I’d wanted to take a boat down the Powell River since we first visited the crime scene; I needed to see everything from the killer’s vantage point and continue to work on the killer’s possible pattern. Due to the regular use of the river, our team determined the killer must have positioned the bodies during the night or at daybreak to avoid being seen. A night drop would have required some sort of headlamp or spotlight since there was no lighting around the river and the killer would have been working in the black of a country night. Whether the positioning took place at night or daybreak, it would have required the killer to know the river and have experience maneuvering Dead Man’s Point. And our team determined the killer most likely used a canoe rather than a kayak. The killer would have needed to work hard at getting a dead body into the seat of a kayak, not to mention that the deadweight could have toppled over the little vessel. The unnecessary work and risks made the canoe a much more viable option.
Bennett stood before me on the river’s bank in skintight biking shorts that left little to the imagination and a yellow sleeveless tank. Her loose curls were tucked underneath a Boston Red Sox hat with the bill pulled down low enough to meet the top of her aviator sunglasses. With lean long arms, she showed me how to row the kayak. I followed her figure-eight movements in the air, my paddle strokes not nearly as fluid and gentle as hers.
“The river can get pretty deep in some places, above my shoulders,” Bennett said. She shifted the paddle in her hands to show me how to slow the kayak down in the water.
I laughed. “For shorties like me, that means the water will be well over my head.”
“You’ll do fine,” Bennett said in her usual confident tone. The beginning of crow’s feet lined her brown eyes and crinkled with her easy grin. “Watch the current—that’s what flusters a lot of kayakers in the water. It will be stronger in some places, but the motion of the water will always pull your kayak downstream.”
My nervousness wasn’t completely about the water. After all, I was a strong swimmer. I didn’t like the small plastic kayak that looked so confining particularly in the strong current. I’d been watching the waves roll by and remembered the places I’d seen in the river where the water whitecapped with the current’s force. I’d rather have full use of my arms and legs inside the rush of water than on top of it.
Bennett checked over each of our kayaks for possible leaks or damage. She spoke to me as she worked, explaining that she’d left the area for college and medical school. Once she graduated, she’d traveled and worked in a few different locations throughout the country, but never really felt at home. Eventually, she found her way back to Wallace Lake.
“I couldn’t forget these waters,” Bennett said. “It’s the constant here, you know? We’re lucky enough to have a substantial river and lake, and I love that you can’t get away from the sounds of flowing water.”
I looked out at that flowing water and felt intimidated. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this, Bennett.”
She chuckled. “Come on! It will be fun, and you have a PFD on,” Bennett reminded me. “The water is very calm today.”
I pulled the clasps of my life jacket tighter and adjusted my Cincinnati Reds ball cap to shield the sun from my face.
“Hang on a minute.” Bennett left me at the water’s edge as she ran back to her Silverado pickup, its black pearl paint shining in the sun, a beautiful truck that I was very jealous of. She returned with a spray can of sunscreen. “You better coat your arms. This sun is hotter than it feels.”
It was a small gesture, but sweet—something that endeared Bennett to me. I rarely thought about precautions like sunscreen and assumed my body had seen enough sun and could take it. I also hadn’t spent much of my time in the presence of a doctor. I followed her orders by coating my sleeveless arms and even spread some of the sunscreen across my nose and cheeks.
Bennett set my kayak in the river, and I waded out the pebbly shore until the water rose above my knees. With one hand, Bennett held the kayak in place. With the other, she held on to my elbow and helped guide me into the little plastic boat. Her touch was strong and sure, and I appreciated her warm skin against my own.
“Enjoy the ride,” Bennett called out as she pushed my kayak into the water’s gentle but firm current.
“Wait!” I yelled when a sudden panic filled me. “I’m not ready.”
Bennett threw her head back and laughed. “You’re ready, girl. Don’t worry—I’m right behind you.”
At first, my kayak stalled out, almost standing still amidst the surrounding water’s movement, and then my kayak slowly found its way into the river’s flow. Suddenly, the front edge nudged back to the right, and I was headed back toward the river’s embankment.
Bennett yelled from the side, “You have the paddle for a reason. Turn yourself left, and aim for the middle of the river.”
I dunked the paddle into the water, the flat edge of it a hard line against the river’s current. I pushed against the heavy weight of water and heaved the tiny boat and myself toward the center of the river. Behind me, Bennett cheered as the kayak finally fell in line with the water’s flow, and I headed downstream. I let the water carry me and rested my paddle over my lap and against the kayak’s hard plastic sides.
I was immediately struck by the way my body felt inside the kayak. Not for the claustrophobic—I had only enough width to shift my body a few inches either direction. Somehow, though, the kayak was comforting and safe, like a cocoon. It sat low in the water, and I felt the pressure of the water through the plastic. I had become a part of the river. I dipped my hand into the calm and lapping river—the equivalent, it felt like, of weaving my hand through the rushing air of an open car window. With the touch of the rolling water against my hand everything slowed down: my thoughts, my breath, my heartbeat. I could get used to this, I thought. I knew I could easily fall in love with the cool water licking the edges of my little plastic boat and the smell of the river at my fingertips, teeming with life.
Then Bennett was at my side, the tip of her royal blue kayak slicing through the calm waters next to mine. “You’re a natural.”
“Thanks, Bennett. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
She gave me one of her perfect smiles. “You know, you can call me Harper.”
I evaluated her for a moment. “Yeah, somehow I only see you as Bennett.”
She laughed. “The same way I only see you as Hansen.”
Bennett directed me to edge the paddle in the water to keep myself in line with the current that was beginning to pick up. Then she said, “My grandmother fought hard for my name.”
“Was Harper her name?”
“No, but Grandmother was a writer, and she idolized Harper Lee. She always said that she looked into my eyes when I first arrived in this world and knew I was a writer, too.”
Bennett showed me how to use the paddle to weave between the small crescents of current. “Were you named after anyone specific?”
I hadn’t considered my namesake in a long time, but I knew both my parents had their reasons. “My mom liked the name Lucy because of Lucille Ball—she always wanted to be an actress. My dad liked the name Lucinda because he was a big fan of Lucinda Williams and Emmylou Harris. I think he secretly always wanted to be a rock star. Somehow, Luce grew out of that.”
“You do have a rocker-cool look going on.”
Rocker-cool? Really? There had been absolutely no rocker-cool going on anywhere around me when Sanders rescued me from my apartment only a few days ago.
We rolled alongside each other while an occasional car peeked through the wooded two-lane road that followed the river’s edge. We were still a few miles out from Dead Man’s Point, the place the women were found in the river and that turn in the road where so many had lost their lives.
I thought about how Wallace Lake had a large missing persons cold case unit, and I wondered why such a beautiful place might have that legacy. “What’s your take on why there have been so many d
isappearances in this area over the years?”
“If you believe the locals,” Bennett said, “the disappearances are due to the ancient Indian burial grounds that surround the river and lake.” Bennett went on to explain that some people believed the land and its water held power; it had the ability to claim people.
“Claim people?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Some think the land selects individuals and holds them here. The earth literally claims them by burial.”
“What do you say about it?”
She shrugged. “From a scientist’s viewpoint, I can tell you that the earth in Wallace Lake County is soft because of the water. That softness makes it easier to hide all kinds of things in the ground.”
We followed a gentle bend in the river, and my kayak nudged into hers. When I finally got myself back toward the center of the river, Bennett said, “The way I see it, we are much more connected to the earth than any of us realize. Our skeletons absorb trace amounts of the environmental toxins from where we live. We take in our surroundings.”
“So, quite literally, our bones belong to the earth,” I said.
Bennett agreed. “I like to think of it as the body’s way of carrying a pocketful of home everywhere we go.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Bennett had an interesting way of looking at the world, one that I could clearly visualize.
“By the way, where is Harvey?”
“Tracking down some leads in town with twelve-step programs,” I said. “We’ll meet up later, but I needed a break.”
“I understand. Harvey doesn’t always play fair.”
“How so?”
“She’s used to getting her way.” The sunlight reflected off the current and from Bennett’s sunglasses. I tried to picture what her eyes looked like under those lenses. Angry? Irritated?
“How long?” I asked. When she gave me a sharp look, I added, “How long were you two together?”
“You don’t miss much, do you?”
“I’m a special agent,” I reminded her.
“A good one, apparently,” Bennett said. “Harvey and I were short-lived, only a few weeks. We managed to keep it between the two of us, and as far as I know, it never got out.” Bennett added, “And yes, I regret it terribly.”
I laughed. “I’ve had a few of those, too. I think everyone has had one of those relationships at one time or another.”
I thought of Rowan. I didn’t regret our relationship, but I regretted the pain of our breakup. I regretted that we’d gone on together so long, even when it was apparent that neither of us would, or could, change. For the first time, I was able to see how very different Rowan and I were from the start. Perhaps those opposites were what drew me to her; Rowan’s life was full of color, and she insisted on the belief that the good would always outweigh the bad with enough yoga and meditation. Despite all of Rowan’s talk about balance, we never achieved any semblance of it between us. With the distance and possibly the change of scenery, I could now see that Rowan and I had been at two opposing poles while trying to communicate with each other in foreign languages.
“It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? Three women on this investigative team, and we’re all lesbians. Knocks those statistics out of the crowd, huh?”
Bennett chuckled. “Or maybe it’s just the law enforcement profession. How long have you been out?”
“Since I was fifteen or so.” It was a long story, some of which I gathered Bennett knew from the press. “You?”
“College. ”
Our paddles sliced through the water side by side for over an hour. With the warm sun on our shoulders, we talked about our work and our pasts. It was easy to feel comfortable with Bennett, and I had the very distinct feeling we’d known each other for years. Still, I surprised myself when I told Bennett about the breakup with Rowan and the dogs I’d left with her. I told Bennett about my inability to put work second, to let a case rest while I was assigned to it. I also told Bennett about Marci Tucker, the girl I’d fallen in love with so many years ago at the One True Path ex-gay ministry, the same girl I’d found murdered in a cave carved from limestone in Willow’s Ridge, Ohio.
“Have you ever gone to those meetings with other ex-gay ministry survivors? What do they call them…ex-ex-gay ministry support groups?”
“I haven’t, but there is a group meeting in Ohio now.” I thought of Sanders and his insistence that I contact Eli Weaver after the Willow’s Ridge case ended. Rowan had wanted me to as well. I still hadn’t contacted Weaver, mainly because he reminded me so much of the Willow’s Ridge case. He’d been helpful in teasing out the ideology behind ex-gay ministries and providing insight into our killer, but there was a part of me that wasn’t ready for any more groups related to ex-gay ministries.
As we neared the twin land bars, the water grew deeper and darker. The current picked up, and Bennett maneuvered in front of my kayak as she jetted down the river. I followed the directions she shouted over her shoulder about how to best use the paddle. We rode over the churning water’s hills and valleys until we reached the bend of Dead Man’s Point. I plunged my paddle deep to slow down and struggled against the heave of the water that pushed back hard. The killer would have needed significant strength to stop a canoe in these currents, particularly given the weight of a dead body onboard. Judging from the trouble I had keeping the kayak from tipping, I figured the killer must have been a very skilled paddler and no stranger to these waters.
My kayak rounded the bend of Dead Man’s Point behind Bennett’s, and I heard the music and muffled voices of a party before I saw anyone. Laughter filtered through the trees. I caught fragments of movement on the forested hillside.
The land bars approached fast on my right, and I fought the current to slow the kayak and turn toward the bank of the bar. Instead, the kayak spun in the water, wild and out of my control, hurling me off to the river’s stony side.
Whoever was hiding along the steep hillside saw us. The music shut down followed by the sound of movements. I looked up into the forested hillside. If this was a regular hangout, these people could have seen the killer dump the bodies on the land bar. The height of the location made it the perfect spot to see what was happening below. And, conversely, it also was the perfect location to keep watch over the bodies.
I pulled my knees to my chest and tried to climb out of the kayak without tipping it over. No luck. I was dumped into the cold water face first, just as Bennett made her way back to me. So much for rocker-cool. Kicking hard against the kayak, I also thrashed my body around in the water until I was able to break free from the little boat. I caught the tip of the kayak just before it floated downstream. Wading up the muddy bank with river water seeping from my clothing and hair, I heard someone say, “Go!” followed by the sounds of snapping branches and footfalls.
I shot into the woods and fumbled with the gnarled undergrowth and thick foliage. Finally, I found a thin path up the hillside, hidden so well, you almost needed to know it was there to find it. Branches swatted at me as the remaining river-bottom muck weighed down my feet. The hill was steeper than I expected, and the leftover water from my sandals oozed out. I slipped on the dank mud, my open palms and fingers plunging into the cool earth. Scrambling against the foliage, I followed the voices upward until I emerged into a clearing.
Below, Bennett had landed and pulled both of our kayaks safely from the water. She gave me a quick wave to let me know she’d soon follow.
The clearing was a teenager’s dream party spot. The space was circular, with the remnants of a recent bonfire at its center. A thick fallen tree trunk served as a bench around the fire pit, and messages had been carved into the rotten wood about luv and 4ever. Empty beef jerky and candy wrappers were lodged within the undergrowth along with crushed beer cans and empty bottles of cheap alcohol. Cigarette butts littered the area, and it still stank of pot. Hidden by the trees and foliage, the clearing made it difficult for anyone to sneak up on the group, just as I’d found out. It r
eminded me of the place Marci had frequented in Willow’s Ridge for many of the same reasons. She’d called her space Stonehenge because it was hidden away in the limestone caves of the quarry. In either case, the point was these were secret places where teens could discover themselves and others. I was willing to bet that just as Marci named her secret place Stonehenge, this clearing also had a name that the teens used.
Whoever had been in this space couldn’t have gone far. I followed the path up the steep slope where it eventually threw me onto an unpaved country road. I took in the scene from behind the foliage. A dark green Land Rover was parked along the dirt road near a faint dusty trail left by another vehicle that had already gone. A man stood with two teenage girls near the Land Rover, and he leaned forward as he spoke, looming above the girls as he held one girl’s arm tightly. The girls’ terrified faces reflected back in his oversized sunglasses. I couldn’t make out what he said, only snatches of words and phrases, although he spoke to the two girls with the distinct air of authority.
Bennett caught up and stood behind me. “What’s going on?”
“Do you recognize that man? Or those girls?” I asked.
“I don’t. Do you have your badge or a weapon?” Bennett pulled her cell from a shirt pocket. “Anything on you?”
I shook my head. “Stay hidden. Take as many pictures as you can of these people and the vehicles.”
“Hansen, wait!” She grasped my forearm. “They could be armed.”
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