by Jeff Gunhus
Then an idea struck her. She went back through the images another time, ignoring the stories and just looking at the dates. There was nothing from what would have been Tracy’s senior year.
Allison went back to the yearbook folder and clicked through. Same thing. No mention of Tracy in any club or sport that year. Her only appearance was as part of the graduating class and her senior photo. And the photo showed a different girl than the one showcased in the rest of the file. In the picture, she wore her hair pulled back tight. Her cheeks were sunken and her eyes had dark rings beneath them. It looked like perhaps she was in the middle of having the flu and had barely managed to come in for pictures that day.
But Allison didn’t think it was the flu. Something had happened to Tracy Bain before her senior year of high school. And whatever it was had changed her.
Allison had been that person once. She’d been on each side of the situation, the golden kid who seemed destined to lead a charmed life, to the frail girl with the thousand-yard stare once everything tumbled down on her after the rape at the Naval Academy.
She jotted down a few notes, entered one number into her phone, then closed her connection to the site. As she stood up and stretched, she knew one thing for certain. There was no risk of Tracy Bain becoming just a data set to her. Not this time. Every step along the way, the case felt more personal. While the murderer took her life, whatever happened to her before she left Harlow was what had set her on a path that put her in that Georgetown bedroom. Allison intended to uncover all of it. As odd as it seemed, she felt both a bond and an obligation to Tracy Bain. Allison closed her eyes and Tracy’s senior photo was there, that haunted gaze staring beyond the camera as if she wasn’t there anymore. It was too late to do anything to save the girl, but it wasn’t too late to avenge her death.
27
Harris staggered into the road, waving his arms at the approaching headlights. He wiped at the blood that dripped into his eye from the cut on his forehead. It stung, making his eyes water so that the truck’s headlights turned into a starburst for a second. He wondered if Doyle was digging around in the glove compartment or something, because the son of a bitch didn’t seem to be slowing down. Even though the limp was fake and the cut on his hairline was just a shallow self-inflicted slice with a razorblade, he wondered if he’d be able to jump out of the way in time if the redneck didn’t stop. It was a quick thought, but there long enough for him to feel the irony inherent in it.
Fortunately, whatever Doyle was up to, he finally must have noticed him in the road because the tires on the truck locked up. The back tires slid out to the right a little but it wasn’t bad. Soon, the truck came to a stop and then rolled over to the shoulder. The driver side window came down and Doyle stuck his head out.
“What the hell are you doing? I almost ran––”
The blood did its work and Doyle went from pissed to concerned in a split-second.
“Man, you OK?” he asked, getting out of the truck. “You’re bleeding.”
“Am I?” Harris asked. He wiped the cut with his palm, pressing on it to make it bleed a little more. The effect was probably overkill, but Harris liked to be thorough. He made a show of being surprised by the sight of the blood, buckling his legs slightly.
Doyle got out of the truck and reached for him. “Easy there, man. C’mon. Why don’t you sit down?”
“Maybe I should,” Harris mumbled. “Deer came across the road. Tried to miss it.”
“Where’s your car?” Doyle asked.
Harris jerked his head to the right. “Got out on the soft shoulder. Lucky there was an old farm road or something. Bounced down there. Then I found a ditch.”
“Do you need an ambulance or something?”
“No, just give me a minute. I’ll be OK,” Harris replied. The guy was being so helpful that he almost felt guilty for what he planned to do. Almost.
“I do need a tow out of the ditch though,” Harris said. “I’d appreciate the help.”
Doyle looked down the dark farm road where Harris had indicated earlier. “You must be way back there.”
Harris nodded. “I kept going, thinking I could find an easier place to turn around. Found a ditch instead.”
Doyle gestured for Harris to climb into the cab. “What the hell? It’s not like I have any plans for tonight. C’mon, let’s get you pulled out.”
Harris walked around to the passenger seat. “Thank you. I can pay you for your time.”
Doyle was already in the cab as Harris climbed in. “Pay me? C’mon, man. What do I look like to you? I’m happy to help out. Hell, I just hope I can find the deer you hit. Two deer are better than one, you know what I’m saying?”
The truck rumbled to a start and Doyle backed up until the tire tracks from Harris’s car were visible in the pickup’s halogen headlights. He spun the wheel and followed the tracks down the short embankment to a leaf-covered dirt road.
“This is Leif Gustav’s old farm back here,” Doyle murmured. “Died about ten years ago; no one’s worked it since, I don’t think.”
“That’s right, back at the station you said you were born and raised here. You must know about pretty much everyone in town.”
“Hell, you could know everyone in town yourself in a day or two,” Doyle said. “Damn, man. Where is this car at?”
“Keep going,” Harris said. “Just down here.”
“Did your brakes stop working or something?”
“There,” Harris said, pointing to the left. His car was buried nose-first in a thicket.
Doyle put the truck in park. “You can’t get out of that? Doesn’t look like it’s in much of a ditch.”
Harris shrugged. “Well, I sure couldn’t get it out.”
They both got out of the truck and walked around to the front.
“Keys?” Doyle asked.
“I left them in it. Figured it wasn’t going anywhere.”
Doyle walked up to the car and got down on his knees to look underneath. He got up, climbed in and cranked the engine. The motor revved and then the car lurched backward, coming out of the thicket so easily that Doyle nearly careened into his own truck. He opened the door and was about to climb out when something inside the car seemed to catch his eye. Harris walked back from the truck cab just in time to see Doyle reach up and pull the photo off of the sun visor where he’d left it for the man to find. There was a long pause as Doyle studied the photo. When he finally climbed out, he still had it in his hand.
“What’s this about?” he demanded. “Who are you?”
“Do you know who that is?” Harris said, standing right next to the truck’s headlight so that Doyle couldn’t see him.
“Sure, that’s Tracy Bain,” Doyle said. “I thought you said you were just passing through.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t being entirely honest with you,” Harris said. “Tell me what you know about her.”
“Fuck yourself, man,” Doyle said. His body tensed, it was the same body language Harris had noticed when the man had gotten out of his car back at the gas station. Hyper-aware. Seeing danger in every shadow. The difference was this time Doyle was right. There was something in the shadows to be worried about.
Doyle walked toward Harris. “Wait, did you set this up? Is that why––”
The shotgun blast hit Doyle’s midsection, picking him up off the ground and throwing him backward. The smoke from the barrel swirled in the shafts of light from the pickup’s headlights. Harris lowered the shotgun and walked up to where Doyle writhed on the ground.
“You know, you really shouldn’t hunt alone,” Harris said. “When accidents like this happen, it’s best to have a buddy with you.”
Doyle cried out through gritted teeth.
“Come on, roll over,” Harris said. “Let me look at it.”
He pulled Doyle’s arm and the man rolled onto his back with a scream. The camo jacket was shredded and drenched in blood. Harris wrinkled his nose at the foul smell.
�
�Nothing worse than a GI tract ripped open,” Harris said. He took on a sympathetic look. “Hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you smell awful inside.”
Doyle curled up, clutching both hands to his abdomen. He seemed to get the pain more in control. Enough anyway to cast a look of pure hate toward Harris. “I’m going to kill you.”
Harris laughed. “No, you’re not.” He kneeled down on the ground next to Doyle. “But I bet you know how gut shots work, don’t you? Long, nasty business. So, here’s our plan.” He held up the photo of the girl he’d only known as Catherine Fews up to this point. “You’re going to tell me everything you know about Tracy Bain. I want to know who her boyfriends were. What she has for family. Where they live. All of it. You got that?”
Doyle tried to say something but it came out as a mumble. There was a lot of blood in the man’s mouth and Harris worried that he might have punctured a lung or two. That would make the interrogation a short ride. Doyle kept mumbling and Harris moved closer to hear what he was saying.
“What is it?” Harris said.
“F…fu…ck…off…” Doyle said.
He lurched up and spit a mouthful of blood into Harris’s face, then fell back, mewling in pain.
Harris stood, spitting and wiping the blood from his face. He pulled out a knife, sliding a finger across the blade.
“You know what?” he asked Doyle. “Part of me was kind of hoping you’d say that.”
28
Allison had the car running as Jason Aldean sang a sweet song to her on the radio. She thought about texting an update to Mason, but quickly put the thought aside. She wasn’t convinced that he was completely innocent in the deaths of Suzanne Greenville or Tracy Bain. The circumstances around them were too much of a coincidence to be swept under the rug.
Mason had the big three dialed in: means, motive and opportunity. With essentially unlimited means through his position and with the last year to develop and execute the plan, there was no doubt it was something he could pull off. As for motive, it was clear that the videos would give him tremendous political leverage at a time in his career when he needed it most. But her nagging doubt wasn’t the same thing as incriminating evidence. There were hundreds of plausible explanations how Tracy Bain had come to mimic Suzanne Greenville. But it didn’t seem likely that they happened completely independently of one another. There was a connection somewhere and she couldn’t discount the fact that Mason was the most obvious choice, but only if she was willing to believe he could stoop that low.
She had to remind herself to separate her idealized version of Mason-the-savior-of-the-Bureau from the more realistic Mason-the-career-bureaucratic-infighter. To survive as long as he had in Washington, there was bound to be a ruthless side to the man. Just wanting the videos showed that part of his personality, but what if that wasn’t all there was to it? What if he’d been the one to recruit the girls and set them on the path that led to their deaths?
No, it was ridiculous to imagine him personally discussing such a thing directly with a woman. But he might have set the program up. Tasked someone to run it for him. Or, more likely, he’d been disappointed when the hoped-for windfall never appeared from Suzanne Greenville so he’d taken matters into his own hands and replicated the model with Tracy Bain.
But if he already had the videos, why did he need her to find them?
The answer she wanted to believe was that he cared about who killed Tracy Bain. Or that he was truly worried that the videos might be used to compromise government officials.
She was afraid the real answer was that he only had some of the videos and he wanted the rest. Not only that, but he knew that the videos were only valuable if he was the sole owner of them.
Allison opened her phone and dialed the new contact she had just put in the phone from Jordi’s notes. She checked her watch. Almost eleven o’clock. Her father used to say that no good news came by phone after ten o’clock. In her career, she’d delivered enough bad news to people to know it didn’t discriminate and could come at any time. The call from a lawyer to let you know a rich uncle left millions in his will came during business hours. But the late-night call held the most potential for terrible, life-changing revelations.
The tentative voice that answered the phone sounded aware of this truism.
“Hello?”
“Is this Natalie Bain?” Allison asked.
“Speaking.” Allison heard country music and the sound of men laughing in the background.
“Ms. Bain, my name is Special Agent Allison McNeil. I’m calling you regarding your sister, Tracy.” A long pause. “Do you have a sister named Tracy?”
“She owe money or something?” Natalie said. “I don’t have anything to do with her. Haven’t seen her in years.”
“No, it’s not like that. I’m with the FBI.”
A harsh burst of laughter belched from the phone. “Yeah right, nice try,” Natalie said. “Listen here. Don’t call again. I want nothing to do with her and she damn well knows it.”
“I’m coming up to Harlow and I’d like to talk to you. Tonight if possible. I’m about an hour and a half from town. I know it’s late, but do you think––”
“I’m working tonight, lady,” Natalie said. “Leave me the hell alone.”
The line clicked and went dead. Allison would have thrown the phone at the windshield except that she needed both of them intact.
She spotted Mike emerging from the convenience store, a couple of hot dogs, bags of chips and two huge fountain sodas balanced in his arms.
“Everything OK?” Mike asked.
Allison ignored the question and redialed the phone. It went straight to voicemail.
“Damn it,” she said, waiting for the message to end. “It’s Allison again. I really need to speak with you tonight. It’s urgent that I—”
The automated voice chirped at her through the phone, “Recording ended. Press one if you want—”
Allison hung up.
“Boyfriend?” Mike asked, sliding into his seat.
Allison considered telling him everything. He was going to find out once they got into town anyway. She had the feeling he wasn’t going to be content to wait in the car like an obedient dog on a road trip. But she decided against it. Truth was, she’d spent the last hours trying to figure out how to welch on her deal with the reporter while retaining the most dignity and integrity possible. No simple task. So far the only plan she’d been able to concoct was to bean Mike over the head with the car’s tire iron and hope for a bad case of amnesia. She didn’t think that move was in the Bureau’s approved handbook of how to deal with the press though. She decided to punt.
“No,” she said. “It was nothing.” She nodded toward the pile of junk food in his arms in a bid to change the subject. “Ever heard of fruit and vegetables?”
He looked down at the mass of junk food, apparently willing to continue to play the game where she kept all the secrets. “Oh, are you hungry too? I should have gotten you something. This is just for me.”
“Is that so? You always eat two of everything?” she asked.
“Emotional eater.” He shrugged. “If you want I can go see if there’s some fresh fruit. Maybe some tofu and wheatgrass?”
“I’ll take a dog and some chips,” Allison said.
He held them toward her. “Regular or this one’s filled with nacho cheese and jalapenos.”
Allison laughed. “Nacho cheese and jalapenos. Go big or go home, right?”
He handed over the hot dog and little packets of mustard, ketchup and relish. “And here’re napkins because I assume you’re a messy eater.”
“Hey, what’s that all about?”
“Am I right?”
There was a reason she usually stuffed an extra shirt in her bag. “No, you’re not.”
He grinned. “Like I said, you’re a terrible liar.”
Allison accepted the clump of napkins, finding that she enjoyed the small gesture. Enjoyed someone pampering her
just a little.
She put the car into gear and steered with one hand as she devoured the hot dog. She felt bad for all her negative thoughts about junk food earlier. The dog was simply goddamn delicious.
“What did you find out?” Mike asked, his tone casual. Almost too casual. “Do you have her real name?”
Allison tensed. Nothing like a direct question from a reporter to ruin a great meal.
“Yeah, I have a real name,” she said.
Garth Brooks had taken over on the radio. One of his old songs about a truck driver finding his cheating wife. It was amazing that even with the music, it felt like there was an awkward silence in the car.
“So, what are the rules here?” Mike asked. “You plan on keeping me in the dark? Maybe blindfold me or something?”
Allison stared at the road, thinking it though. Truth was, she wasn’t sure how to play this.
“So who was on the phone?” Mike asked.
She wiped her mouth while steering with her knee. “Just trying to get in touch with people in the girl’s hometown.”
“It’s going to be past midnight before we get there. Shouldn’t we just try in the morning?”
Allison remembered the background sounds she heard on the phone call. It was a long shot but it was worth trying. “Whoever the killer is wants the same thing we do. If he tracks down the girl’s hometown the way we did, then these people could be in trouble. We’re going up there tonight.”
“If they’re in trouble, then we should warn them, right?” Mike asked. “Or shouldn’t we have taken a helicopter up? The FBI still has those, don’t they?”
Allison shrugged.
“So either you’re willing to put innocent people in harm’s way so you stay off the radar,” Mike continued, “or you don’t really think they’re in any real danger and you’re just using that as an excuse.”