Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake)

by Rachel Caine

  “Never. Not for a second.” He moves hair back from my forehead, a gentle touch I would have flinched away from a few years ago. But now, it soothes something inside me. “Were you that tough at her age?”

  I have to laugh a little. Bitterly. “I was a good little rule-follower with strict churchgoing parents. I didn’t even own a pair of blue jeans. No drinking, no drugs, no boyfriend, no clubs.” I’d hit eighteen—or more accurately, eighteen had hit me—like a runaway bus. I’d been utterly unprepared for the charm onslaught of a controlling older man who targeted me the way a lion targets a slow gazelle. Melvin Royal had been the ideal suitor, according to my parents. He’d played the role to perfection because he knew exactly what he wanted: a captive child-wife he could isolate and train as he wanted her to be.

  And that’s who I became. I’d worked so hard to lose any semblance of who I was, who I could be, and became exactly what Melvin Royal required. I’d thought that was happiness.

  Until it all collapsed in such horror. Then I had to find out who I really was. What I could really do.

  Sam kisses my temple, and I blindly turn toward him until our lips meet. I don’t like thinking about my earlier life. Melvin’s whisper is always there, far too close. The kiss turns deeper, sweeter, and I focus on it to try to push away the memories.

  Until he breaks it with a regretful sigh and leans his forehead against mine. “I need sleep,” he tells me. “Sorry. Early lesson in a few hours.”

  “I know,” I say. He’s working currently as a flight instructor, teaching private clients on small aircraft, but he’s also taking classes of his own and getting recertified on commercial jets. Busy man, but he’s here, against all the odds. And I’m no longer afraid to say that I love him.

  Like everyone in our house, the two of us are damaged. He’s the brother of a serial killer’s victim. I was a serial killer’s wife. Our traumas hit head-on the day a drunk driver crashed into the house I shared with Melvin Royal, and that accident uncovered not just Sam’s sister’s body but a path of horror that stretched out for years.

  That crash made wreckage of both our lives, but in very different ways.

  We’ve come to terms with the legacy of Melvin Royal from both sides, and built a relationship over that dark, angry scar. It still bleeds, sometimes. And it always, always aches.

  “Go back to sleep,” I tell him, and kiss him again. It’s regretful, but sweetened with the promise of a future. He hugs me and slips back to bed.

  I’m too restless to try to rest, tempting as it is; I’d only toss and turn and disturb him. I head quietly back to our office. Benefit of a new house: more room. Sam’s got his desk, I have mine, and as I shut the door and turn on the lights, it’s another déjà vu moment: my battered old desk, my old filing cabinets, a clean and different room wrapped around them.

  I’ve mounted pictures on the walls. Some are of places, some are of people. My kids and Sam, surely. My very select group of friends in happy times when Sam and I barbecued a couple of years back. All normal, at first glance.

  Second glance, every picture means more. The east wall is my favorite. That beautiful, striking piece of art is the handiwork of a terrified young woman named Arden Miller we came across while hunting my ex. She’s now safe and living under a new identity; I check on her from time to time as her artist’s star rises. Like Sam, she came out of a dark place and is finding her light.

  Next to that picture is a photo of two young women dressed in casual shorts and T-shirts with their arms around each other—normal as can be. When I first saw them, they’d been captives in a locked basement in Wolfhunter, broken and terrified—a mystery I never should have taken on, but that had launched me into the idea of finding missing people as a private investigator. The two women sent me that snapshot, no note, no location, but it reminds me that they’ve found their own safety now.

  I keep only pictures of successes on this wall. Good memories. Even Vee has a place there on the end, arm around my daughter while they both flip off the camera. Vee is a success too. She survived Wolfhunter.

  Not everyone did. The west wall, the one I keep in shadow, has other photos. That view of Stillhouse Lake reminds me that people died there as part of my ex-husband’s plot. The apparently peaceful photo of a cemetery is really a photo of Melvin Royal’s cheap, anonymously numbered tombstone in the far distance; it reminds me he’s dead and gone. I need to remember my failures as much as my successes; they teach me to think harder about the risks I’m taking. Because not all those risks are mine.

  I know it’s wrong to keep score but it’s the only way I can make sense of things these days.

  Out of habit, the first thing I do at my desk is check on my ever-present internet trolls. I have a list, and I run the searches to see what they’re posting. Lately things have died down a little—other outrages for them to scream about, other people for them to torment, guilty or not. But as the ex-wife of serial killer Melvin Royal, I will never be off that list of easy targets to hit, and sure enough, I see one of my most persistent trolls is back agitating for a reinvestigation of my “involvement” in Melvin’s crimes.

  Being married to a serial killer is, in a lot of people’s eyes, proof enough that there must be something very wrong with me. But this guy isn’t about justice. He just likes hurting people . . . but at a distance, from safely behind his computer. Nothing new here.

  I check work emails. I have a few boring background checks to do, but that can wait until later. The investigative company I work for—mostly remotely—does a fair amount of standard corporate busywork, vetting potential executives for high-profile positions. It’s still surprising to me how many of those turn out bad in the end. It’s almost like rising to the highest levels of power comes with a side order of sociopathy—who could have seen that coming? And if they have enough money and power, they rarely have to face any meaningful retribution for the lives they’ve ruined.

  I’m not neutral on the subject.

  When my phone buzzes ten minutes later, it sends my pulse racing so fast I feel it in my temples. Immediate panic reaction, just like waking up from the dream earlier. I immediately think of the people I love, and who could be calling at this hour . . . and why.

  Caller ID shows it’s my best friend from Stillhouse Lake, Kezia Claremont. She’s a police detective, one of just two that the tiny town of Norton employs. “Kez?” I blurt out the second I have the phone to my ear. “What’s wrong? Is it your dad?”

  “Nothing like that,” she says. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  I swallow the panic and manage a hollow laugh. “Not remotely. I’ve been up the better part of an hour already. Bad dreams and a kid who doesn’t believe in curfew.”

  “I had a feeling you’d be awake,” she says. There’s no humor in her voice; I don’t think I’ve heard her this grim in quite a while. “I caught a case. Now I’m out here in the middle of goddamn nowhere in the dark and it’s just . . . it’s bad.”

  Kez has rarely shown me soft spots or vulnerabilities. It worries me to hear a tremble in her voice.

  “What’s going on?” I lean my elbows on the desk, lean into the conversation. I hear her take in a deep breath on the other end.

  “First glance, it seemed nothing much. Accident, most likely. But not anymore.” She doesn’t want to tell me. I feel that tug on the hair at the back of my neck again, and a cold chill comes with it.

  “Prester isn’t there?” Detective Prester is her partner, a good man, steady, with the eternal eyes of a cop who’s seen it all. Twenty-five years her senior at least.

  “No,” she says. “I’m trying to let him rest; the old man hasn’t been looking too well lately. It’s just me and a coroner out here. And a pretty useless sheriff’s deputy.”

  “You need some company?”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You didn’t ask,” I tell her. “But I’m on the way.”

  2

  GWEN

 
Eerie. It’s the first word that comes to me as I top the rise on the no-name back road and see mist coming off the pond, curling and twisting like a living thing. The whole scene is painted in the red-and-blue light bars of the vehicles assembled: a county sheriff’s cruiser, Kezia’s unmarked car, and a coroner’s van that looks as if it might date back to the 1970s, at least. I roll to a stop behind Kezia’s car. This place is narrow, a barely passable road into the dark, and it occurs to me that the more cars are here, the harder it will be for any of us to get out. But the important thing right now is the haunted quality in Kez’s voice. She called. I had to come. She’s shown up for me, more than once, when I needed help. Especially when my kids were in real danger. Kez’s quiet support means the world to me, and if I can repay that, even in a small way . . . I will.

  I park and get out. The early-morning chill gnaws at me, and I zip up the fleece jacket I put on and raise the hood. I don’t normally mind the cold so much, but now? It just adds to the surreal feeling of dread. There’s something very, very wrong here. Maybe it’s the darkness, the mist, the pervasive smell of mildew and rotten, stagnant water. This isn’t close to Stillhouse Lake, but it isn’t far away, either; it occurs to me, as I try to fit the geography together, that I couldn’t be more than five miles from the compound that the Belldene family calls home. And I have to suppress a real shiver. The Belldenes and I have a truce, but that truce is very contingent on me not being up in their business, or bringing more attention to the area where they make their home and run their illegal drug trade.

  I’d rather not open that hopefully closed chapter of my life again. But I can’t shake the feeling of being watched from those dark trees, and it’s deeply disturbing.

  Kezia meets me before the lone county officer—lounging in his cruiser—even spots me. We hug briefly, and that’s a rare concession from her in a professional setting. It’s over so fast I don’t think anyone else sees. I spot the strain in her too-composed face when she draws back. The coroner is setting up some portable work lights, and we both flinch a little as they blaze on, casting a milk-white clarity over what this place is.

  Just a pond, I think. But I know it isn’t.

  “What happened?” I ask her.

  She gives me a sharply professional timeline. “County got a call from someone who said they thought they saw something suspicious happening out here. Didn’t leave a name. Deputy Dawg over there didn’t see anything special, but then he happened to park here to take a leak. That’s when he saw the car.”

  I look around. “What car?”

  She points to the pond, the one with mist twisting on the surface. I send her a questioning glance, then step up on the rise just enough to see what the work lights are illuminating. The water is dirty green, verdigris with a ground of rust, but it can’t conceal the car under the water. It smells of mold and algae and a reek of dead fish.

  I hear a sneeze from the cruiser and see the deputy wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. It clicks with me that the man looks wet, miserable, and stained from the water. He went in. Looking for survivors. But there’s no ambulance here, just the coroner’s van driven by a young African American man who’s suiting up in crime scene coveralls. Nobody’s in a hurry.

  “So there is a body inside?” I guess.

  “Two,” Kezia says. She casts a look at the deputy. “He went in on the chance someone was alive. They weren’t.”

  “Two.” Well, that’s bad but she’s seen worse; it’s rural out here, and prime meth territory. Mostly, I’ve been thinking on this long, dark drive about why she’s called me. “Kez . . . does this have something to do with . . . with me, somehow? Or Melvin?” It’s my worst nightmare, being dragged kicking and screaming back into the spotlight, along with my family. She knows that.

  “No,” she says. “Nothing like that. Sorry, I should’ve said on the phone. I just . . . there are some aspects to this that I think you might be able to help me with. Unofficially.”

  That seems wrong to me. Kez is many things, but when it comes to investigations, she is generally pretty by-the-book. “Okay. So . . . why do you think you need unofficial help?”

  “Because it’s bad. Bad as it gets.” She takes a deep breath. “Two little girls still strapped in their car seats in the back. Maybe a year old, I don’t know. Twins, probably.”

  She says it calmly enough, but I know she isn’t calm at all. I feel it like a visceral spike that goes right into my lower abdomen, and I look wordlessly at the car again. I can’t see the bodies. Thank God. Finally, I say, “But no sign of the driver?”

  “No sign of anybody. They were just babies.” Her voice shudders on that last word, but doesn’t break. If anything, it hardens. Her eyes take on a shine like metal, and she doesn’t blink. “I want this asshole. Bad.”

  It’s hard to think past the coldness of the moment, the oppressive atmosphere of this place. When I blink, I imagine I see drowned babies in that car, and I feel sick. The cold, wet stench of the pond makes me dizzy. “You think one of the parents . . . ?”

  “That’s the thing. I just don’t know. Could be the driver had car trouble and got abducted, then the kidnapper pushed the car into the pond to conceal it. Might not have ever seen the kids.” She sighs, and I hear the frustration. The anger. “I’m just guessing. We have to evaluate all the evidence up here. It’s pretty clear where the car went in; forensics will tell us whether it was pushed in or driven.”

  I clear my throat of the taste of this place. “It could be that the driver—mom, maybe—made it out but couldn’t get to her kids. She could be injured, wandering around in these woods.”

  “Could be, but it’s not likely. Deputy Dawg left one hell of a mess coming up out of that water; he swears that bank was undisturbed when he went in. Nobody crawled up out of there without leaving a trail.”

  I hate having that possibility closed off, and I can see she does too. If the mother were wounded and wandering, it would have been an accident. A tragedy, yes. But this makes it so much worse. Sinister and terrifying.

  “You calling in state?” I ask.

  “Have to. But I’m going to try to make it my case. This pond is just inside Stillhouse Lake boundaries.”

  “Half the pond,” the sheriff’s deputy says from where he’s shivering in his car. I wouldn’t like to get the look she gives him. “Other half is county.”

  “Car’s in my half,” she says. “I’ll work with county and state. But I want this.”

  I nod. I still don’t know why I’m here, not really. I’m a private investigator, not a cop. I’m a friend, yeah, but the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation won’t take that for much. So I say, very gently, “Kez? Did you know them?” It’s the only thing I can think of that would make her this . . . invested. But she shakes her head. “Then why . . .”

  She doesn’t want to tell me, and it takes her a long moment to find the words. “Javier and I have been talking about having kids for a few months now,” she says. “Just took the test yesterday, and . . .” She lifts one hand, palm up, and her smile has an edge of sadness. “Turns out I’m pregnant. When I got this call, I was happier than I’ve ever been, and now, seeing this . . . I don’t know, Gwen. I just know I can’t let this go. I can’t.”

  I take her hand, though I don’t think that was what she was offering, and her fingers lock around mine.

  She takes in a sudden breath. “I haven’t even been able to tell Javi yet. I didn’t want to just send an email. Our scheduled call’s coming up in a little while. God. I’ll probably still be here. With this.”

  I can’t imagine the chaos of emotion she’s feeling right now. I try to put all the compassion I feel into my voice. “Is there something you need me to do? Off the books.”

  “We’re going to be chasing up the owner of this car,” she says. “But I need a name and address for the 911 caller who called in the tip. Our system’s so old it’s practically antique. I know you’ve got much better tech to put on it.” She takes
out her phone and types, and in a few seconds I feel my own phone vibrate. “I just sent you the full recording and data we got. The caller ID didn’t register a name, just a number and general location. I’m guessing it was a pay-as-you-go.”

  “I can check,” I tell her. “You’re thinking if the person who called was out here, they saw more than they said?”

  “Or it was the killer himself. Sometimes they do that. Play games.”

  I shudder, a fine little contraction of my insides, because she’s right. Melvin Royal was a game player; it amused him to no end to taunt the police with clues that led nowhere. But mostly what makes me uneasy is the mental image of someone—someone who is just a shadow right now—making that call, enjoying his moment, while the mother of two murdered children struggles in the back of his car, or his trunk. It’s horrible, but I’d rather think of her as abducted and endangered than complicit.

  The coroner comes over, and Kez straightens up. Visibly putting on her professional demeanor. I don’t know if he notices. “We’re ready to drag the car out, Detective. I’ve got all the pictures, including the bank on all sides,” he says. “And we need room on the road to preserve and sort evidence, whatever the water’s left us. Going to have to move all these cars.”

  Kezia nods. “Tow truck’s on the way. How long do you think the car’s been down there?”

  “I’ll tell you once we get the bodies out, but not long. Couple of hours, maybe. Cold night. That’s good, but the faster we can get the victims out of the water, the better.”

  I realize that my vehicle is the last-in-first-out piece of the traffic puzzle; they’ll need me gone to squeeze the tow truck into position. “Kez, I’ll do whatever I can,” I promise her. I’m still a step removed from this horror; I haven’t seen the bodies. I desperately don’t want to get closer, because dead children hold a special kind of trauma, of heartbreak. A heavy weight of responsibility for those who bear witness. “Call me later?”