Lost Girls: A gripping thriller that will have you hooked (Ben Forrester FBI Thrillers Book 1)

by Jon Mills

  The waitress came over with a pot of coffee; she poured it and asked if Ben wanted the usual. Two small lobster rolls and fries. They had so much on the menu but he always picked the same thing.

  “Hey Ben,” she said.

  “Claire.”

  She had deep red hair that was tied back and wore a blue and white outfit that clung to her curvy body.

  “Looks like we might be in for a storm.”

  He glanced out. “There’s not a cloud in sight. What makes you think that?”

  “I can taste it.”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “What is that, an East Coast joke?”

  “No, my papa used to say you could tell when a storm was coming, obviously by the odor in the air but there is also a sweet, pungent taste.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  She smirked and gave him a playful slap on the arm.

  “You want coleslaw with those fries?”

  “No, I’m on a diet.”

  He always said that, and she always brought over the coleslaw. Inside the restaurant were three families — locals he’d seen around town. Calyn’s was a little off the beaten path. Townsfolk mostly frequented it.

  He glanced up at the silent TV. “You heard anything about what the police are doing, Calyn?”

  Wyatt Calyn was about forty years of age. Short ginger hair but built like he had just stepped out of a muscle building contest. He usually wore a tight black T-shirt with the blue logo of his business in the left corner.

  “Another accident.”

  “Did the news say that?”

  “No, Patty, one of the staff, lives up that way. She asked one of the police on the way in today.”

  The door opened, a shrill of a bell rang out. Ben didn’t pay any attention as he was too busy trying to figure out what the reporter on the TV was saying. They had the volume turned down.

  “Hey Forrester,” a gruff voice said. He knew immediately who it was. It was Jake Ashton’s father. Wyatt obviously could tell by the way Earl Ashton was carrying himself that he was looking to kick off.

  “Earl.”

  “Stay out of it, Wyatt.”

  “I’ll toss you out on your ear if you start any trouble,” Wyatt said.

  “No trouble. I just want a word with him.”

  Ben turned slightly.

  “Let’s go, Forrester, outside.”

  “I’m just about to have my lobster lunch.”

  He leaned in. “I don’t care. I want a word with you.”

  “Whatever you need to say, you can say it here.”

  “I want an apology. For what your daughter did to my son.”

  Ben laughed. “He got off lightly.”

  “What?” Earl stammered.

  “You heard me. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s him. But I’m guessing he left out the part about trying to rape my daughter.”

  “That doesn’t give you or her the right to lay a hand on him. Now outside.”

  “Earl, don’t make me come over there,” Wyatt gave him another warning.

  Meanwhile Claire returned with Ben’s lunch. She placed it on the table in front of him then walked away. Earl leaned in, picked up one of the lobster rolls and dropped it into Ben’s coffee.

  “Oh I wish you hadn’t done that. I really like my lobster.”

  “You need to keep that bitch of yours in line. You hear me?”

  “C’mon, don’t say that. Just take a seat, Earl.”

  Ben was about to take the next lobster roll when Earl pushed the entire plate onto the floor.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  Ben felt his jaw clench. He was trying his hardest not to lose his cool but this guy was really pushing his buttons. “If you’ve got a problem with the way it went down, take it up with the police.”

  “We already have. And they aren’t doing a goddamn thing about it. Now Jake said you laid a hand on him.”

  Ben turned in his seat. “To get him off my daughter.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to touch another man’s son.”

  “I think you are overlooking the fact your son forced himself on her.”

  “Maybe your daughter asked for it. Have you thought about that?” He prodded Ben’s arm. “Now you listen here.”

  “Just back off.” Ben slapped his hand away.

  “Oh you wanna touch me?”

  Right then he grabbed a handful of Ben’s shirt and pulled up. It was the stupidest thing he could have done. Ben stood up fast, wrapped his arm over Earl’s, and pushed upwards forcing his elbow up. He slapped him twice in the throat with the side of his hand and knocked him onto another table. All chaos broke loose. Wyatt hopped over the bar, Ben backed up with his arms up. Dakota Woods came in the door. Before Earl could react, she stepped in the middle.

  Gripping his own throat and giving the worst performance of his life Earl choked out the words, “I want to press charges against this man.”

  “Go walk it off, Earl. I saw everything,” Wyatt said.

  Dakota cast a glance at Ben who was picking up the plate.

  “No need. I can do that,” Claire said, coming along with a dustpan and broom.

  Earl couldn’t believe it. He scowled at Ben. Brushed himself off and was seen to the door by Dakota.

  Chapter Ten

  Ben learned a few more things about the town that day. They tended to deal with their own disputes quietly. It wasn’t that the police looked the other way; in fact, it was quite the opposite. They were quick to nip things in the bud.

  “Sorry about that, Wyatt,” Ben said.

  Wyatt tossed a cloth over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, but listen, you might want to dial it back, people around here talk.”

  Ben cast a glance around the room. A few murmurs came from the other patrons.

  “We’ll get you another plate of food.”

  “You know what, I think I’ve lost my appetite.”

  Wyatt looked pissed. Ben thought it was because some of the people at the other tables had got up and left. He tossed a few more dollars on the table. “That’s to pay for the plate.”

  He waved him off. “Hey you don’t need to, Earl smashed it.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  As Ben was about to leave, Dakota approached him.

  “Got a minute?” she asked.

  “If you want to tag along. I was just leaving.”

  He stepped outside and saw that Earl was gone.

  “I guess he’ll be filing charges over that?”

  “No, Wyatt said he saw what happened. That’s good enough for me. But I am curious, did they teach you that move in the FBI?”

  “Not exactly.”

  They walked down to the town pier and started walking along the Shore Path that was located in front of Eden Harbor Inn. To the right was Agamont Park where people converged to soak in the atmosphere. Off in the distance he could see a landmass east of the bay called Bar Island. When there was a low tide a natural bridge between Eden Falls and the island could be seen and used to get to the island. Chloe had taken him out there once.

  “What’s going on in Acadia Park?” Ben asked

  “That’s what I wanted to talk you about.”

  They passed a water fountain. The steady flow of water created ripples on the surface that fanned out to the stone edges. A few fishermen shouted to one another from their boats.

  “A girl is dead and one is missing.”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-two, she’s from Bangor. Studying at the University of Maine.”

  “That explains the chopper in the air.”

  A few people were out walking their dogs, another couple jogging. Dakota gave them a nod.

  “Any leads on the missing girl?”

  “None so far. In fact, they are liable to sweep this all under the rug.”

  “How so?”

  She momentarily stopped near a waist-high, black steel fence before continuing to walk.

 
“Over the past three years we have had seven deaths. Two women every summer.”

  “That’s not a lot for a national park.”

  “It is around here. The last death we had dates back to twenty-two years ago,” she replied.

  He glanced at her but didn’t say anything.

  “Anyway, usually people show up, or the rescue team finds them, but these women are different.”

  “In what way?”

  “All of them are young, in their early twenties. Usually from a university.”

  “Are they always together when they go missing?”

  “No. Not until these last two went missing. The previous victims weren’t connected. Last year one was a hiker on a day trip, the other was camping. But all of them lived off the island.”

  “So he chooses women from outside the area.”

  “He?”

  “Well, I’m guessing all of them were raped?”

  “Raped, strangled, and dumped. Except the first five. They weren’t strangled but there were vaginal and anal tears consistent with a brutal rape. The first five were found in various places around Acadia and all of them close to a cliff.”

  “And where do I come into the picture?” he asked.

  “I was wondering if you could look over the files. Maybe give your opinion on them?”

  “I don’t do that anymore.”

  She stopped walking. “I thought you were with the FBI?”

  “On paper, yeah, but it’s been two years since I was in the field.”

  “But you’re still teaching.”

  This time it was him who stopped. “How do you know that?”

  “I dug around. Asked a few questions.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing that I wouldn’t have done with anyone else.”

  “And I’m meant to believe that?”

  They continued walking.

  “Anyway. I was wondering…”

  “Not to be rude, Officer Woods–”

  “Dakota. Just call me Dakota.”

  He cleared his throat and looked out at the blue ocean. Frothy waves crashed against the big rocks with deadly force. The wind was picking up. Maybe Claire was right. Perhaps a storm was on its way.

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  Dakota stepped a little closer. “Six foot two, two hundred pounds, forty-one years of age, you did four years in the U.S. Army, and seven as a homicide detective in New York before joining the FBI. You have a bachelor’s degree in sociology and physical education. A master’s of science in psychology and a PhD in classifying homicides. You served on the FBI SWAT team as a sniper, then later as a hostage negotiator. You were transferred to the FBI behavioral sciences unit after seven years as a field agent and you taught hostage negotiation, forensics, and criminal psychology at the FBI Academy in Quantico.” She took a breath and continued. “You teach online lectures in analysis, interviewing, and assessing human and group behavior, you have a daughter that is seventeen, and you were recently widowed and lost a son. My condolences.”

  He nodded his head, slowly studying her face.

  “Then you’ll understand why I can’t be involved.”

  “I’m not asking you to get involved, just a little help.”

  “Dakota. I admire all the effort digging into my past but that doesn’t mean you know me.”

  “Does it matter? I’m talking about a young girl’s life that could be in jeopardy. Look, I know you caught seven other serial killers.”

  “Six, the last one got away.” His eyes dropped.

  Dakota breathed in deeply. “Dr. Forrester.”

  “Ben.”

  “Right. Ben, I just know that you think differently than most around here, and I could use your insights. Besides, if this person isn’t caught, they are going to keep on doing it. All I’m asking is for you to look over the reports and let me know what you think.”

  She handed him a thin brown leather folder that was zipped up. Ben glanced at it.

  “I can’t promise anything.”

  She tilted her head. “No, I understand.”

  As they retraced their way back Ben spoke, “Only one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You owe me a beer after this.”

  “Done.”

  They continued walking.

  “One thing you forgot to mention in your analysis of me.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Boxers or briefs?”

  She snorted. “That’s too easy. Briefs. You’re definitely a briefs man.”

  He smiled.

  Chapter Eleven

  He stared at the folder, tapping his fingers against the side table. He got up and poured himself a scotch on the rocks and downed it. It was the middle of the afternoon and he’d already contacted a local security firm to come and install a security alarm system with twenty-four-seven monitoring. Whether this was a killer or Dakota’s wild imagination, he wasn’t going to take any chances. How had this slipped by him? He couldn’t remember the police blocking off the roads in the past two years or any reports of deaths in the park.

  In the first six months of arriving in Eden Falls, he’d checked daily for information on missing people — then again, come to think of it, he’d always focused on locations closer to the Everglades.

  He sipped his drink and let the warmth wash over him. He felt his muscles unwind as he kicked his shoes off and looked out over the bay.

  Over the course of two hours he puttered around the house and kept his mind occupied on anything else except that folder. He knew why he didn’t want to open it. He’d seen countless bodies. It wasn’t the macabre that intrigued him, it was an interest in criminology.

  His cell phone buzzed and rattled against the wood table. He went over and answered it. It was Nate Mueller.

  “Nate.”

  “Ben, how are you?”

  He could hear the sound of agents in the background punching keys and talking on the phone. He was calling from his office. It was always his office. That’s because Nate was a workaholic just like Ben had been. It was one of the many reasons why they got on so well; that, and of course because they went through the academy together. They were driven, Nate would say. Driven to catch predators. It was true. The cases got under his skin. That’s why he hadn’t opened that folder. The need to solve crime drove both of them to work long hours even when others had clocked out. There was no off switch for them. Once they got involved in a case they lived and breathed it every waking moment. It became their world.

  The Skinner case had almost destroyed him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to face that again. It had taken the better part of two years to lay it to rest. Lay it to rest? What a joke. He hadn’t laid it to rest. It lingered there in the back of his mind, taunting him like an unseen ghost. Beckoning him to spend the rest of his life chasing someone who would probably never show his face again. And that was it. He didn’t even know what Henri Bruns looked like or if that was his real name. He’d been smart. Played his cards well and had an exit strategy.

  “I’m still alive,” Ben replied as usual.

  “How’s Chloe?”

  “As good as can be.”

  “I was going to come out there but you know how it is…”

  “You doing okay?” Ben asked. He was worried about the mental state of his friend. He’d seen so many agents commit suicide. It wasn’t uncommon in law enforcement. Stress, suicide, alcohol abuse, and marital discord were just a few of the things that plagued agents. Though the suicide rate was lower in the FBI than in other areas of law enforcement, it still occurred. Some couldn’t handle what they saw. For others it was personal issues.

  “We could really use your insights out here, Ben.”

  “Nate, you have more than enough agents.”

  “But not ones that think like you.”

  “That’s why they’re trained by me remotely.”

  “You can’t learn this stuff, Ben. You should know that. It’s a gut instin
ct. Some have it, some don’t.”

  “I think you’re mistaken. If I had it, he’d be sitting on death row right now.”

  Nate must have put the phone up to his chest as his voice became muffled. “You want to keep it down?” he shouted to a group who were chatting in the background.

  “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

  Ben took another sip of his drink. “Something about placing me on a pedestal.”

  He laughed. “Hey, I heard you have a missing girl out there?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh, you telling me you aren’t looking into it?”

  Ben glanced at the folder on the side table.

  “Nate, I’m out of it.”

  He snorted on the other end of the line. “Guys like you and me are never out of it. It’s in our blood. It’s what we do.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Ben had been placed on administrative leave pending reassignment after the death of his family. It was only meant to be six months. That turned into a year, then two. At first it was paid leave, then Ben wasn’t sure if he wanted to go back. The FBI wasn’t sure they wanted to lose him so it was agreed that he would be placed on unpaid leave until he felt ready to return. In the meantime he agreed to provide remote training as and when needed. It wasn’t the best situation but for him it worked.

  “Any leads on Bruns?” Ben asked.

  “No, the guy’s a ghost.”

  “I mean deaths that match his M.O.?”

  “There’s been a few but nothing that we can link for sure to him. Right now they’ve got us working the case of someone who is killing people and drinking their blood.”

  “Lovely,” Ben replied sarcastically.

  “Yeah and that’s not the half of it. If the public knew what he was doing there would be mass panic.”

  Besides the obvious reasons of wanting to spare the public unneeded agony and fear, quite often certain facts that only the killer would know would be withheld. Later, when interrogating a suspect, those facts could prove to be very useful. It was the reason why no one knew about what Skinner had done with his victim’s bodies. The public wasn’t told about those details. He’d wondered what people would have thought if they had known that the exhibit was found to contain skinned murdered victims.