by A. S. French
‘You’re wrong on both counts, Detective.’
She waited for him to ask why, but it was Campbell who spoke first.
‘Why do you say that, Astrid?’
She liked the way her name sounded on Campbell’s lips, but she also noticed Moore’s grimace.
‘The paper wasn’t stuffed into their mouths for some serial killer to get their kicks. I think the victims were trying to hide the numbers or swallow them.’
‘Why would they do that?’ Moore crossed his arms.
‘I’m guessing they lead back to whoever killed them,’ Astrid replied.
‘But they’re not part of a phone number?’ Campbell said.
Astrid smiled at Moore. ‘Can I borrow your computer?’
He got out of his chair. ‘Be my guest.’
Astrid went to the other side of the desk while they watched what she was doing. She brought up the web browser and opened another tab away from the county police force’s website. She cleared the address and typed in the numbers from memory. It came back as page not found. Then she switched the two groups of four around and retried again. She got the same results: page not found. She tried every combination, but ended up with dead pages each time.
She grabbed a pen from Moore’s desk and used the end to poke at her palm.
Moore seemed perturbed by her action.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I was sure those numbers were a website address.’
Campbell put her fingers on to Astrid’s hand and took the pen from her. ‘I thought web addresses were all www this or www another.’
Astrid twisted her head to smile at her. ‘No, that’s just what the numbers are converted into to make it easier for the public to use. The URLs contain ten numbers.’
Moore raised his eyebrows at her. ‘URLs?’
Astrid gazed at the screen. ‘Universal Resource Locators.’
She crunched the front part of her brain until a memory returned of her father beating her one night after he’d found her diary and discovered what she’d written about him. The pain of the image was terrible, but it ignited a flashbulb in her head. She’d continued writing in her diary, but to stop him from reading it, she’d invented her own code. Not that complex, but enough to fool him.
Cyphers and maps had always fascinated her, to the point she’d started creating her own regularly; she’d used the codes to keep certain things secret from adults and her sister. The maps had been her way of coping with emotional problems; she’d used them as plans for her escape to a better life. Nowadays, she created maps in her head as a way of solving complex problems. This was now second nature to her, so much so she devised a new one using the figures she’d memorised until she hit on a solution.
She tried the numbers again, but this time in combinations of reverse order. She got the right one on the fourth attempt.
Moore and Campbell gasped at the sight. Astrid accepted it as inevitable when the website popped up. Someone selling people online like they were cheap shoes or dishcloths was nothing new to her.
Moore turned the screen towards him. ‘It’s a human trafficking site.’
Astrid wondered how long she had left in the town. She got up as Moore flicked through the pages, not envying him the sights he was about to see.
She looked at Campbell.
‘You should contact your local FBI office to deal with this.’
I’ve done my part now. That website will link to Caitlin’s killers.
Moore gritted his teeth, an audible sound which hurt her ears.
‘But why would they kill Caitlin Cruz and her kids?’
Astrid shrugged. ‘Ask the people behind the website when you find them.’
She was heading for the door as Moore’s phone rang. Her hand was on the handle of the exit when he shouted to her.
‘I need your help, Snow.’ She didn’t know whether to be flattered or worried, considering he’d said it in front of his colleagues. Most of them pretended not to notice, but she felt their eyes burrowing into her.
Astrid waited for the inevitable.
‘There’s been another murder.’
It was two murders, and it took them twenty-five minutes to get to the crime scene. She travelled with Moore, resisting the temptation of sitting next to Campbell in the other car. They spent most of the journey in silence. The Detective’s gaze focused on the road while Astrid scrutinised the surroundings.
Bakerstown looked like a sleepy, slightly eccentric country place where nothing much happened. Problems were mild and manageable, and conflicts solved through neighbourliness and the application of common sense.
But as idyllic as it seemed, she guessed there would be darkness in a town like this. Wherever you found people, you’d get sin and failing. Moore’s faith in his fellow humans in Bakerstown was admirable, but she recognised it was misguided.
She studied his face as he drove, understanding that if anyone knew where this town’s failings were located, it was likely to be him. His gaze peered through the glass in front of him, and she would have sworn he’d aged rapidly since their first meeting. Dark brown eyes filled with obvious pain and hidden trauma glistened in the light. But then, she didn’t feel too good herself.
I should get him to drop me at the bus station. Nothing is keeping me here now.
But her memories of that night were incomplete, and if she couldn’t resurrect them, they’d keep on haunting her, regardless of where she went.
Astrid broke the silence. ‘Are you allowed to take me to a crime scene?’
‘You’re aiding with an investigation; that’s all anyone needs to know.’
His New York accent told her he wasn’t originally from the town. Now they were alone, his speech was slower than before, the words slipping from his mouth at a languid pace. They arrived and met Campbell. Astrid gazed at her, still surprised she didn’t know her first name.
Don’t kid yourself. You don’t want to know because you’re leaving here soon, and it’s best not to get too attached.
She thought of this as she checked the area, wondering why there weren’t more vehicles apart from theirs and one other police car. Then she remembered what Campbell had told her about the limited police resources.
Now all three of them and the one-horse town’s only forensic guy stood inside a cabin on the outskirts. Only the forensic guy was a woman, and Astrid was happy about that for more than one reason. Her name was Alice Graves, which seemed highly appropriate to Astrid.
Graves sounded tired when she spoke.
‘We’ve got a male and female bludgeoned to death about eight hours ago with a yet undiscovered weapon.’ She glanced at Astrid, but didn’t ask what the stranger was doing there.
Astrid knelt to look closer. Moore had given her some forensic gloves, but she had no desire to touch anything. The two bodies lay close together, hands outstretched to reach each other, but failing by a few inches. The killer had smashed their fingers into blood and pulp, a destruction that matched what was left of both their heads, which appeared to have taken a bath in a heavy dose of sulfuric acid. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.
Campbell stood next to Astrid. ‘It looks like someone tried to cover up their identities.’
Astrid turned to Moore. ‘Do you know who lived here?’
He got out his cell and dialled a number which she assumed was the police station. She was still annoyed she didn’t have her phone.
He was on his cell for two minutes. In that time, she scanned the cabin and the immediate exterior. The place stood on its own, with no other residences in sight. Trees surrounded it, and she guessed its owners used it for tourists and holidaymakers.
When she returned inside, he’d finished the call and confirmed her thoughts.
‘This is a holiday home and nobody has rented it for six months.’
‘Who owns it?’ She stared at the bodies again, her eyes fixed on those hands, reaching out to each other but not getting there.
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Moore put his phone away. ‘No need to check for that information. That would be Benedict Sawyer.’
‘Old man Sawyer?’ Astrid said.
‘You know him?’ Moore replied.
‘We saw the twins earlier,’ Campbell added.
Astrid turned to Alice Graves. ‘This is the work of the same killer or killers from the Cruz murders?’
Her skin was soft and pale, with a layer of freckles under both eyes. Those eyes sparkled with intelligence as Graves brushed a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, touching her high cheekbones as she did. Her lips glistened as she spoke.
‘Either that or it’s a very skilled copycat.’
Astrid stared at what remained of the victims’ faces. ‘Did you find anything unusual in their mouths?’
‘Only smashed teeth and blood.’
Campbell and Moore checked the cabin. Astrid addressed the Detective when they’d finished.
‘Have you found any clues?’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
She took one last look at the bloodied things that used to be people on the floor.
‘Then we must wait until you hear from the FBI about that website.’
‘We?’ Moore looked at her curiously.
‘Unless you want me to leave?’
The Detective scowled. ‘No, Ms Snow; I think I’ll need all the help I can get.’
She couldn’t tell if that was sarcasm or not. Astrid turned to Campbell.
‘Then the only thing to work out is where I’m going to stay, because I can’t stomach another night in that hotel. What do you say, Officer Campbell?’
I don’t even know her first name.
Moore slapped Astrid on the back. ‘I doubt Campbell’s husband will take kindly to having a limey Brit in the house with them; he’s not a big fan of foreigners, is he, Eleanor?’
Astrid stared at Officer Eleanor Campbell, watching the fear in her eyes.
‘What?’ she said.
‘You can sleep on my couch, Snow,’ Moore said. ‘And I might even cook you my famous spaghetti sauce.’
Astrid stumbled out of the cabin and lost her appetite.
7 Life Goes On
Moore’s place was on the other side of town, and it took an hour to get there once they’d picked up Astrid’s rucksack from the fleabag hotel. He’d given Campbell the job of checking to see if anyone had booked into the cabin recently, and she’d left sharpish before Astrid could talk to her. She couldn’t remove the image from her head that Campbell was married, racking her brain to remember if she’d seen any signs at the apartment. There were no photos of a husband and no evidence of anybody else living there. It was a curious thing, but she dismissed it as soon as they got into the drive, thinking it more prudent to learn something about the man she’d be staying with.
‘Are you a local to Bakerstown, Detective?’
‘I relocated here five years ago from Washington, but I’m from New York.’ He scrutinised Astrid through the mirror. ‘I hear you were there recently.’
She glanced at the town as they moved through it. The buildings were a mix and match of different styles: shops which appeared to have been built not long after the Civil War, large and small houses, schools surrounded by giant metal fences, with a hydrant on every street corner. They drove through a market with the potent smells of fresh vegetables and a world of spices drifting through the car window.
‘Have you been checking up on me, Detective?’
He stopped at a red light. ‘You can call me Jim, and I’ll address you as Astrid, is that okay?’
‘That’s fine by me, Jim. So, did you dredge through my past when I was a suspect in the Cruz murders?’
The slight rise in the corner of his mouth transformed into a smirk. ‘What makes you think you’re still not a suspect?’
The pain returned to her ribs as she laughed. ‘Is that why you’re not letting me out of your sight?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Didn’t my former employers convince yours of my innocence?’
‘I don’t know what was said between them, but I saw some of your Agency service record.’
‘I must apologise then.’
‘What for?’
‘For your future nightmares.’
He tapped his finger on the steering wheel and gazed at the traffic light holding them up.
‘Far from it; it was an impressive résumé.’
She focused on his face and wondered why he didn’t look at her while the car was stationary.
‘So, are you going to tell me what you know?’
The light changed to green, and Moore set off.
‘About you? We had enough to hold you for the Cruz murders, with the witnesses, fingerprints at the scene and your passport found on Caitlin with your blood on it. Yet, we were told to let you go. That instruction came from the highest office in the country. So I did a little digging on you.’
‘I hope you had a big spade.’
She watched him fight against it, yet he couldn’t help but laugh.
‘I called in a lot of favours to find out you’re some British spy, and our government is keen to keep your employers happy.’
‘Do you believe I killed the Cruz family?’
His grin disappeared as quickly as it had come. ‘If I did, you wouldn’t be with me now. Even I can spot a frame-up when I see it.’
‘So, why am I with you?’
‘Because I think you know things about that night that you haven’t told me.’
‘You believe I’ve lied to you?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. It could be you’ve forgotten some of what happened, possibly through drinking too much and the beating you took.’ He gave her a long, hard look. ‘And I’m hoping those memories will return to you sooner rather than later.’
She thought about that as he switched on the radio, finding a country music station he turned up to full blast. There weren’t many musical genres Astrid didn’t like, but that was one of them. She gritted her teeth through torturous tales about cheating husbands and tearful wives until they arrived at his place.
They stepped out of the car into a wide street bordered on each side by apartments and small houses. Trees and bushes lined the road; the silence surprised her. She expected dogs or kids to be running everywhere, but there was no one around except them. He led her between stone benches to a smart-looking residence.
Once they got inside, he gave her a tour: a compact kitchen, even smaller shower, single bedroom and a living room. The TV was so small she thought it was a leftover from the 1980s, while plastic flying ducks and a single picture of Elvis in his Vegas tassels costume decorated the walls. It was the last thing she would have expected from him.
She settled into the sofa. ‘You left Washington for this?’
He spoke as he went into the kitchen. ‘I needed a change of pace. And, contrary to what’s happened to you in the last twenty-four hours, Bakerstown is a good place.’
‘What attracted you to this town?’
He returned with two empty glasses. ‘My mother’s maiden name was Baker, so I thought I might as well see what it’s like.’
‘And what’s your conclusion?’
‘It’s as good a place as any, I suppose.’ He picked up a photo frame from the sideboard, a picture of him and a woman smiling at the Grand Canyon. There was a glimpse of the vastness of nature behind them, but the thing which struck her most was how happy they looked. ‘As good a place as any to start a new life.’
‘I guess there are plenty like this all over the country, small towns where the majority try to get on with everyone else.’
‘True, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made to keep others safe.’
‘Of course; that’s what made you an Officer of the Law, that ability to put yourself on the line, to put your body in harm’s way, to protect those around you.’
‘Protect and serve,’ he said as he placed the photo down. ‘Is that what you did in
Britain?’
‘Most of the time. There are things I’ve done which I’m not proud of, but I suppose most people could say the same thing.’
‘You were good at what you did?’
‘I like to think so.’
She watched him scrutinise her. ‘Are you allowed to talk about any of it?’
‘Sure, but I’d have to kill you after.’
He laughed out loud. ‘I’ll risk it. Tell me something interesting about what you did as a British spy.’
‘First off, I wasn’t a spy. I was a problem solver.’
‘A human-computer?’
It was her turn to laugh. ‘Not quite. In these days of mass media information overload, some people crave simple solutions to the world’s problems; unfortunately, there aren’t many. This creates a perfect opportunity for opportunists to jump in and point the finger of blame at others and mislead with a few slogans. It’s easy to do when the mainstream news has been dumbing down for decades, reducing complex situations to sensational headlines with little depth or nuance behind them. And the multitude of disinformation and outright lies on the internet, often from elected officials, only makes things worse.’
‘I wouldn’t disagree with that, but you said you were a problem solver.’
Astrid took a long look at Moore and told him something she’d told no one outside of the Agency.
‘I worked an assignment once in a country holding an election in which a corrupt president was standing for re-election. He was a crooked businessman who had raided the central bank, installed his family to senior positions in his government, paid no tax and allowed his cronies to avoid it, and wouldn’t tolerate anything but uncritical praise from the media. His primary tactic to get re-elected was to have members of his party ride around towns and villages, offering bribes from the money he’d stolen from the bank to anyone who voted for him. The ploy worked, and he won by a landslide.
‘Do you think his supporters deserved to win, and people were right to back him because they had more than they did before voting for him? Or were they idiots being bribed with their own money to vote for a gangster?’