Portrait of Vengeance

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  THE MUSCLES ACROSS MY SHOULDERS TIGHTENED. I wiped my hands on my slacks. “We found it,” I whispered.

  The farmhouse was completely boarded over, paint long peeled off, and the porch had collapsed in the middle. Dan turned off the engine, then the headlights. No light escaped the rotting building.

  A shiver crossed my neck. Is poor little Beatrice somewhere in this crumbling house? Dan found a second flashlight, I grabbed my light and the teddy bear, and we stepped from the SUV. A portion of a picket fence lay in the knee-high weeds that formed a lawn. The grasses appeared undisturbed leading to the front door.

  “Gwen, I don’t think anyone’s been here in quite a while. That front door is inaccessible.”

  “Let’s try the back.” With Dan leading, we pushed through the overgrown landscape to the rear of the building. A pack of coyotes yipped and howled, much closer than before. Though I knew coyotes almost never attacked humans, their cries slid up and down my spine.

  We stumbled on a worn path. Dan bent down and inspected the dirt for a moment, then stood and waved me forward. The rear of the house was also overgrown, but here the weeds and grasses were trampled. A rusty swing set swayed gently in the breeze, letting out a slight squeak as the chain rubbed against the metal. A faint foul odor made me blink.

  The back door was off a small porch. I aimed my flashlight on the door. A shiny new padlock held it shut.

  “Wait here.” Dan left me and headed back to his SUV.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak. The metallic screeching got on my nerves. Please, Lord, let us not be too late. I hugged the teddy bear tighter.

  Soft footsteps approached and Dan reappeared carrying the handle of a car jack. Wordlessly he handed me his flashlight, then used the hunk of metal to rip the latch from the doorjamb. The sound was like a shotgun in the quiet evening. We entered a kitchen with a dirty brown linoleum floor and white painted cupboards. Dan put his hand out to stop me from moving farther into the house.

  I heard it.

  A low, humming sound.

  I played my light around the room. The humming came from the refrigerator. I stepped over and opened the door. No light came on, but cool air brushed past me. A gallon of milk, a wrapped piece of baklava, and a container of something rested on the shelf. Opening the container, I found applesauce. I closed the door. “Beatrice? Beatrice, sweetheart, can you hear me?”

  “You’re sure she’s here?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Don’t say it. Don’t even think she’s not alive.

  None of the light switches worked. The kitchen led directly into a living room devoid of furniture. A short hall to my left opened to a bathroom directly ahead and doors at either end. The door on my right, which would have faced the front of the house, stood open. The one on the left was held shut with a simple slide bolt. I tried to unlatch it, but my hands were too sweaty. Dan slid it aside. The door opened with a screech of rusty hinges.

  The earlier slight stench was immediate and overwhelming.

  Human waste.

  My eyes burned from the acrid odor coming from an overflowing bucket in the corner. A single stained mattress with a sleeping bag was in the center of the room. A ladder-back chair held a tray with an empty paper plate and bowl. Two water bottles, both empty, were on the floor.

  “Beatrice?” I took a step into the room. Empty. Had he killed her? Were we too late? “Beatrice, sweetheart, I have someone here for you.” My voice warbled. “Come here and see. I have your teddy bear.” I put the light on the bear. “Come on, Busy Bee. Please . . .” My voice broke.

  A soft sigh.

  I spun. In the corner behind the door a tiny girl crouched, arms wrapped around her legs. I pulled the light off her and returned it to her teddy. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s take teddy and leave.” I crouched and held the bear out to her.

  Slowly she untangled herself and stood. She wore a too-large dress, urine-stained pants, and one sock. Her other foot was bare. Outside of being dirty and smelly, she didn’t seem to have any cuts or bruises on her. “Come here, darlin’.” I opened my arms and held my breath.

  Her thumb went into her mouth. She hesitated.

  “Come here, Busy Bee.”

  She flew into my arms, burying her face in my neck. I tucked the bear under her arm and stood, still holding her. Dan had remained in the doorway. “Let’s get her out of here.”

  We hurried through the house, Dan now holding both lights so I could see. The outside air was pure pleasure to breathe. “Can you call Seth now?” I paused in the yard to clear my lungs. Dan pulled out his phone, then shook his head. “We’ll need to be closer to town.”

  When we reached the SUV, I had Dan open the rear where my luggage and art supplies were. I found a soft pink cashmere sweater I’d purchased at my favorite secondhand store and wrapped the child in it. Placing the little girl in the back seat, I was about to shut the door when she whispered something.

  “What’s that, sweetheart?” I leaned closer to her.

  She whispered it again. “What about the others?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  I GRABBED THE CAR SEAT TO KEEP FROM FALLING. “What others, Beatrice?”

  Still holding her bear with one arm, she raised the other and pointed at the house. I turned to Dan. “Did you hear her? There are others in the house.”

  Dan leaned close to my ear so the child couldn’t hear. “Alive or dead?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered back.

  “You stay here with the little girl. I’ll see if I can find . . . anything.” He left.

  I crawled onto the back seat next to Beatrice. Her bare foot bothered me. Giving her a hug, I got out and opened the rear cargo area. I found a bag of clean underclothes and pulled out a pair of black wool socks. Nearby was the file with the names of the children. I’d made a point of not knowing their names. Now it might be important. Grabbing the file, I returned to the back seat and pulled the socks on the child. They would have felt really good in the wilderness. Was that just two days ago?

  Opening the file, I saw the summary of abductions along with the names of the children stapled on the inside. Opposite were the wanted flyers Beth had collected from the year of my parents’ deaths. I read the names. The car’s overhead light gave me enough illumination to read. Amanda, Ethyn . . .

  Eric, make that Jacob, had been wrong. We probably would have eventually found the children’s bodies, but way too late. The cruelest end of all.

  Olivia, Jess . . .

  He’d fooled me and covered his tracks well, using the excuse of feeding the homeless to bring food to Beatrice. He was dead now. He’d never hurt another child.

  Noah . . .

  He got hit on the head. Beth’s voice echoed in my brain.

  Yeah. Technically, he hit himself on the noggin to stay off my radar.

  No, Gwen, remember what Lila said? Beth’s voice was insistent.

  Beatrice had drifted off to sleep, tucked under my arm. “Lila said a lot of things,” I whispered. “What are you talking about?”

  Eric baked the baklava on Sunday. He was up the night before because of the knock on the head. That’s what Lila told you.

  What Beth said was important. I just couldn’t figure out why. “Okay. Sunday. Why is that important?”

  When did someone try to kill you with arrows in the wilderness?

  “Sunday.”

  But you figured out whoever shot you and Phil had to have been out in that wilderness the night before. So it couldn’t have been Jacob.

  “Are you saying Jacob didn’t try to kill me?”

  Oh, he tried to kill you all right, but not with arrows. Not in the wilderness. Someone else didn’t want you to go to that plane crash.

  The sound of crickets grew louder. Crashing doors and footsteps came from the house.

  My stomach twisted. “But all that was there was a gun, part of a purse, a tube of lipstick, a chain, and a compact.”

  What were your parents seek
ing?

  Carefully I withdrew my arm from around the sleeping Beatrice, then stepped from the car. I aimed my flashlight at the wanted flyers.

  Wanted by the US Marshals. William Lawrence Waters. A blurry black-and-white photograph captured a group of Native Americans, all carrying rifles, walking toward the cameraman.

  The creak of the back door was followed by footsteps across the wooden porch at the rear of the house.

  I held the light closer to the paper, straining to see the faces.

  The swishing of disturbed grasses silenced the crickets. The footsteps grew louder.

  There were four faces in the photo. One by one, I studied them. No. No. No. Yes.

  Adrenaline coursed through my body. I wanted to run but remained rooted to the spot.

  Someone stepped on a twig. Swiftly I closed the file, then held my light on the path.

  Like the Pied Piper, Dan led the children toward the SUV. I counted. Five children. Only the first girl Jacob abducted hadn’t made it. All of them. All but one. Thank you, Lord.

  I kept my eyes on the children, not wanting Dan to see my expression. The children gathered around me. I tried to remember their names. “Amanda?”

  A small five-year-old girl with braided hair smiled shyly at me.

  “Noah?”

  The tallest of the children raised his hand. He’d been with Jacob the longest. Five years.

  “Ethyn?”

  A black-haired boy nodded.

  “Olivia? Jess?”

  Two girls between six and eight raised their hands. I wanted to ask them what had happened to them, but I knew better. They would need trained interviewers who specialized in working with children. I just needed to get them to safety. “My name is Gwen.”

  “Angel Gwen,” Noah said.

  “No, just Gwen,” I managed to say around the lump in my throat. “Hop in the car. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Beatrice woke as the children got in the car. She stared wordlessly at the newcomers, then slid over so Amanda could sit next to her.

  Once everyone had settled, I got into the front seat. Dan was already behind the wheel. He turned the SUV around and headed down the road toward civilization.

  Soon, very soon, we’d all be safe.

  “Gwen.” Dan’s voice was soft. “What were you reading when we came to the car?”

  “Noth . . . nothing. Just looking up the names of the children.”

  “Let me see it.”

  I could say no. Tell him I threw it away.

  “Gwen, give me the file.” He held out his hand.

  The images were faded and extremely difficult to see. And the name was different. I could act stupid and pretend I didn’t recognize the face in the photo. “Here.” I pulled the file out. “Just names and some of Beth’s research.”

  He snatched the file from me and opened it on the console between us.

  Wanted: William Lawrence Waters

  Blood drained from my face. Dan let go of the file and reached to his left side. “The Nimi’ipuu name for water is Ku’s.”

  He leveled a pistol at me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  “IF YOU TRY ANYTHING, IF YOU SO MUCH AS MOVE, I’LL shoot you. Then I’ll shoot the kids.” His quiet voice left no room for argument.

  I clenched my hands into fists. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  He concentrated on driving, but his aim never wavered from my midsection. “You’re a smart lady, Gwen. Even without finding the wanted poster, you had already pretty much figured out your dad was with law enforcement. As my son said to you”—he smiled without showing his teeth—“you would have connected the dots.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Ah, but you were so close. Once you started looking at law enforcement, that would have led you to who died on the date of the plane crash. Even though working undercover, a federal marshal’s death is noted. Federal marshal usually means fugitive.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me at the motel? Or the other times we were alone?”

  “I tried killing you twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “Once at the police department when I found out who you were. Once in the wilderness.”

  We reached the bottom of the hill and turned toward Kamiah. Maybe I could jump out of the car when we stopped for a light. I glanced back at the children. No. I couldn’t leave them.

  Dan was right. I would have figured out his secret eventually. “You said to keep away from Nick Wolf, who has ties to Pine Ridge. You said you and Nick have a long history—I bet it goes all the way back to the American Indian Movement.”

  “See? You had all the information.”

  “But you also said their son, Thomas, was a foster child. If Nick was on the wrong side of the law, he wouldn’t have been allowed to be Thomas’s foster parent.”

  “Very good, Gwen. I even told you about the murder of my wife and daughter, yet another Indian slaughter sanctified by the United States government. They were just another set of dead rez Indians.” His voice dripped bitterness.

  We drove though the small town. The night was quiet, traffic nonexistent. When we reached Highway 12, Dan turned left toward Lewiston.

  Maybe he was taking us to a hospital. Or back to my motel.

  Fat chance.

  “Where are you taking us?”

  “I disappeared before. I can do it again. I just need to buy time, put you someplace where you won’t be found for a while.”

  I didn’t believe him.

  “What about your son? You’re so proud of Seth. What’s he going to say?”

  “Don’t worry about him. I’ll explain it to him. He knows me. He’ll understand.”

  The children had curled up in the back of the SUV and were sleeping. Sleep was a good defense mechanism. I racked my brain trying to think of some way I could stop Dan, get help, escape. Every time I glanced at him, he seemed to know and gently moved the pistol.

  We turned toward Ahsahka—and the reservoir.

  “You could just drop us off someplace.” I tried to keep my voice level. “I won’t say anything. I promise.”

  He didn’t bother to answer.

  We climbed past the dam, then down to the Big Eddy Marina. “When I stop the car, I expect you to control the kids.” He slowed the SUV as we entered the parking area. “We’re going on a boat ride. That’s all you need to tell them.”

  He stopped the car and motioned for me to get out. He knew me too well, knew I wouldn’t run, wouldn’t leave these kids. The night was cool, filled with scents of the lake and the gentle slapping of water on the shore. I opened the rear door and helped the sleepy children out. When all six children were assembled beside me, Dan turned on a flashlight and motioned us to the docks.

  I picked up Beatrice and stumbled ahead on numb legs. I didn’t want to consider what his plan was.

  His boat was moored at the end of the dock. I headed toward it.

  “Stop.”

  I paused.

  “Get in the boat.”

  Looking around, I didn’t see a boat.

  “I said, get into the boat.” He indicated a tiny rowboat tied up behind his boat.

  “But . . . but that’s not big enough—”

  “One more word out of you and I shoot the nearest kid,” he whispered.

  The rowboat was designed for two adults, not an adult and six children. The oars were missing and there were no life vests.

  The young faces stared at me.

  Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the middle of the boat. It wobbled under my weight. “Okay, children, please listen to me. We’re going for a boat ride. Noah, you’re the oldest. Bring the children over, one at a time, and I’ll help them in.”

  Noah frowned but took Beatrice by the hand and led her to the edge of the dock. I pulled the boat as close as possible and lifted her over, placing her in the front. One by one, the children quietly got into the rowboat. Tears stung my eyes and I bit the inside of my mouth, w
ondering what all they’d gone through to be so quiet and obedient.

  When all the children were aboard, I sat on the floor to make it more stable.

  Dan shoved the rowboat away from the dock, keeping hold of the bow line, and walked to his own boat about four feet away. He tied the line to his boat, then started the engine. Slowly we pulled away from the dock. The rowboat twisted and rocked.

  Working some spit into my mouth, I said quietly, “Be still. Be very quiet and still.”

  After a few moments he slowed, then stopped the engine. Something splashed in the water behind me. I carefully turned.

  The splash was the slowly sinking bow line.

  “You’re leaving us out here?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be found.”

  I wanted to say not if we sink, but I didn’t want to alarm the children.

  Our boats were drifting farther apart.

  “Dan, wait. It’s not too late. I’m not your enemy. I’m not the government. These children are innocent. All those things you did before, whatever it was that made you a fugitive, are in the past. You can’t paint everyone with the same brush. We are in a different time, a different place, a different people—”

  “Haven’t you ever heard about the sins of the father passing on?” He started his engine again.

  “Yes, but I’ve also heard we are each responsible for our own actions. Judge me for what I’ve done to you, for what these children have done to you.”

  “Is he going to sink the boat?” Noah asked.

  “No.” Dan turned the boat toward shore. “I don’t have to. I’m going to disappear again, but first I’m finishing the work I started over thirty years ago.” He shoved the throttle forward and his boat took off toward shore. The wake rocked the rowboat violently. The girls clutched each other but were silent.

  “What’s he going to do?” Noah asked. He’d put his arm protectively around Amanda’s shoulders.

  Complete the work he started thirty years ago?

  Thirty years ago, he was going to blow up the dam.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  I WAS GLAD IT WAS DARK. THE CHILDREN WOULDN’T BE able to see my face. Not clearly, that is. “Children, we need to get to shore as fast and as safely as possible.”