“Well, you’re a physician.” She smirked. “Isn’t there a pill for that?”
“I wish there was.” He gave her a genuinely relaxed smile. “See you later, sweetheart.”
“Later, Dad.” She kissed his cheek. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
The rarity of the exchange dragged through her like a bullet.
21
KATE SAT IN HER car with the engine running, not ready to leave Blunt River just yet. It had all happened for her here—first crush, first kiss, first prom. Half of her childhood friends were still listed in the Blunt River phone book. Her kindergarten buddy Marigold Hotchkiss lived in that peeling Gothic with the plastic Santa propped in the front yard. Her best friend from high school, Heather, was a hugely successful real estate agent who hadn’t let Kate’s tragedy prevent her from earning a juicy commission on Henry Blackwood’s “house of death.” Kate’s arch rival from the fifth grade, Jewel Curtis, taught self-defense for girls and used Savannah’s story as part of her marketing strategy. The first boy Kate had ever kissed—whose kisses she’d once treasured—was now the town treasurer. Funny how life rambled on.
She backed out of the driveway and honked goodbye. On an impulse, she took a left instead of a right at the blinking yellow light and headed for the thickly wooded area west of town called The Balsams, a wilderness preserve boasting 8,000 acres of mature hardwoods, trout streams, and recreational trails.
Fifteen minutes later, she located the old logging road and drove for a mile or so along a bumpy gravel road, tires popping over icy patches until she finally rolled to a stop. She sat shivering inside her car as the engine ticked down and couldn’t believe she was here. The cabin in the woods. Why had she come?
She hadn’t been back since that night. She got out of her car and headed north through the woods, where the snowdrifts were over a foot deep in places. People rarely came out this way in the winter, but the warmer months were another matter. The old logging road used to be a lovers’ lane, and the cabin had once been popular among high school students looking for a place to party after the big game. Now it was a favorite Halloween haunt. Local kids held séances in the old cabin, hoping to conjure up the dead. Savannah Wolfe had become something of a legend around here—an amusement for some, a campfire story for others. The cabin in the woods was almost as good as Haunted Acres out on Route 27. Her little sister had been turned into fear porn. The thought of it was crushing.
Kate hiked another twenty yards or so through the prison-bar tree trunks on an exhausting trek through the knee-deep snow. She was perspiring heavily under her winter clothes by the time she reached the cabin. She stepped onto the dilapidated porch and waited for her heart rate to slow down. The battered door was wide open, as if the cabin had been expecting her.
She shivered as she crossed the threshold, and one of the floorboards made an audible crack like a gunshot. The walls were covered with graffiti. The floor was carpeted with crushed beer cans and fossilized condoms. The roof had been leaking for decades and was pocked with holes large enough to invite in hanging vines; rusty clumps of dead foliage that swayed from the ceiling like broken chandeliers. More vines grew in through the shattered windows and crawled across the floor, where they clutched cigarette packs and empty beer cans like obstinate drunks, refusing to leave after last call.
It was so gloomy inside the cabin that she dug the keys out of her coat pocket, turned on the halogen penlight attached to her keychain, and directed the small beam over the graffiti on the walls. Names. Dates. Insults. She could make out peace signs and penises, four-leaf clovers and middle fingers, words of both love and hate. Icy water seeping down from the ceiling hit the frozen puddles on the floor, each drop echoing loudly. If the local kids had managed to summon Savannah with their candles and Ouija boards, then Kate wished to release her.
The week she was killed, the media had swarmed into town like flies—bribing the residents of Blunt River for any tidbit of information about the dead girl. They were ecstatic when they found out about Julia’s tragic death, feeding off her suicide for weeks; they knew how long it took for a person to drown, and what she had been wearing the night she jumped in the river. They found out who Kate and Savannah’s best friends were, what kind of grades they got, and the fact that they walked past Henry Blackwood’s house every day on their way to school. For the longest time Kate wanted them dead. She guessed it was easier to shoot the messengers than the murderer on death row.
A whispery kind of creepiness brushed against her skin as she recalled that long-ago August night. The summer trees were silhouetted against the dying sky, and there was a poignant finality to the day. They’d left the car parked on the narrow logging road and walked into the woods together, sharing a single flashlight between them. The bugs were biting. After a few minutes of scratching, Savannah began to whine. She’d wanted to tag along so badly, but now she was bored and itchy.
The dank-smelling cabin hadn’t been as decrepit as it was now—the roof was intact and the windows weren’t all broken. Most of the kids were down by the lake, which was the cool new hangout that summer. The cabin was so yesterday. Good for Halloween scares and late-night bull sessions for the stoners who weren’t part of the in-crowd, but not much else.
It was eight o’clock by the time Kate and Savannah got there, and the older kids wouldn’t be showing up until after midnight to drink beer and smoke pot and talk trash. For now it was just Kate and her little sister—and the cute boy who’d been waiting for her to show up. He was surprised to see Savannah. “What’s she doing here?” he asked, sounding miffed.
Kate tried to explain about their father, how he sometimes disappeared unpredictably, and how she couldn’t just leave her sister home alone. How she’d broken all the rules to be with him tonight.
As the horizon faded from orange to purple, the cute boy persuaded her to come with him into a clearing in the woods, not far away from the cabin, where they could be alone. He had a dazzling smile. She told her little sister to wait in the cabin and promised they wouldn’t be long.
“How long?”
“Just a few minutes.”
“Why can’t I hang out with you guys?”
“Because… I need to talk to him in private.”
“What about?”
Kate smiled and ruffled Savannah’s golden hair. “I’ll be right over there, pipsqueak. See those trees? That’s like… ten yards away. No biggie.” It was farther than that, but still. “Don’t be scared. I’ll be close by.”
“I’m not scared.”
Sixteen years later, Kate stood in the exact spot where she’d abandoned her little sister. Just for a few minutes. Or maybe it was longer than that? Maybe it was ten minutes? Or fifteen? Or fifty? She couldn’t remember. Her eyes filled with stinging tears.
She had lived with the consequences of that decision every day of her life—it hummed along the surface of her psyche, shimmering and alive, like a raw wire. She would have to lighten the load eventually. Now she fumbled in her coat pocket for Detective Dyson’s business card. She took out her phone and dialed the number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me. Kate Wolfe.” She paused. “Do you still want to talk?”
Without hesitation, he said, “When can we meet?”
“I’m in Blunt River.”
“Okay, I know a great place.”
22
THEY MET IN ONE of the wood-paneled eateries across town. Kate took a seat in a back booth and ordered a cup of coffee. She watched as Detective Dyson drove up in a vintage white pickup truck and walked inside, making the old-fashioned bell jangle above the door. He spotted Kate and headed down the aisle, pausing to chat with some of the other diners along the way—clearly a popular guy. He removed his cowboy hat and smoothed the static out of his salt-and-pepper hair. He smelled like cigar smoke and wet wool. He peeled off his winter coat and said, “I haunt this place. But I am a quiet ghost.”
Sh
e smiled. It was funny, even though she didn’t get it.
He sat down opposite her and picked up the greasy menu. “They make a prize-winning grilled-cheese sandwich here, if you’re interested,” he told her. “They use gruyere and smoked bacon.” He had walnut-brown eyes ringed by dark eyelashes. “You in?”
“No thanks, I’m good.” She held up her cup of coffee.
He ordered a Coke and a grilled-cheese sandwich from the waitress, then turned his full attention on Kate. “Okay. This is how I see it. Henry Blackwood has maintained his innocence since day one. He passed a polygraph, and that ain’t beanball. And now his niece, the state’s star witness, has recanted her testimony. So if Blackwood was with her the whole time, then that begs the question—who killed Savannah Wolfe?”
Kate shook her head. “Nelly has issues. She could be lying or confused or deluded. My sister was buried in Blackwood’s backyard. His fingerprints were on the shovel. They found his hairs tangled up in the rope.”
“True.”
“Besides, a jury saw all the evidence and convicted him.”
“Not all of it.” Detective Dyson’s grilled sandwich arrived, and he wasted no time digging in.
“What do you mean—not all of it?”
“Put two lawyers in a room, they’re gonna play games.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“A couple of witness statements and other possible leads were never brought up in court. A red van was spotted in the neighborhood driving around suspiciously that day. Another witness reported seeing a young girl matching your sister’s description get into a green pickup truck on Route 27, which connects to the logging road.”
“So you think some random guy in a red van or a green pickup truck kidnapped my sister and buried her in Blackwood’s backyard? Why? Who would do such a thing?”
Dyson paused to wipe his mouth on a paper napkin. “Bear with me. I’m just getting started.”
“Look, I don’t doubt for a second that Nelly is telling the truth about her uncle. I know a sexual abuse victim when I see one. But that just reinforces his guilt in my mind, because it’s not such a leap from child-molester to child-murderer.”
“What would you say if I told you that everything you know about the case is wrong?”
“I’d say prove it to me.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s set aside your sister for a moment. You’ve heard about the Hannah Lloyd case? That was a brutal crime. Some of the evidence pointed to her next-door neighbor, a convicted pedophile. We arrested him, but the DA couldn’t prove it in court, and the trial ended in a hung jury. He went free. Then he offed himself, before the prosecutor could mount a new trial. A very convenient death.”
Kate blinked. “Are you implying somebody killed him?”
He cleared his throat. “I think your sister and Hannah Lloyd met the same fate—same killer, similar modus operandi. Both died as the result of asphyxiation—suffocation or strangulation—and both had hair cut off. I believe the same psychopath was behind those two murders, as well as some of the other disappearances in the area.”
She shook her head numbly. “Are you talking about Makayla Brayden? She was into drugs. She hitchhiked and came from a broken home—three factors that put her at risk of victimization by a stranger.”
“Kate,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, can I call you Kate?”
She nodded.
“Call me Palmer. Here’s my theory. I’m sure it’s tempting not to want to think about this, okay? He’ll be dead in a few days. But if you’re anything like me, you can’t help but connect the dots and realize things don’t add up. That somebody else is behind everything that’s happened in Blunt River County over the past two decades, including your sister’s homicide.”
A chill crept over her. He was asking her to fundamentally shift her entire way of thinking. For half her life, Kate had believed that Henry Blackwood had murdered her little sister. She shook her head. “If that’s the case, then Henry Blackwood was set up. Is that what you’re saying?”
The detective shrugged. “It’s a distinct possibility.”
“But that’s crazy. It would mean whoever did this went to a great deal of trouble to make him look guilty. It would be wildly elaborate and hugely risky. What’s your evidence?”
“We can go over the evidence later on. I’ve got boxes of the stuff at home. But there are other victims. Nine, to my knowledge.” He wiped a daub of grease off his chin. “Look, I retired last year. And confidentially… can I confide in you, Kate?”
She gave a reluctant nod. “Sure.”
“I have cancer. It was in remission, but now it’s back.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said sympathetically.
“Slow-growing Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Ten years ago, I was treated with chemo and radiation, my cancer went into remission, but there was a recurrence five years later. More treatment. I was in remission again. Now they tell me it’s spreading. I’ve been told I’m therapy-resistant. So I applied for a clinical trial in New York for immunotherapy, but there’s a long waiting list.”
Kate didn’t know what to say.
“Anyway, I found a clinic in Tijuana that specializes in the same immunotherapy as the clinical trial. Hey, I know what you’re thinking: medical tourism. But I’ve read up on it extensively. The therapy is non-toxic, harmless at worst. For me, it’s a no-brainer.”
Kate nodded, unprepared for this confession.
“Look, I’ve made my peace with it. You can only go through so many rounds of chemo and radiation before it knocks the piss out of you. But my bigger point is, it adds urgency to my mission. Not many people know about the recurrence, so please…”
“Of course. I won’t tell a soul.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, back to what I was saying before. When Hannah’s body was found in the woods, her hair had been shaved off, just like your sister. And both girls died as the result of having their air supply cut off, one way or another. This is why I believe the two cases are related.”
Kate stared at Palmer. “You don’t buy that Hannah was murdered by her neighbor?”
He squinted at her. “No. I think there’s a bigger picture here.”
Kate felt a heavy sadness dragging her down. “I’ve always wondered why Blackwood shaved Savannah’s head.”
“What’s your best guess… being a psychiatrist and all?” he asked. “What does it signify?”
“That’s just it, it doesn’t make sense. Savannah was a little girl. Small for her age. I’d understand if he’d shaved the head of a grown woman, but a little kid…”
“What do you mean—grown woman?”
“To shave a woman’s head is to shame her. To separate her from her femininity, her sexual power.”
Palmer wagged a finger at her. “You’re good. You went right to the heart of it. No bullshit. I like that.”
“It’s Psych 101.”
“On the contrary. And I should know. I paid a lot of money for behavioral profiling back in the day. I’d like to get your take on some of the other missing girls, see if there are any other similarities between them and your sister’s case, besides the ones I’ve drawn.”
The bell jangled above the door again, and two middle-aged cops walked in. They waved at Palmer, and he waved back. He finished his sandwich and chased it down with the rest of his Coke. She listened to the ice chips clinking against his glass.
“My colleagues think I’m crazy,” he confided. “But a long time ago, I noticed a connection, and I’m convinced there’s a bigger story here. I want to prove those bench-warmers wrong.”
Kate thought it sounded like bravado. “Do you have any kids, Palmer?”
He shook his head. “Just an ex-wife. The divorce rate for cops is pretty high. My wife used to complain because I worked all the time. She called me cold and distant, and that’s funny, because I’m actually a warm and fuzzy guy. But I used to spend all my days hunting down killers, thieves, and
rapists. That changes a person. We grew apart. I don’t blame her. I couldn’t stop obsessing over these cases, including your sister’s.” He grabbed another napkin from the dispenser and wiped his face. “Now I can’t stop investigating, even though I’m retired. It’s like the wheels won’t stop turning.”
“Were any other girls buried alive?” Kate asked, curious and resentful at the same time. She didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t want to be drawn into his obsession; and besides, what did that say about the court system and justice? What about Henry Blackwood? How could he possibly be innocent? After all this time? Kate knew all about copycat killers. She’d taken criminal psych courses in college.
“We don’t know. Some of the girls are still missing. The rest were either strangled or suffocated before the bodies were staged.”
“Staged?”
Palmer cleared his throat. “To look like accidents,” he explained. “Like I said, we can go over the evidence…”
She touched her coffee cup. It was cold. “The way she died still haunts me,” she confided. “Buried alive. People say upsetting things without meaning to… I’m digging up dirt, six feet under, I clawed my way out… a bunch of harmless clichés, right?” She shook her head. “It stops me cold.”
He looked at her with compassion. Then he tapped his index finger on the table and said, “Would you be willing to check out some of these cold cases for me? See if you can spot any details that might correspond to your sister’s case? Something you’d forgotten about?”
Kate groped for an excuse. She resisted it with every fiber of her being. She already knew who killed Savannah, knew it in her bones… and yet… could it be? She’d not known about Hannah Lloyd’s hair being shaved off before. It wouldn’t hurt to look at the other cases, at the very least.
“If I look at the files and come to the conclusion you’re wrong about this… then I’m going to tell you. Point-blank. Because if you can’t prove it to me, if you can’t convince me he’s a hundred per cent innocent, then I’m going to forget about it. Let him fry.”
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