I know she’s had surgery to repair her extensive head injuries, and I’m no virgin when it comes to trauma and its aftermath, but I’m not expecting the battered black-and-blue face propped up at a forty-five-degree angle in the bed. To be honest, there isn’t much of Greer that I can see—just a small section between the eyes and chin—and like Graham, if I hadn’t known in advance that it was her in that bed, I would not have recognized my friend. Her face is horrifically swollen, as if she’d been stung by a million yellow jackets. Her closed eyes are mere slits in the purplish-blue skin, her mouth is only defined by the large tube that runs from it, and her head
is swathed in bandages, so thickly wrapped it almost looks like she’s wearing an elaborate turban. On either side of the bed, a small robot army of machines and monitors surround her with a gentle electronic hum, punctuated every second or so by a beep, a whir, and a blip, while what appears to be a million tubes emanate from every part of her body, either bringing things in or taking things out.
“Shit,” Jack says.
I’m afraid to touch her, afraid of disturbing the technological orchestra that’s keeping her alive. Jack must feel the same way, because after a few minutes, he tugs at my hand, pulling me away.
Graham sits in the waiting room with his head in his hands, but looks up the moment we enter. “See?”
“She’s still alive.” I muster up a smile. “And she’s getting the best medical care possible. She’ll get through this.”
Maybe.
I know I’m talking out of my ass, but it sounds like the right thing to say.
Graham isn’t listening. “They said there are chips in her skull. As if someone tried to pry their way into her brain.” His eyes flash to my face. “Who would do that? Who would strike her down then try to . . . to open her . . .” His voice falters and he slumps forward, elbows on his knees, and weeps.
Five minutes ago, I would have joined Graham and cried my guts out, but seeing Greer in that hospital bed has driven the sadness from me. My nails dig into the palms of my hands as my fingers curl into tightly clenched fists, and I can feel the anger brewing inside me. Dark and vengeful.
“I don’t know.” Jack takes the seat next to him. “But I’m sure the police will find him.”
“Yeah, right,” Rob says under his breath.
“And if they don’t,” I say fiercely, “we will.”
Jack’s head jerks up. “We should let your dad do his job.”
“My dad,” I say, squaring my shoulders, “will do exactly what he’s supposed to do: follow all the practical evidence. But you and I both know—”
“We both know,” Jack interrupts, “that this is an attempted murder case. And we shouldn’t get involved.”
Before I can respond, Rob jumps between us. “Okay,” he says, putting an arm around each of us and guiding us toward the exit, “maybe this is a conversation for outside, huh?” The second we’re in the hallway, Rob drops his arms. “What the hell, you two?” he whispers. “Dude’s twin sister is clinging to life and even if she pulls through she might be a vegetable. The last thing he needs is to hear us argue about who’s going to catch the asshole who did this.”
“Sorry,” Jack says. The words were meant for Rob, but his eyes seek out my face.
“I’m going to try and get Graham out of here,” Rob says, backing toward the ICU entrance. I’ve never seen him act so responsibly in his entire life. Something about this tragedy has brought out the best in him. “Take him for a burger or something. I’ll check in with you later.”
By the time we get into Jack’s truck, my anger at Greer’s attacker has shifted to my boyfriend. How dare he treat me like a child who can’t make decisions for herself? I’m not a halfwit, nor a delicate flower naive about the world. I’m the daughter of a cop who learned how to load, fire, and disassemble a sidearm when I was six, who diagnosed crime scene photos “for fun” when I was fourteen, and who got a scholarship to college based on my essay envisioning the future of DNA evidence in criminal profiling. Not only am I not an idiot, but I’ve proven throughout this ordeal that I’m capable of handling adversity, and I don’t like to be treated like a precious little thing who needs to be protected from her own radical ideas.
“Why are you being so pigheaded?” I ask, unable to corral my escalating resentment.
Instead of lashing out, Jack looks at me, confused. “I’m being pigheaded?”
“Yeah.”
Jack rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who won’t listen to reason.”
“I’m the only one trying to find reason.”
Jack eases to a stop at a light, then turns to face me. “This isn’t one of your detective stories,” he says, his voice fluttering with the intense effort it’s taking for him to remain calm. “There is no evidence suggesting that what happened to Greer has anything to do with Deputy Weller or the death of that old fisherman.”
“He wasn’t old,” I say, latching on to the first fact at my disposal. “The man who attacked me on the beach wasn’t a day over thirty.”
“It was dark,” Jack says. “And everything happened really fast. How can you be so sure?”
I close my eyes, picturing Benjamin Cooper’s face. He was emaciated, like a man who’d just recovered from a long illness. But his muscles were strong, his body agile and solid, and his eyes . . . I swallow and take a deep breath to stem the rising fear. His eyes were young, clear, and terrified.
“I’m sure.”
He doesn’t believe you.
“Well, I’m not.”
“So what you’re saying is, you don’t believe me.”
The light turns green and Jack accelerates hard, tires screeching in protest. “I’m saying that you think Cooper looked like he was thirty.”
“But I’m too stupid to know the difference between a young man and an old one.”
“Jesus,” he says through clenched teeth. “You were being strangled at the time. I think that could taint your memory.”
“If Frankie said she was sure about it, you’d believe her.” I don’t know why I say it. Something about the way Jack defended her in front of Rob and Terrence yesterday when he wouldn’t support my plan must have pissed me off more than I realized.
“Don’t do this,” Jack says after a pause.
“Do what?”
“Make this about her.”
“You’re not denying it.”
“Fuck, Annie. This isn’t about Frankie.” He pulls into my driveway faster than he should and has to slam on the brakes to keep from smashing into the garage door. “This is about you and me. And the fact that I think we should leave a murder investigation to the proper authorities has nothing to do with whether or not I love you, okay?”
“Okay.” I wait for him to cut the engine. He doesn’t. “Aren’t you coming in?”
He looks out the window. “I’m going to meet Rob and Graham for lunch.”
I don’t say a word. I can’t trust my voice as I fight to keep the tears from welling up in my eyes, and I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing that he’s hurt me. I open the door and slip out, closing it behind me, then dash through the front door without looking back.
TWENTY-SEVEN
YOU DON’T NEED HIS HELP.
That’s what I keep telling myself, at least, as I sit in bed, MacBook open on my lap. And it’s true. I don’t need Jack’s help solving this mystery—I’m like a one-woman Scooby gang when it comes to this shit—and I certainly don’t need his help researching the ever-elusive Malcolm Hockler.
Which I’ve been doing for hours with limited success.
But I refuse to give up. I won’t let anything else happen to my friends. I’ve got to save them.
Like you couldn’t save your mom.
I ignore my subconscious and return to my Google hits. Thankfully, I’ve got the time. My Dad’s out—at work or at the bar, it’s hard to say. But he definitely came home at some point while I was at the hospital. There was a note on the fridge requesting my presence tomorrow at Deputy Weller’s funeral for a show of family solidarity.
My head throbs, a mix of tension and fatigue, and I lean back against my pillow, rubbing my temples. I swear I’ve downed an entire bottle of Advil today, to no avail. I probably need to eat something, and it doesn’t help that I’ve been staring at these articles until my eyes are crossed, trying to figure out how a lowly mining supervisor fits into this mystery. I tab back to the only known photo of Hockler, pixelated and out of focus. Weller thought he was important to the mystery surrounding Bull Valley Mine. Could he be responsible for the killings? Could Terrence’s seemingly ridicul
ous story about the Man of Squaw Creek be real? Could Malcolm Hockler still be alive, stalking the lake with an ageless, murderous rage?
I squint at the old photo. The black smudges that make up his face look fuzzy and blurred, even though the image had been scanned at a decent three-hundred-dpi resolution. I zoom out to 50 percent, hoping the change in perspective will make him instantly recognizable.
Nope, just a smaller version of fuzzy and blurred.
What were you expecting?
Oh, I don’t know. Recognition? Maybe that his face would be familiar. If Malcolm Hockler is the Man of Squaw Creek, ageless man of legend, then maybe I’ve seen him before? Maybe he’s someone in town? Someone I know? Maybe he and his wife are still living among us?
That sounds ridiculous.
Truth is, it’s all ridiculous, and yet it’s those unbelievable aspects of the situation that make the most sense.
I open a new browser tab. Time to switch gears. I might not be able to find anything on the mysterious Malcolm Hockler, but the Internet’s got to have some information on the mine, the town, and the whole Squaw Creek valley.
Pages and pages of hits’ worth, in fact. The history of Banner is well documented. Originally a gold rush town, Banner was built on lands claimed by the local Wintu tribes in a valley between the McCloud River and Squaw Creek. But it wasn’t until copper ore was discovered in the area that the population exploded. As many as ten thousand people lived in Banner during its prime, with Bull Valley Mine as the largest employer, but after World War I, the price of metals plummeted and Banner began its slow death march.
Which is interesting and all, but doesn’t exactly help me.
I comb through my search results. Most of them are histories of the town, or archival photos of the area. I examine each one, hoping to find mention of Malcolm Hockler, but most of the photos are unlabeled, and at some point, every bearded miner with a dusty hat is starting to look the same.
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