Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake)

by Rachel Caine

  I don’t ask how weird, because I don’t want to know. I shudder to think of them getting involved with Kez’s case, even in the slightest; there’s a darkness there too deep for kids their age, whatever their personal history. “It’s late, and you must be tired. So let’s settle down and get some sleep tonight, and tomorrow we’ll find you something useful to do. Plus schoolwork.”

  “Not tired,” Lanny says. I check my watch. It’s only ten. It feels later, but that’s because I’ve been sleeping badly. “C’mon, let us do something? It’s that or I kick his ass in Fortnite again.”

  “Like you can,” Connor says. “Ever.”

  I make the decision without thinking hard enough about it, because I’m tired, and because the interest in their faces is so sincere. I go and get a notebook and write down a name. Douglas Adam Prinker. I bring it back and hand it to them. They both lean over to read it together.

  “So who’s this guy?” Connor asks.

  “That’s what I want to know. He lives in Valerie. He drives a white van. That’s all I have right now. I do not want you to message him, engage with him, or in any way interact, not even if you think you’re anonymous. And I want you to use the anonymizer protocols when you do it. Understand? Information. Not interaction.”

  “Got it!” Lanny chirps. She looks far too thrilled. Connor, at least, looks like he’s evaluating the risks appropriately.

  “Keep your eyes open,” I tell them. “And be careful. Screencaps only. Okay?”

  “Got it,” my son says. “Lanny, calm down. We’re not solving crime. We’re just doing background.”

  “Still cool,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

  “Kinda.”

  Sam and I leave the room, and I heave a sigh. “Did I just make a mistake?”

  “Trusting them? No. I don’t think so. Having something to do never hurts. So . . . who’s Douglas Adam Prinker? Really?”

  “I really don’t know. One of the witnesses in Valerie mentioned him. I’m just covering some bases for Kez.”

  He looks at me carefully, searchingly. I see the real concern in his eyes. “But you’re being careful. Right? This isn’t a good time to be risky.”

  “I know. This is the last of it, and then we can focus on our own problems tomorrow.” I feel a grin emerge. It feels sharp. “And boy, our mystery mailer is going to be sorry he ever took us on.”

  “Amen,” he says, and kisses my forehead. “Come on. I need to show you something.”

  For a hot half second, I think he means that playfully, but that isn’t the case. He closes the office door and goes to his laptop, boots it up, and navigates. I lean over his shoulder, and then I find myself drawing back when I see where he’s going as the banner flares on the screen.

  The Lost Angels website.

  “Sam . . .” I say it as a caution, but he shakes his head. I feel my stomach muscles tighten, like I’m bracing for a punch. I hate this website, partly because I know how much damage it generates, but also because I know it represents a part of his past that’s so complicated and difficult for him. He helped form the Lost Angels—the core of it being the families and friends of Melvin’s victims. He and the mother of one of those victims fueled and refined a lot of the rage those poor people felt . . . and aimed it straight at me and the kids.

  But Sam walked away from them. To me. And he’s told me his credentials for the site were canceled . . . but now he’s logging in, and the private message boards are opening, and I don’t know what to think.

  “I was going to tell you,” he says, and I hear the regret in his voice. “Should have. I wanted to dig around and see what crawled out of the woodwork.”

  “You went back?”

  “Not as myself. It’s a new account. Anonymous. I took precautions.” He pauses for a significant second. “I did it a while ago. I just wanted to . . . keep tabs. Try to spot trouble before it exploded, maybe defuse it a little.”

  That’s not how we agreed it was going to be, but it’s not the time to fight about it either. “Sam, did you know about the flyers?” I sound sharp. I feel sharp, like I’m shaped into a knife and ready to cut. “Somebody must have updated them.”

  “Somebody did,” he says. “And I missed it. He wasn’t on the usual threads. He was over in a general forum, and he was pretty clever about it. I found him while you were out today. He posts under the name MalusNavis.” Same handle as the posts I found on other sites. Sam pulls up the message board in question and does a name search. “I didn’t find it because he never explicitly mentions your name. Just asks about wanted-poster templates. Someone gladly provided him with a copy of the original.” The one that Sam designed. “Everything else he did before yesterday was about other cases. Nothing to do with you.”

  “Wait, he was on the LA board before yesterday? What other cases?” He shows me the full list of MalusNavis posts. It’s pretty sizable. There’s nothing overtly violent about any of them; they’re all more clinical, more investigative, like he’s an armchair detective, not a troll. He’s asking about odd cases . . . unsolved murders, mostly. Disappearances. As Sam’s scrolling down, my eyes fix on a name, and I instantly put a hand on his shoulder. “Hold on. Open that one.” I point.

  “Okay.” He does.

  It’s a discussion about Tammy Maguire, one of the aliases for Penny Carlson / Sheryl Lansdowne that I turned up for Kez. That cannot be a coincidence. I feel my focus sharpen as I read what MalusNavis has posted. He was inquiring whether there had been any forward motion on the case. Someone broke it down and copied in the link to the felony warrant for her arrest. He didn’t comment after that. Not directly, not about Tammy Maguire.

  But he did post a general question, never answered, about someone else: Hannah Wheeler. I grab a pencil and write it down. I open my own laptop, log in to the office’s mainframe, and do a name search. Lots of Hannah Wheelers, but one’s listed as a missing person suspected in defrauding the elderly. I get a link to a story from a regional newspaper out of Georgia. It’s a few years old, but there’s a photo attached, a smiling candid picture of a young woman. She’s got short brown hair in this picture, carefully shaped eyebrows, dramatic makeup, but I recognize her anyway. “Sheryl Lansdowne,” I say. “AKA Penny Carlson. AKA Tammy Maguire. He was looking into her.”

  “You think he found her?”

  “I think he did more than that,” I say, and push back from my desk to face him. “Sam. Why would he switch from tracking her to focusing on us?”

  He’s silent for a few seconds, thinking, and then he shakes his head. He doesn’t know. Neither do I.

  And then I do, with breathtaking clarity. He saw me at the pond. He knows I’m looking into the case.

  This? This is all my fault.

  I can’t say that out loud, but down in my bones I feel that it’s true. Irrational, maybe. Paranoid, certainly. But true.

  Sam says, “I might know a guy who can shed some light. He’s . . . I can’t even call him problematic because that’s an understatement. But if anybody knows this MalusNavis guy, I’ll bet he does. But I need to talk to him face-to-face. He won’t do it on the phone, or any electronic device. And I can’t do it here, for obvious reasons.”

  “He’s from the Lost Angels boards?”

  He clearly doesn’t like telling me. “He’s a serious troll. I—let’s just say we had a business relationship a few years ago.” Meaning, Sam used him to get to me, in some way. He doesn’t want to say how. I don’t want to make him either. “Let me make a call.”

  “We should do this tomorrow.”

  “If you’re right, if this guy started attacking you and the kids because you got involved in Kez’s case . . . we can’t wait. We need to push hard. Now. Before things get any worse.”

  He’s right. I’m so tired I could cry, but he’s right. “Okay,” I say. “Sam? Is it safe to do this? I mean, safe for you?”

  He doesn’t hesitate this time. “I’ve met him a few times. Never had any trouble.” That doesn’
t answer my question, and we both know it.

  But this is a test too. A test of my ability to trust. And I have to say, “Okay,” and let him go. Because it’s his risk to take, not mine to prevent.

  He steps away for a couple of minutes, and comes back putting his phone in his pocket. “He’s willing to meet,” he says, “but not tomorrow. Has to be tonight. I need to go now. He’s not the kind of guy who waits.”

  “Sam—” I bite my lip to keep the rest of it in, and finally say, “Just be careful, okay? Write down where you’re going?”

  “I’ll text you when I get there,” he says. “But don’t follow me. And don’t do anything for at least an hour if I don’t answer a call or text. Okay? He likes to talk. And he likes phones to be silent while he does.”

  I just nod. It sounds to me like Sam is allowing this man to set all the terms, and I don’t like that at all.

  Trust me, his expression says.

  I hope mine says, I do.

  He kisses me, whispers that he loves me, and then he’s gone.

  12

  SAM

  I don’t want to do this, not on any level. Everything, everything, is shouting at me to turn the truck around as I drive away. I know I’m going to regret it—that’s not even a question.

  But sometimes you have to do the tough thing knowing it’s going to leave a scar.

  The instructions I’ve been given lead me to a barely operational motel on the outskirts of a rough part of K-ville; it’s one step away from rent-by-hour, and nothing’s ever looked more like a trap to me. This isn’t Dr. Dave’s normal routine. We’ve always met in public before . . . but then again, I haven’t met Dr. Dave in years, and that last time was only because it was necessary; I was already pulling away from the anti-Gwen crusade. Still a deeply unpleasant, disturbing memory.

  I know this will be worse.

  I sit for a minute, wondering whether I should do this at all, and then I text the motel address to Gwen. She texts back ILU.

  It means a lot in this moment that she does love me. It means even more that she trusts me to get this done for us. Letting go, stepping back . . . that’s something that takes one hell of a lot of courage for Gwen. And I can’t let her down.

  I text the burner number that Dr. Dave gave me: Here.

  I get a response that says, 4.

  I make sure my handgun is in place on my belt. I don’t want to need it, but I’d be an idiot not to come armed to this, and besides, he’ll know that I will. Dr. Dave is many things. He’s not stupid.

  Room 4 is at the far end of the first level, isolated. As I stand ready to knock, for a disorienting second I have a sense-memory of another motel like this. Gwen and I stayed in several while we searched for Melvin Royal. I blink and see Gwen coming out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower. That was the first time I knew, really knew, that I was completely in love with her. That moment is fixed in my mind, eternal and bright. We weren’t lovers then.

  But it was the start.

  I knock on the door, and the memory breaks apart under the hollow sound. I don’t hear footsteps, but the door swings open.

  Dr. David Merit smiles at me. Good-looking white guy, strong face, great teeth. He looks normal, and that’s the terrible thing about Dr. Dave. He’s a fairly prominent local dentist. His patients have absolutely no idea that the man they’re letting put his fingers in their mouths is a vicious, amoral, sociopathic troll. He likes to cloak himself as a “victim defender,” but—like many of the Lost Angels hangers-on—he really just likes any excuse to cause harm, and directing it at those the site identifies as abusers and predators and killers is perfect cover for a sadist.

  It is never a good idea to put yourself at Dr. Dave’s mercy. And I don’t. I stare him down, as emotionless against his false warmth as I can be, and I move my jacket so he sees the gun. “Just so we’re clear,” I say, “I don’t like this.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Sam.” He steps back to allow me in. The gun, as I expected, bothers him not one bit. I keep my gaze fixed on him, alert for anything that might tell me he’s about to shift his affable mask, but he just calmly closes the door and turns with his arms folded. Still smiling. “Been a while, buddy. But I understand why. Fucking the woman who fucked your sister’s killer must be one hell of a drug.” His opening shot, looking for a weak spot. It’s accurate, but I’m ready. He gets nothing but silence. After a long moment, he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Down to business. What do you want?”

  “Let’s talk terms first,” I say. “Because I’ve still got the recordings from three years ago. Before you try it, Tennessee is still a one-party consent state. You admitted to things that you really don’t want the public to hear. Or the cops.”

  “That again.” Dr. Dave waves it away like a bothersome black fly. “Lots of people say things. It’s another thing to prove I did any of it. You know that.”

  “I know your business depends on your reputation. And I’ve got your reputation by the balls.” I hate doing this so much. But dealing with Dr. Dave means staying in control, staying ahead, because he’s a hyena who’ll crush your bones and laugh while he’s doing it.

  “Okay,” he says. He’s still smiling. “What brings you here, this time of night? Because I’m guessing it has something to do with Gina Royal. It always does these days.”

  It’s so strange talking to him; my skin crawls every time I do it, because he sounds so normal. His patients love him. He’s got high marks on all the ratings sites. And he wouldn’t blink as he killed you, if it came to that. I don’t think Dave’s ever killed anyone, though he’s hurt plenty of people. He’s a controlled kind of sociopath, one who understands how to work within the rules, even if he can’t really, emotionally, comprehend why the rules are there.

  But I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley either. Bad enough meeting him in this isolated motel room.

  “MalusNavis,” I say. “He’s on the LA boards. You know him. You replied to him and gave him the wanted-poster template.”

  Dr. Dave’s smile gets wider. It makes him look a lot less normal. “And? It was a public service. That bitch has been left alone for a while. Time to heat things up, don’t you think?”

  “What do you know about MalusNavis?”

  “Not a lot, if you’re asking for personal details. But he’s . . . let’s say, exceptional. I’ve had some interesting private chats with him. His ideas are extraordinary.”

  I feel the hair raise on the back of my neck. I’ve seen what Dr. Dave posts in public. What he says in private chat must be unimaginably worse. “He give you any contact info? Any hint where he’s from? Anything?”

  “Not really. If I had to guess from his grammar and syntax, I’d say he’s college educated or very well read. He’s got money, that’s obvious from some of the discussion points; cost doesn’t seem to be an issue for him. And I think he’s from a coastal area.”

  “Why do you think so?” I ask.

  He sounds smug when he answers. “Why, Sam, I’m sure you’ll work that one out if you try hard enough. And you’re right not to sleep on this one. I’d place a nice-size bet that he’d very much like to do something nasty to your girl. Not see it done. Actually do it.”

  I flinch at the pleasure in that last part. “Anything else you know? Don’t hold out on me. You know there will be consequences if you do.” There have been. I’ve hurt him before. He needs to believe I’ll keep on doing it, or I’ll move from the predator to prey column.

  His smile disappears like it’s been wiped off a whiteboard. What’s left is only really human in its basic form and function. Dr. Dave doesn’t possess empathy, or if he does, it’s so stunted and malformed that it serves no real function beyond making him cautious. “He’s bad news,” he says. Quite a statement, given who I’m talking with. “Don’t take him lightly. He’s . . . dedicated. And she’s hardly his first project.”

  “Who else?”

  “Work that part out. You have the pieces. I put it together;
so can you if she hasn’t fucked your brains out.” The scorn he puts on she is obvious. Gwen is, to him, a thing. An object he would very much like to see hurt, just for the simple entertainment of it. I’m not sure he thinks of the kids as even that. They barely exist to him, except as tools to hit Gwen with.

  This bastard’s got children of his own. Three of them, according to his website. His wife is pretty, glossy, and I’m sure she’s absolutely terrified of him. But leaving him would probably be even worse for her. He doesn’t like losing to me, but he really doesn’t like women.

  “Spell it out for me,” I say. “Why did he look into Tammy Maguire?”

  “Because she’s easy pickings,” he says. “Why do you think?” He says it like it’s blindingly obvious; it isn’t to anyone but a true sociopath. From what Gwen’s told me, the woman she first knew of as Sheryl Lansdowne seems like a predator herself.

  A house cat is a predator, I realize. But it’s also prey to a pit bull.

  He seems impatient now. “It’s late. Are we square, Sam?”

  “No,” I say. “But I won’t be looking to hurt you unless you step out of line. Not just with me. With anyone. I mean it, Dave. Play nice.”

  “Of course,” he says, and there’s that smile again. “And you should also try being nicer. It’ll get you a lot further than your threats.”

  No, it won’t. Not with him. And we both know that.

  He opens the door and leaves. Before he closes it, he says, “I hacked your credit card, by the way. The room’s on you.”

  I don’t know if he actually did. His lies read as true, every time. I’ll just ask at the office on the way out.

  I need a long, hot, disinfecting shower. Instead, I check the room for any nasty surprises, and he doesn’t disappoint me. Tucked under the bed is a thick stack of horrific child pornography—movies, crudely printed magazines, photos. It’s deeply disturbing stuff. Christ. Even in this place, they’d call the cops on that. And of course he’d put the room in my name.