Where the Lost Girls Go

by R. J. Noonan

  I awoke Thursday morning to a string of text messages from Natalie. The first one was a link with the message “Aired on eleven o’clock news.” Rolling over in bed, I clicked on the link to the studio segment with the anchor Don Juan at the news desk. Behind him a map of Stafford Woods was projected with the caption “Forest Prince Wanted for Questioning.”

  “Sunrise Lake Police announced today that the head of the cult of runaways living in Stafford Woods is wanted for questioning regarding the murder of fifteen-year-old Kyra Miller.” Don’s voice hinted at intrigue. “You might remember, Miller was the victim of a crash earlier this week on Fir Ridge Road. Anyone with information on the whereabouts of the Prince, also known as Emory Vandenbos, is asked to contact the Sunrise Lake Police Department.”

  “Yes.” I responded with “Perfect!”

  Her second text said that she was going to push hard for an interview with the Prince, telling him it would be an opportunity to clear his name. I thanked her and rolled out of bed.

  At the precinct, Z and I updated Omak on our interviews the night before.

  “I’ve spoken with Claudia, and we’re going to release Andy Greenleaf. That leaves us investigating Lucy Jameson, the Prince, and the Jamesons, who have been obstructing our investigation and hiding their daughter’s connection to a murder. By the way, good job getting the word out on Emory Vandenbos. We’ve gotten three calls this morning. No leads, but people are concerned.”

  “Natalie is trying to follow up with an interview with the Prince. If anyone can crack that reclusive weirdo, it’s Natalie.”

  “It may be easier getting to the Prince than to Lucy. Kent Jameson called Chief Cribben this morning and asked that we give his daughter some time to readjust to being home again.”

  “We need to talk to her now,” I said. “There’s nothing to stop her from running off or returning to the woods.”

  “The chief was adamant about it. We need to stay away until I can get this straightened out.”

  “I’ve never seen Cribben so eager to get his finger in the pie,” sneered Z.

  “I’m working on the chief.” Omak looked around to be sure no one was paying attention. “I hate to go above his head, but I will if I have to. In the meantime, stay away from the Jameson ranch for now.”

  “You might as well handcuff us,” Z complained. “This is no way to handle an investigation.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Frazier.”

  * * *

  Z was steaming mad.

  “I’m sure Omak will work it out,” I said. “In the meantime, let’s do some more digging. See what else we can find on the Prince. Or on the Jamesons. Was Martha really a nurse? Has Lucy been in therapy? Maybe she’s on heavy medication.”

  “Lot of that information is confidential.”

  “Since when has that stopped you?” I said.

  “It’s the same old story with Crappin’. One step up and two steps back.”

  “Are you talking about the suit you filed against him?”

  His dark eyes slanted over toward me, though he didn’t lift his head. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Just saying, if you ever . . .”

  “I won’t. But thanks, Dr. Oz.” Z logged onto his computer. “All right. I’ll start with the Prince, you do the Jamesons.”

  “I’ll get on it as soon as I get back.”

  “Where the hell you going?”

  “The hospital. I need to check up on Ellie Watson and meet the social worker who’s taking her case. Smooth things over for the girl.”

  Z thumped his chest with a fist. “I feel for the girl, but isn’t that what the social workers are for?”

  “Ellie is thirteen, separated from her sister for the first time ever with a leukemia diagnosis. I think the kid could use a little support.”

  “You’ll never last around here, Mori. You’re way too nice.”

  I smiled as I slid my arms into the sleeves of my patrol jacket. “Thanks, Z.”

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the morning trying to advocate for Ellie Watson.

  “In cases like this, we usually send the child back to her state of origin,” said Alma Hernandez, the social worker assigned to the case. The Latina woman with long, dark hair had a no-nonsense manner and a cheerful lilt to her voice. I suspected she was in her forties, but she seemed younger, maybe due to the row of half a dozen diamond studs lining the shell of one ear. They sparkled when she moved. “We’re supposed to send Ellie back to Wyoming and let the social workers there sort out her situation.”

  “But that would devastate her right now,” I said. “It would destroy her spirit to leave her sister behind.” We sat in brightly upholstered chairs in the waiting room of the pediatric ward. “Her health is already compromised. We can’t do that to her.”

  “I’m not planning to do that, okay, honey? I’m just telling you what the procedure is. We’re going to fight it, but it won’t be easy. Mostly because of her medical costs. The state of Oregon doesn’t want to take something like that on. No state would. We’ve got to get this girl on Medicaid, but she needs an address and a placement before we can start all that. Right now this little girl is in no-man’s-land. But we really have no choice. We don’t know where her father is, and the mother is in jail for selling drugs. I was told that four other children were removed from the home when the mother and her husband went to jail. Some hers, some his. No other family members came forward to care for them. I don’t know; maybe there’s no family. All I know is, this girl has nothing good waiting for her back in Wyoming.”

  “But she does have a sister here,” I said. “Morgan Watson.”

  “And maybe we can save two girls with one generous foster family.” Alma had pulled Morgan’s records and learned that she was seventeen. “The sister may be her only family member who isn’t incarcerated. I’m hoping that we can find this girl, and maybe the two sisters could be placed together. Down the road, once the older girl turns eighteen or nineteen, maybe she’ll get a job and a way to support her younger sister. Or we might find a family to support the girl while she goes to college. That would be our goal.”

  Alma left me with a promise to work things out for Ellie. I was on my way down the hall to Ellie’s room when Z called.

  “We got an invitation to the Jameson ranch,” he said.

  “Omak convinced the chief?”

  “No, but Martha Jameson called here and asked for you by name. She has something private she wants to discuss. I told her we’d be there at one.”

  “I wonder if her husband knows she invited us over.”

  “Who cares? We got a foot in the door.”

  24

  Now that Z and I had permission to be on the Jamesons’ estate—sort of—we decided to go over early and scope out the trails into the woods. Lucy seemed to be coming and going easily between the camp and the house; was the camp closer than we thought, right under our noses?

  “I have to take another look, this time with the camp in mind,” I told Z. I was glad when he insisted on going with me, since I did not do well with solitude in the forest.

  As Z turned off Fir Ridge Road, I noticed a van headed our way up ahead. “Hey, isn’t that the channel seven van?” I asked. “It is. There’s Natalie.” She waved from the passenger seat and motioned to the side of the road. “Pull over a second.”

  “What? Girl talk?” Z teased as he pulled onto the shoulder.

  “Business. I showed you the piece she got on the news last night. She’s been trying to interview the Prince.”

  I was about to get out of the car but she came around to the shoulder and leaned in my window.

  “Oh, my God, I was going to call you. You’ll never believe.” Her blue eyes sparkled and her face was flushed with excitement. “Hi, Z.” She leaned in farther, smiling flirtatiously.

  “Wassup, girl.”

  The spark between them was unmistakable. “Did you reach him?” I asked Nat.


  “I got to meet him! This morning one of the ranch workers led us into the camp, and my cameraman and I met the Prince in person. He talked with us for a while and actually let us film the camp. We got video of their setup and the girls.”

  “Really?” I turned to Z. “Maybe we can identify some of the runaways from the footage. We need to call Emma Dupree’s parents. They’ll want to watch.”

  “Part one airs tomorrow night. I was trying to look out for the Lost Girls, and I think I saw one, but none of them interacted with me. And there’s one lost guy—this tall, scary-quiet dude who stands guard. Interesting. Thank you, thank you so much. This story is big. Huge. There’s talk of promoting me to special projects editor.”

  “Who took you into the camp?” Z asked. “Was it a guy with a gold tooth named Blane?”

  Natalie leaned farther into the car, a bit surprised. “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch. What’s your take on the Prince?” I asked. “Be honest. A weirdo?”

  “Actually, he’s kind of interesting. Not creepy as I expected. Kind of good looking and he seems noble, though self-absorbed. Living through the plane crash really changed him. He was only a kid, but he survived in the wilderness and walked to a logging camp. He said he never really returned to civilization after that. He’s become a true survivalist. And ironically, he could live anywhere he wanted. His family is loaded. They’re the—”

  “I know. Boss Shoes.”

  “Right! But he’s not into money. My sense was that the whole runaway cult thing is wearing a little thin for him. He talked about being a guide for nature tours in Alaska. He’s also thinking about trying to get on Survivor. His self-confidence knows no bounds. He gave me enough for a three-part story that will begin airing on the late news tomorrow. Supertight deadlines. I need to get back and do some editing. And then I’m working on a print story for the Oregonian that’s supposed to run tomorrow. I’m telling you, Laur, this story is a gold mine.”

  “You did it, girl!” I said. “You found the Prince!”

  “Not my prince, but it’s an awesome story.” She lifted her buzzing phone and winced. “I gotta take this. Thanks so much! Love you lots!”

  “Love you back!” I said, letting all professionalism drop for the moment.

  “Bye, Natalie,” Z called.

  “Call me, big guy!” Nat tinkled her fingers at Z as she hurried back to the van.

  Z seemed to be smiling as he put the car into gear. “O-M-G. Can we go now, girlfriend?”

  “Shut up and drive. Take the turn off to the barn. We’ll park back there to avoid being seen before our appointment.”

  * * *

  We decided to take the shortcut from the Jameson ranch to the Cliffs, as the trail on this side of the great divide rarely saw hikers. “If they set up camp here, it’s very unlikely anyone from the Stafford Woods parking lot would wander by.” Z had the GPS open on his phone and navigated the way.

  “There’s a trail that leads to the Cliffs,” he said. “But there are a few forks with smaller trails. A few of them lead back to the Jameson property. One goes to their neighbor, Marge Bloom, and one trail zigzags down to the park.”

  “I vaguely remember this, though it’s been a long time. See those three trees? Those are giant sequoias. They’re hundreds of years old. You know, you can tell they’re sequoias because they’re shaped like a pencil.” We paused to stare up at the towering trees. “I learned that in school.”

  “We didn’t have botany in my school.”

  “Didn’t you go to outdoor school? No summer camp?”

  “Poor black kids don’t do summer camp, unless you go with one of those government programs, and they always freaked my mama out.”

  “So did you ever—?”

  “Enough with the pity, Mori. And the only camp I’m interested in right now is the one where the Prince is holding court.”

  “Right.” My curiosity about Z had gotten the better of me. Honestly, he was the first black person I’d hung out with, having attended a school with only a handful of African American students. The Portland area had a notorious history of discrimination, and consequently Sunrise Lake was barely 6 percent African American. The Asian population wasn’t much larger, which might have been one of the reasons I felt comfortable with Z. We were fish out of water, both in our jobs and in our hometowns.

  “Keep your eyes open,” he said.

  Z continued to navigate until the cell phone service cut out. “Shit. I didn’t think about that.”

  “We can follow the trail markers, but I think I remember the rest of the way.” We walked another ten or fifteen minutes without seeing any signs of human life. Then we came upon the ridge overlooking the Willamette River in the foreground and the white slanted peak of Mt. Hood in the distance.

  “Wow.” I breathed in the magnificent panorama. I’m not a nature freak, but whenever I catch sight of that mountain—which is not every day with our overcast skies—I want to do a happy dance. “I love it when it’s clear enough to see Mt. Hood.”

  “Awesome,” he agreed. “So we’re at the top of the Cliffs now?”

  “Right. You get this great view up here, but we’re a few hundred feet above the ground below, and some of the cliffside has no barrier. In fog or snow, this area is treacherous.”

  We moved closer to the edge, but I stopped a few yards short. “That’s close enough for me. This is where my knees turn to jelly.”

  “Got a fear of heights, Mori?”

  “A healthy fear. Especially when there’s no safety net.” I went to the side where a waist-high fence marked off the steep drop.

  Scary.

  Even with the barrier holding me back, a sick feeling made me want to double over.

  I could see the small houses built along the ridge. “See those two blue rooftops? That’s the park section. They’ve got ball fields, picnic shelters, and tables. There’s a fishing area on the river as well as a boat ramp and dock.”

  “Nice. But I bet it’s a bitch getting down there.”

  “There’s a trail, kind of steep, but most people just drive into the park.” I held onto the metal pipe top of the fence, trying to fend off the feeling of being tugged forward over the cliffside.

  Sometimes I have nightmares, anxiety dreams, that I’m at the top of a mountain or a steep building and I don’t have the courage or skills to make it down safely. And I just hang on, clinging to life. My friend Becca had gotten a book on dream interpretation and diagnosed my problem. “You have high goals and standards for yourself,” she told me, “but you worry that you’ll fail to fulfill other people’s expectations of you.” The word “failure” was enough to inspire a new round of nightmares. Maybe I chose to be a cop because my successes and failures on the job could not be measured as easily as my siblings’ careers in law and medicine. Maybe. Still, I wanted to succeed. And right now, that meant solving this case.

  “We should head over to the compound,” Z said. “Don’t want to keep Martha waiting.”

  “Right.” It was easier to breathe after I backed away.

  Z seemed to sense my discomfort. “Good to know the lay of the land,” he said. “And I’ll remember to stay away from the Cliffs.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes a great view is overrated.”

  * * *

  Juana answered the door and ushered us into the great room. I would have liked to ask Juana what she knew about Lucy’s current whereabouts, but Martha was there, staring out the window. Watching her reflection in the glass, I saw her brace herself before she turned toward us.

  “Officers, please have a seat. Would you like some tea?” she offered without the usual insistence.

  We declined, and Martha waved Juana off as she perched on the seat opposite us. Z sat on the edge of the sofa, bolt upright and ready to spring into action. I could tell he would have preferred to stand.

  “This has been heavy on my mind since last night.” She lowered her voice. “I haven’t menti
oned it to Kent. Mostly because I know he would have tried to stop me.” She pressed fingertips to her temples, composing herself before going on. “First, I have a confession to make. Officer Frazier, when you called to ask if anyone in our family has access to GHB, well, I wasn’t completely honest. I told a little white lie. I worried about the information getting out to the media. It would look bad that Kent has access to a drug that some people consider controversial. I know it’s been used for date rapes, but Kent has a prescription for it. Honestly, it’s the only thing that addresses his narcolepsy. Without it, he paces day and night.”

  “So his doctor has prescribed GHB,” I said, trying to keep my mind from flying ahead with assumptions. Kent Jameson possessed a date-rape drug. Had he used it on Kyra Miller?

  “Yes. He’s used it for a while now. Not every night, but when he hits a bad patch, it helps him break the cycle of insomnia. Well, last week he misplaced it. Couldn’t find it anywhere. So I called the doctor’s office to get a refill for him.” She shook her head. “It’s nearly impossible to get the doctor to sign off on an early refill for a controlled substance. So many questions. Anyway. The doctor finally came through for us. We worked it out. It’s just that . . .”

  She pressed her mouth shut, blinking back tears.

  “Mrs. Jameson. Martha? Are you okay?”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid things won’t be right around here ever again. You see, last night, I was helping Lucy move the stuffed animals so she could use the bed, and I felt something hard in the Velcro belly of one of the animals. The unicorn. I slipped it out when Lucy wasn’t looking. This was inside.” She unzipped the pocket of her raspberry fleece and handed me a vial. It was GHB, a labeled prescription for Kent Jameson. “Use as directed for insomnia.”

  Had I missed this in my examination of the articles in Lucy’s room? Embarrassment heated my cheeks as I considered that very real possibility. Still, I pushed on. “Did you ask Lucy about it?”

  Martha nodded. “She acted like she’d never seen it before. When I pressed her, she became angry and started cursing. I tucked it into my pocket and just let it go. I don’t know what to think,” said Martha.