Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake)

by Rachel Caine

  The hill slopes down. The road curls through dark trees and not a lot else, and then we emerge into full spring sun. The meandering rough track meets a positively spacious blacktop farm-to-market road. I turn south. It leads me past fields and distant farmhouses, and then a couple of businesses. I slow down and check the map, and yep, I’m nearly to the end of Gwen’s track. Right on target.

  I stop at the first business—a gas station—and buy a soda. Once the elderly black proprietor makes it to the register, we do some friendly chatting about nothing in particular. When I show him my badge and ask kindly to take a look at his camera recordings, he looks crestfallen. “Ma’am, I’d be glad to help you out if those cameras were real. They ain’t. Just there for show. I can’t afford the real stuff.”

  “What if you get robbed?”

  He shrugs. “Get kids in here all the damn time,” he says. “Mostly polite since I know all their mommas. No black boys robbing me out here. Only white tweakers, time to time.”

  “Okay. Here’s my card, you call me if you get in trouble,” I tell him, and slide it over. He nods and pockets it. “You recall anybody coming by here early morning on Monday, maybe? What time you open up?”

  “Five,” he says. “But Mondays I stock shelves ’round three thirty or four. And I live right upstairs.” I’d suspected that, since it was a two-story building. “Cars don’t usually come by here that early, but I saw one that day.”

  “What kind?”

  “Some kind of big black SUV. Sorry, I don’t know nothing else. Didn’t see the driver, and it didn’t stop in, since I didn’t have the lights on. Just kept on going.”

  “Heading where?”

  He points wordlessly in the same direction as the rest of the map track. I nod and thank him and add a couple of bottles of water, snacks, dog treats, and a shallow plastic bowl from the shelves. I don’t intend to be gone so long, but this place looks like it could use the money. I pay and go, putting all that in the trunk except the soda for me, water for Boot, and the doggie bowl. I fill it halfway with water for him on the ground and let him out; he makes straight for it and sloppily drinks, then noses around excitedly and leaves a few territorial squirts. When I whistle him back, he comes at a run. I toss the rest of the water, and we’re back on the road.

  Two miles down I approach the distant, sedate traffic of the freeway. There’s nothing between the small convenience store and here except a broken-down old car repair shop that’s been boarded up for a while, and a shiny new truck stop right close to the intersection. When I check the map, the truck stop is where the GPS track ends.

  This is where my man stopped and got rid of his phone, or at least took out the SIM card. I feel my pulse quicken. If he stopped, could be that he needed gas; no reason he would have chosen a busy location like this otherwise if he was up to no good. And I know from experience that this is a gas desert for about a hundred miles in either direction, so he’d have to get it here.

  I fill up myself and head inside. The place is in a lull just now, but there are probably half a dozen truckers and a few civilians shopping the snacks and drinks. More lined up at the Arby’s counter in the back. I go straight to the register, pay for the gas, and ask for the manager.

  He’s a slender Asian man in his midthirties, and he seems pretty cooperative when I show him my badge and tell him I’m just looking for a quick peek at his surveillance. He clearly knows the value of keeping in the good books. So he leads me to the back.

  They have a pretty elaborate setup—no fewer than seven cameras outside covering the pumps and the building’s exterior, plus more for the inside of the shop. I doubt my guy would have come inside. Not worth the risk. So I focus on the gas pumps around the time the phone signal was lost.

  And I get him. I get him. I feel my heartbeat jump into a race, and I lean forward, intent on the black SUV that’s gliding into a spot on the very far pump at the end of the lot. He stayed as distant as possible from the cameras. I’m not sure if the resolution is good enough to get us a plate; it looks to me like he’s deliberately dirtied up the front and, likely, the rear to obscure details like that. But there he is: your average white male, features not distinct, wearing a baseball cap with no logo I can see, jeans, a checked shirt.

  Then I lean forward, because a movement in the vehicle has caught my eye.

  There’s someone in the passenger seat. I can’t see clearly . . . and then the passenger door opens, and someone gets out.

  Goddamn. It’s Sheryl Lansdowne. And she’s not in distress. She’s not tied up in the back of that SUV—she’s on her own two feet, calm as you please. I see her toss something in the garbage can that sits on the island beside the gas pump, and I hit pause. I don’t know if the FBI can work with this, but it’s possible. Very possible.

  I turn to the manager and say, “How often do you empty those garbage cans out on the pumps?”

  “Every couple of days.”

  “Any chance you haven’t gotten to that one yet?” I point.

  He leans over to look and shrugs. “Maybe? Depends how full it is.”

  “Then go pull that bag right now, tie it up, and set it aside. Do not let anyone touch it. I’ll have someone from either the TBI or FBI come get it. They’ll want to go through everything. Keep this footage. Mark it and show it to whoever comes.” I turn back to the screen and scrub through. Sheryl finishes her little walk-around and gets back in the car. The man uses a credit card at the pump, so I tell the manager to pull those records and get them ready as well.

  I watch the screen. The SUV pulls away, makes a broad circle, and exits the lot. It’s a stretch, but I think I can see it turn the corner on the farm-to-market road and head toward the freeway.

  I roll it back to when the SUV comes into view. “Tell them to watch from there,” I say. “Thank you. You’re doing a real good thing, sir. Guard this with your life. It’s important.”

  He nods. He seems unsure and pale, but steady enough.

  I call the TBI on my way out of the truck stop and tell them what I’ve found. The agent who takes my call sounds impatient at first, then intrigued, then downright eager.

  I make sure the manager collects the trash, and then I head over to the car. Boot’s fallen asleep in the back, but he wakes as soon as I open the door. “Hey, boy,” I tell him, and he licks my face. “Stop that. We’re fine. It’s fine.”

  I’m putting the car in drive when I see it.

  A pristine black SUV. Dirty plates. It’s idling at the edge of the parking lot.

  “That’s impossible,” I say. “Can’t be.” I seriously have to think about my sanity for a second, because I have to be seeing things. Or it has to be a completely different vehicle. SUVs out here are a dime a hundred, never mind a dozen. Odds ninety to one that it’s some suburban family headed out on vacation, and not . . . not what I think.

  I roll the sedan slowly toward the SUV.

  It backs up and speeds away.

  “Goddamn.”

  I hit the gas, fumbling for my phone as I take the curve and accelerate. He’s already hitting the on-ramp to the freeway. Hell of an engine in that thing, and my detective’s sedan isn’t built for high-speed pursuit. I voice-dial TBI again. I tell the agent I’m in pursuit of a black SUV suspected in the Lansdowne case. I try to catch up to get part of the plate, but he slips away before I can make it out; he’s put some kind of blurring filter over it. Illegal, but few probably even notice under the mud.

  There’s enough traffic on the road that I have to concentrate hard on the driving; I flip on the bumper flashers and hit the siren for good measure, and most people give way. A semitruck blocks my view of the SUV for a few critical seconds, and when I blast past it, I see the vehicle just ahead, already on an off-ramp. No way I can slow and make that turn. I yell the exit number into the phone and put my foot to the floor, heading for the next exit a mile away. I make a U-turn, and head back as fast as my car will go.

  He’s picked the wrong damn o
ff-ramp, I think. A fierce hunter’s instinct hammers my heart faster. I know this area; nothing out here but roads and fields and trees, and no real turnoffs to speak of for miles. The road goes two ways from the freeway—north and south. I turn north because I see fresh black tire marks that direction; he left rubber. The road takes me into trees fast, and I tell the TBI agent what road I’m on when the sign flashes past, a barely readable blur. I can’t see the SUV. The road’s empty, but it turns sharply just up ahead. I can’t let him slip me.

  I’m in the middle of the sharp curve when shit goes wrong. I don’t see the spike strip, but I feel it when I hit it, when the car lurches and the wheel whips hard in my hands, hard enough to burn, and the world spins, glass cracking, metal crunching. Boot yelping.

  I manage to keep us from turning over, but the sedan spins off the road and hits a tree in the left quarter panel with the force of a pile driver. Airbags flash, and I snort blood and taste acrid powder.

  I’m trying to blink back stars and get it together. Boot is barking, a raw and constant sound of alarm, and I hear his claws tearing at upholstery as he tries to reach me. I drag in a shockingly painful breath—something stabbing deep, probably a rib—and I manage to say, “Hey, boy, hey, it’s okay, I’m okay.” In the next second, I panic. My baby. No no no, not like this, no . . . I’m shaking. Gasping. Horrified and scared to death, not for me but for the child I’ve barely begun to meet. Oh God, God no.

  Boot tries to stick his head between the seats—the gap is narrow, the frame’s bent—and frantically licks the only part of me he can reach. My hand. I look down and see the blood drops on it shimmering like rubies. Can feel the bloody nose now, aching like a day-long sunburn. I caught a good one from the airbags, but they kept me—us—from getting slammed around too badly. Maybe I’m okay. Maybe the baby’s fine.

  I don’t think I’m okay. I need help.

  The windshield is an opaque mess of cracks. Can’t see a thing. Somehow, the car landed on its tires, but it’s tilting badly to the right.

  I fumble around for my phone, then remember I slotted it into the cradle on the dash. The whole cradle’s gone. I try to bend across to grab it when I spot it wedged half-under the passenger seat, and have to pause and gasp against the pain, and once again, terror jolts through me. Stay with me, baby. Stay with me. My fingers graze plastic, and I manage to hook the cradle and get it onto the seat. My phone’s screen is cracked, but it lights up when I tap it. Thank you, Lord. I dial 911.

  My head is hurting, and when I reach up to touch the left side, I find blood. That explains some of the mist that keeps fogging up my brain. I grab the phone and push my door open—it’s cranky, but not jammed—and fresh, cool air floods over me and helps me focus. I experiment with standing up, one hand gripping the frame of the door. It hurts, but I manage. I look through the back window. Boot seems all right—he’s barking and whining and scratching at the door. “Just a minute,” I whisper to him. “Hang on.” I don’t know if I’m really talking to him, or myself, or the baby. Maybe all of us.

  That’s when I see the black SUV.

  It’s idling near the next curve, maybe a quarter mile out. Just sitting there. I try to get a picture of it, but it’s already in motion when I snap the shutter; I don’t know if I got anything useful. Dammit. I’m suddenly shaking with fury, and for a half a second I even think about chasing it down on goddamn foot, but then sense comes back. Fear. The baby, helpless and dependent on me not being stupid. I just cling to the door and try to stay upright. I’m tired. So tired.

  I’ve forgotten that I dialed the phone, so it’s a little surprise to hear a scratchy voice coming from somewhere near my right hand. I lift it, stare at the active call in confusion, then lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  “This is the 911 operator. What is your emergency?” She sounds cool and calm as the fresh air. I scramble to get my thoughts together.

  “This is Detective Kezia Claremont,” I say. At least I remember my damn name. “I’ve been in a serious accident.” I sound pretty good, I think. Until suddenly my knees give way without any warning, and thank God I have hold of that door, because it slows my fall into more of a kneel. It hurts. Everything hurts. “I need help. I’m pregnant. Please send somebody. Leaving phone on.” That’s all I can manage to say. I put my arms on the driver’s seat, rest my head on them, and slide away into the dark with only Boot’s frantic whines for company, and the voice of the 911 operator as distant as the stars as they whirl me away.

  15

  GWEN

  I’m boiling with frustration on the ride home, and the letter from MalusNavis burns in my pocket like an ember. I call Kez but get her voice mail, and I leave her a message to call me. I find myself reading the letter again. You have a chance to save the lives of the people you love, but that’s going to be your choice, not mine.

  I don’t know what he means, but I know he’s talking about Sam. Lanny. Connor. Even Vee. I call home. I can’t do anything else. And I’m relieved when the phone is answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, Ms. P.,” Vee says. “Good news. Ain’t had to shoot nobody yet.” She sounds ghoulishly cheerful.

  “This isn’t a game, Vee,” I snap. “You understand?”

  “Yes ma’am.” Her tone goes instantly cooler. “Ain’t like I’m stupid. I get it. I just thought you’d like to know everything was all right. We just ate some lunch. Sam sure does make a mean chili. Saved some for you, I think.”

  I let out a slow breath and try again. “I didn’t think you’d stick around, Vee.”

  “It’s my day off. I get to do what I want.”

  “Can I please talk to Sam?”

  She yells his name so loud that I have to pull the phone away. I’m sure the ride-share driver can hear it, but luckily, he’s not the chatty type. While I’m waiting for Sam to get to the phone, I run down the mistakes I’ve made. I’ll be on the exit video for the store, but I was moving fast, and I wasn’t facing the camera; if I’m lucky, I can get to the cloud data storage for the mail center and delete that footage. Can’t do anything at all about other surveillance cameras on the street, though, and I surely attracted notice chasing after Len. I walked a long way before I called a ride-share, so hopefully that puts me well out of any search circle . . . but all in all, I know I got lucky. Len doesn’t seem like he’s going to call in a complaint, and the mail clerk will want to keep things low key. The manager might kick up a fuss, once he realizes he’s got a blank piece of paper and a fake phone number. Hard to know.

  Right now, my best defense, if the police come asking questions, is to just face it down and lie. They won’t like it, but with the fake badge gone, and the warrant deleted from my computer and search history, they won’t waste their time trying to prove it.

  Unless something else comes up that’s a bigger problem. Like Len turning up dead.

  “Hey,” Sam says, and I relax a little. Didn’t even realize I was tense. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” I say. I don’t want to tell him about the risks I took. “I have some video of the guy who mailed the package, but . . . turns out he was paid to do it, and I don’t really have much of a lead on the one who hired him. Got a credit card that Kez may be interested in, though.”

  “As long as you’re all right. We’re fine here. Lanny’s agitating to get out of the house, but I’m making her finish her English class reading first.”

  “English isn’t the problem. Make sure she’s done the math. She always leaves it for last.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got my hands full making sure that she and Vee don’t decide to sneak off somewhere, but thanks for the advice.” He sounds mostly amused, thankfully. “Connor’s fine. He’s already finished with classwork, so he’s taking a nap.”

  It all sounds so lovely and normal, and I hate to break that illusion, but I need him on guard. “Sam? The guy I talked to had another letter to deliver. I have it.”

  His tone shifts, goes lower and darker. “And it’
s not good. Right?”

  “It’s not. We need to find this troll. I don’t know how he got his hands on Melvin’s letter, but . . . maybe that’s a way to track him, somehow. Melvin didn’t give it to him. He took it from someone.”

  “How can you be sure he wasn’t one of Melvin’s little helpers?” Melvin had assembled a sickening little cadre of fans, no doubt. Some of them had been willing to smuggle out letters for him, aimed like poisoned arrows at me.

  “I just know,” I tell him. “Everything he says points to seeing himself as some sort of . . . white knight. He may be on the dark side, but he sure thinks he’s the hero. Hey. He talked to a fair number of people on the Lost Angels forums. Any chance he might have also been talking to people on the boards where Melvin’s fans like to lurk?”

  “Maybe. Want me to check?”

  “No,” I tell him. “I will.” I don’t want Sam to have to dig through that filth. People who worship Melvin Royal are in many ways worse than the ones who hate him. The things they say about the victims . . . no, I don’t want him to have to experience that. If our troll—MalusNavis, whatever he’s calling himself—is there, I’ll spot him even under another name. The one thing he can’t seem to change is how he writes.

  Or maybe that’s another puzzle designed for me to put together. He seems to like to have me following his clues. I wish I could see another way past this, but . . . I can’t.

  I sit tense and silent the rest of the ride until I’m dropped at my house.

  Sam’s putting his keys in the tray on the table, and I can’t help but notice that he’s wearing his gun on his belt. He looks down at it, noticing my glance, and unclips it. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I’m a little jumpy. I’ll put it away.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I took Vee home. She said she wanted to change clothes. I’ll pick her up later.”