by Rachel Caine
I put the phone number into our reverse database on another screen, but as expected, it comes back without a registered name and address. I switch back to the tracking and try that.
I watch the program as it highlights the path of the call. Not surprisingly, it’s hitting towers close to Stillhouse Lake, but the interesting thing is, when the call comes in, it’s already moving away from the spot where the car was discovered in the pond—and along a different road than the one where the pond is located. Logically, it’s already made at least one turn away from the crime scene . . . if it was ever on that road to begin with. It keeps moving, but not toward the lake, and not toward Norton. It navigates narrow back roads, then turns east.
I get a sinking feeling as I watch it steadily move forward. I know where it’s heading, and sure enough, the signal pings near a major freeway.
Then I lose the track completely. He’s almost certainly switched it off and removed the battery; he would have pulled off to do that before entering the freeway. Heading north or south? I have no way to know unless he activates the phone again.
Unless he’s already ditched it, I think. I imagine him rolling down the window and tossing the phone off on the side of the road. I mark the coordinates of the last signal. It might be worth a look. If Kez can retrieve the cell itself, it could reveal call logs, photos, texts, DNA, all manner of interesting information. Not to mention old-fashioned fingerprints.
He was enjoying himself. That impression makes shivers move over my skin. He said just enough to tease, not enough to give anything away. I’m honestly a little amazed the 911 operator sent a patrol at all, or that the county cop was lucky enough to spot the drowned car. God wanted those girls found. But what about the driver of the car? I imagine a mother bound and gagged in the back of that second car, screaming for her children. Not knowing, hopefully, what’s happened to them . . . though I don’t know which would be more torturous, knowing the fate of her babies, or not knowing at all. I can’t imagine. I don’t want to. I identify way too closely with it. I’d honestly thought that as my kids grew up and became more independent, I’d be less anxious. Instead, I find myself endlessly cycling through a horrific what-if catalog of disasters now more than ever, because I can’t protect them like I once could.
Maybe I’m wrong about the abduction. The other, colder possibility is that the woman was the one who rolled her own car into that murky water and watched her children struggle and die. That she had a ride waiting to take her away.
I don’t want to place bets on which scenario is worse.
But in that case, why make the 911 call?
I put everything I’ve got into an email and send it to Kezia, along with a note that I’m available if she needs anything, anytime. No immediate answer, but I don’t expect one. I’m hoping she’s finished up at the crime scene, and heading to rest a little . . . but I know it’s unlikely. A homicide is a ticking clock.
I shake it off with a sigh and prepare to shut down the laptop, but a message alert catches my attention. It’s not from an email I recognize, but I do get things in from other investigators, even client referrals; there have been more of those recently. I look at the message without any particular worry about it; the trolls who tend to come after me and the kids seem to have mostly moved on, though there are always a few showing up.
The message, I realize a tick too late, is not a client referral. Not from a colleague or a fellow investigator.
Too late to stop reading it now, so I dive in.
You’ve always been on my mind. But never really at the top of my list either. What a strange coincidence that our paths are crossing now. That does make everything so much more difficult, and so much more interesting.
The only thing that’s held me back has been doubt—doubt about whether or not you truly were guilty of helping Melvin Royal commit his awful crimes. But there’s enough reason to think you did. I know you walked away once. Let’s see if you really are innocent, Gina Royal. Once and for all.
He’s eloquent, I have to give him that. Proper spelling and grammar, which isn’t usual for this kind of thing. It doesn’t have the fetishization that most of the other trolls display; he doesn’t tell me how he plans to hurt me, kill me, kill my kids. There’s a certain measured rationality to it that alarms me more than if he’d indulged in the standard-issue lurid death fantasy.
I look at his handle, but it’s just a string of anonymous letters and numbers. Most trolls are fairly careless in their internet habits. They use all or part of their not-very-clever false identities in other, mundane places. I caught one who changed only two numbers on the end of his screen name and posted with his regular handle on hockey forums; from there I was able to track him back to his real name, address, workplace. I didn’t do anything with that information. I just make it a point to have it . . . in case things get worse.
So far, I’ve tracked down about 60 percent of my stalkers. The other 40 percent are smarter, cleaner, and better at their trollcraft. But they’ll screw up or get bored and move on. Eventually. I’m playing a long game.
But I’m not sure this one is anything like the rest. He unsettles me in ways that are entirely new.
He’s an original. And he’s smart. I need to take him seriously. And I need to tell Sam, and loop in the Knoxville police.
I print out the email and close the laptop. Still thirty minutes before I need to start breakfast and wake the kids for the day, which is always something of a battle, especially when neither of them is really a morning person. They’re great kids, and they love each other deeply, but they’re also at that age where every little slight feels like a mortal wound, and the last few weeks they’ve been more reluctant about school than ever. I’d thought they’d adjusted well to the move, the new classes, the new friends . . . but I constantly worry I’m missing something.
I take a minute to think about it, then reach for the phone and dial.
“Office of Dr. Katherine Marks, how may I help you? You’ve reached her answering service.”
Of course it’s too early for Dr. Marks to be in. I feel momentarily stupid, and realize I’m just dull with weariness. Not enough sleep, and I need more coffee. “Hi,” I say. “I just need to make an appointment with Dr. Marks for family counseling for later this week. Gwen Proctor, I’m already a client.”
“Okay, I can help you with that. Would you consider this urgent, ma’am?”
“No.” Hopefully.
“How about Wednesday at four? It’ll be for you and which of your family members?”
“Me, Sam Cade, and our children, Lanny and Connor Proctor.” Better if we do it together this time, I think. It feels like cracks are forming—small, subtle things. I want to keep them from growing any worse. The kids already have their own counselors, but Sam and I see Katherine Marks on a fairly regular basis to deal with our own deep-seated traumas.
None of us are in denial about our damage.
By the time I’ve confirmed the appointment, Sam comes out of the bath dressed in a towel, hair damp and gleaming tiny jewels of moisture. He looks, frankly, fantastic, and I sit on the bed and unashamedly watch as he drops the towel and reaches for his clothes. He notices. “Really?” he asks, with just a hint of encouragement. “You know I can’t be late. Private client? Money in the bank?”
“I know,” I say. “Just enjoying the view.” We understand each other perfectly, at least the vast majority of the time. When we don’t, it’s trouble, but little things? We’ve grown well past all that. It’s good. It’s even fun.
“How’s Kez?” he asks as he skims his soft blue T-shirt over his head. “Not like her to call you out at that hour.”
“She’s got a tough case,” I tell him. “You’ll probably hear about it on the news. Two little girls drowned in the back of a car, no sign of the driver at the scene.”
He hesitates as he puts on the flannel shirt to go on top. “Was the driver abducted, or do you think it was an accident, or what?”
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br /> “God knows,” I say. “The 911 call is suspicious, for sure. It’s creepy to listen to.”
“So Kez is asking for your help?”
I shrug and don’t answer, because right now I don’t know how much more involvement I’ll have. He sits down to tie his boots. “What’s your day like?” I ask him.
“Eight thirty private lesson. The guy’s pretty steady, shouldn’t be eventful. This afternoon, sessions in the simulator for the A-320.” The simulators, I know, are stressful, but he enjoys them most of the time. The stress comes from the fact that every single sim he does is going in his record, and affects his ability to make the leap to where he wants to be. But I know how steady he is, and how good. He’ll be okay.
I think about telling him about the new and dangerous troll, but to be honest, I don’t want that to poison his whole day; better to talk tonight, once we’re home and relaxed and everything is quiet.
I head for the kitchen. It’s my day for breakfast, and I make eggs and bacon and toast; Sam eats fast and heads out. The kids are a shambles, as usual, but I get them up and dressed, and make sure they have enough food and juice in front of them to give them strength to face their school day. They keep the sniping to a minimum, thankfully.
They haven’t managed to finish before the doorbell rings, and I have to take the alarm off to admit Vera Crockett. She’s wearing pajamas and ridiculously oversize house shoes and God only knows how she got here, because our house is five blocks from her small, cheap apartment. Walked, probably. Vee doesn’t give a crap what people think. She’s always had that dark, defiant streak since I first met her in Wolfhunter as a girl wrongly accused of her own mother’s murder, and it’s only grown wider as she has matured. She’s almost an adult now.
One who wears battered, enormous yeti house shoes out in public.
“Breakfast?” I ask her, and she yawns and nods. She’s still wearing the ghost of last night’s party glitter. Lanny, at least, has washed hers fully off. “You’re lucky there’s any left.”
“I ain’t picky,” she says, and winks at Lanny. “Anything’s good.”
“Tell me you didn’t walk all that way dressed like that,” Lanny says as Vee pulls up Sam’s empty chair and I get her a fresh plate. Lanny looks genuinely worried, but Vee doesn’t answer, just digs into her eggs and bacon like a starving wolf. The girl’s got manners, somewhere, but she doesn’t usually bother with them. And in truth there’s something satisfying about seeing someone so completely in the moment, every moment. Doesn’t mean I don’t worry about her, and her influence on my daughter.
“Hey, Ms. P,” Vee says. “You got any ketchup for these eggs?”
I provide it and try not to shudder. “Vee, what are you doing today?”
“Nothin’.” She pops ketchup-soaked eggs into her mouth. “Killin’ the patriarchy.”
“Killing it by not having a job,” Connor says. “Good one.”
“I got a job,” she says, not quite defensively. “Part time, anyway.”
If she does, it’s news to me. Vee’s record of jobs since being ruled independent is . . . spotty. We gave her the deposit on the apartment, and she’s on her own for rent, which luckily isn’t much; she seems to do okay. I’m not her mom, and I know her well enough to know she won’t welcome me pushing in and interrogating her. Instead, I observe. She doesn’t seem wired or high, which is good. I can’t stop her from doing what she’s going to do, but I have let her know how much I worry about it. And she’s actually listened. Changed from that wild, angry, occasionally chilling child I met in Wolfhunter, at least a little.
I accept progress, even when it’s in small steps.
“I got a letter,” she announces suddenly, and pulls it out of the pocket of her pajamas and slides it over to me. “Thought you ought to see it.”
“Actual paper letter,” I say. “Wow. Old school.”
“I guess.” There’s something solemn in Vee’s expression. I look at the envelope; Vee’s name and address are carefully written on the outside, no return address. I slip the thin copy paper out and unfold it.
Dear Vera Crockett,
Don’t be fooled. They aren’t who you think they are.
That’s it. Not surprisingly, it’s unsigned. And there’s no stamp on it. “This came to your apartment?”
“Yep. Bastard knows where I live, put it on that rusty clip thing at the door where they hang late-rent notices and stuff like that.”
“Who do you think he’s talking about?”
She rolls her eyes. “Do I got to spell it out for you? I ain’t got too many friends around here. Seems pretty plain to me.”
“You think it’s about us. Me and the kids.”
“’Course I do.”
I put the letter and envelope aside. They’re going in my files. I know this is a problem; how large a problem, I don’t yet know. “Vee, you knew this could happen; you come over here all the time, you hang out with Lanny. You’ve been in the news. Sooner or later, you were going to get a troll interested in you. The good news is, ninety-five percent of the time these people are cowards who’d never dare try anything. They feel big and brave threatening from a distance.” That’s all true. But this, I’m all too aware, wasn’t delivered from a distance. It was at her front door. “If you want me to take it to the police—” Though I know full well the Knoxville police will just dismiss it. There’s no threat even implied here, much less openly stated. Free speech applies.
“No!” She snaps it instantly, just as I thought she would. “I can handle it.” Vee has had far too much contact with the police in her life, and in Wolfhunter, the cops were as bad as the criminals, if not worse. She doesn’t trust a badge unless she absolutely has no choice. And truthfully, this time it wouldn’t help anyway.
Lanny takes Vee’s hand and squeezes it, which is more comfort than I’m offering. Vee gives her a ketchup-smeared smile and makes a kissy face, and Lanny flinches away. “Ewww,” my daughter says. “Gross. No.”
“Definitely no,” I say. “Wipe your mouth, Vee.”
“You ain’t my momma.”
“You parked your ass at my table like I was. Wipe your mouth.”
She does, grudgingly. Vee doesn’t like doing anything that isn’t her own idea, which is something I hope she’ll grow out of. It may take another eighteen years of growing before she achieves anything like balance. I like and admire the girl—love her, in some ways—but I’m wary too. Vee’s all edges, and no comfortable place to hold on to. I don’t want my kids—especially Lanny—getting hurt.
Then you shouldn’t have quasi-adopted her, I tell myself. Fair enough. But I couldn’t just abandon her to the spiral of destruction she was headed down either. At least this way she has a chance. And someone watching her back.
“I’m gonna get a gun,” Vee announces. “For protection.”
Oh shit. “No, you’re not,” I tell her. “If you want one, you follow the same rules as anyone in this house. You train, and I don’t mean the bullshit online checkbox courses. You go to a gun range and you get good with it, and then you keep training to stay good at it. Understand?” I have zero authority to say this; Vee can sneer at me and do exactly as she wants. But she’s got her feet under my table, and I use my severest tone.
To my surprise, it works. Vee chews thoughtfully on her eggs a second before she says, “Well, I don’t know much about guns. Might be a good thing to have somebody like you tell me what I ought to be doing.”
“Guns are for offense. They can’t shield you. They’re not for show. The only thing they do—and they do it very well—is to kill somebody first who you believe is trying to kill you. But that’s the problem right there: judgment. Because you have to be prepared to make that decision in a split second, without real information, in a situation where your adrenaline is screaming through your veins and you’re scared to death.”
“You’ve got guns,” she says, and it’s surprisingly not confrontational.
“I do. B
ecause I have kids to protect, and because I don’t romanticize firearms. They aren’t ego props, Vee. They’re tools to kill, and the damage they leave behind is real and brutal. Often final.”
“I know that,” she says. And she does—she’s seen far too much of it already. “But I think I need one, Ms. Proctor. And I’d like it if you’d help me get one.”
She’s thrown it right back, and I feel Lanny’s gaze heavy on me. Lanny doesn’t own a gun, but she’s been taking classes once a week; she and I practice together. She’s getting to be a decent shot too.
“Here’s the deal,” I tell Vee. “You do classes with us at the range, starting tonight. You only get to buy a gun when I say you’re ready to have one, and that means when you’re officially eighteen. And when you do get one, you keep the practice up. I’ll check. Understand?”
She nods and doesn’t answer, too busy chewing. I’m not sure I’ve made a good decision. Vee Crockett isn’t a stable personality; she’s got volatile peaks and spikes, and she’s been prone to self-harm before, through pills and booze and just plain recklessness. But she’s also vulnerable, and that letter is proof that something’s up. The fact that he knows where she lives . . . it’s worrying.
Best call I can make, for now.
Vee finishes her breakfast, and I offer to drive her to her apartment so she doesn’t have to walk back in those ridiculous house shoes. She accepts.
Once the kids are headed into their classes, it’s just her and me alone in the car. I say, “You already have a gun, don’t you?”
She flinches and turns her head too fast. “Why’d you say that?”
“Because I know you, Vee. You don’t ask permission. You might ask forgiveness, sometimes.”
She shrugs and turns away, but I see the color’s warmed in her cheeks. “My business,” she says. “Ain’t it?”
It is. Vee Crockett is an emancipated adult, and though she can’t legally own a gun yet, I’m not inclined to turn her in for it either. There’s no time in a woman’s life that isn’t dangerous, and that’s just a fact of life. “You made it my business this morning. I’m going to the range tonight here in town. I’ll pick you up and we’ll look over your gun and see what you can do with it. All right?”