by Jen Blood
And then, in 2008, she’d resurfaced. Jack had no idea what precipitated the change, but she moved cross country the summer of that year and returned to Maine.
At which point, she went to work for Brock Campbell.
Campbell was thirty years her senior.
Jack was certain the man was Bear’s father. There had never been any public statement to that effect, but Campbell had left Jamie his business and a ten million-dollar trust for Bear. Jamie had been the sole beneficiary of his insurance policy, worth millions. Why else would he do something like that?
And then there were the circumstances surrounding Campbell’s unexpected death. The picture of health, he had dropped dead of a supposed heart attack at fifty-five.
Bear and Jamie had been the only ones at home at the time.
There was a story there. Had she gotten the scars somehow while she’d been with Campbell? Or were they the result of some childhood accident? Jack didn’t think so. The way she tried to hide them suggested she was ashamed; Jamie wasn’t the kind of woman who would be vain enough to hide something like that. Unless there was a reason she didn’t want Jack to know how she’d gotten them.
He rolled over again on the overly firm hotel mattress, and yawned. He was exhausted.
Still, there were so many things to think about. Someone else had killed Melanie Redfield and possibly the other women—not Gordon.
In which case, Jack had been complicit in putting an innocent man behind bars.
He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to deal with that.
A branch scraped against the window outside his room, and he pulled his blankets up to his chin. He thought he heard a voice in the hallway outside his door, but when he closed his eyes and focused, there was nothing there.
Suddenly, the voice returned—louder this time. A gust of wind swept through the room. He looked to the window, and his heart lodged in his throat when a girl’s pale face peered in at him. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but he heard no sound.
Jack jolted awake, heart hammering. He looked at the window. It was closed tight, the filmy curtains still. No face stared at him from behind the glass.
It had just been a dream.
Regardless, it took a long time before he was able to close his eyes and sleep again.
#
After Jack disappeared behind his door, I rethought things before retiring to my own room. Phantom looked at me with long-suffering eyes, but she followed me as I limped back down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door, my knee in agony the whole way.
On my way out to retrieve Casper and Minion from the van, I was surprised to see Rita getting out of the driver side of a little sedan in the parking lot. She looked up when I approached, her weary face cast in shadow from the light of the motel.
“I didn’t expect to see you back here tonight,” I said. “It looked like you were all gearing up for an all-nighter.”
“I needed a break,” she said. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail, and I noted again the power and natural athleticism in her movements. If I were a bad guy, I would hate to come up against her in a dark alley.
“I can’t imagine spending much time with those photos,” I said. “Particularly when they’re reminders of the kind of past someone I love has had.”
“Someone I loved,” she said. The words came out dully, her eyes dead. “Gordon and I had a past—it’s over now.”
“Because he lied to you about McDonough?” I ventured.
She studied me, but she didn’t look particularly surprised that I’d figured it out. “Because he lied to me about everything.” To my surprise, tears sprang to her eyes. She looked away. “I’ve given up everything to get him this far. And he…” She shook her head, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. “Forget it. Just…watch out for Gordon, all right? He’ll go back to prison tomorrow. Maybe that’s the best place for him after all.”
She pushed past me without another word, but I was uneasy with just how profound her grief was as she strode away. I actually considered going after her, concerned about what she might do if she were alone tonight, but stopped when I saw her going toward McDonough’s motel room door.
I might be incapable of leaning on someone in my hour of need, but maybe she wasn’t. The idea gave me unexpected hope.
Casper and Minion had been relegated to crates in the van during the whole debacle with Jack and me in the tunnel. I opened the cargo doors at the back of the van, and Casper’s shrill bark pierced the night.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “Easy, it’s just me.”
He and Minion both stood in their crates, tails and bodies wagging, Casper whimpering frantically as he pawed at the door. I opened the crates and snapped leashes to collars. Casper’s body never stopped moving as he wound his way around my legs, butting his thick bully head against my thighs, his whip-like tail sending a jolt of pain through me when it slapped against my bruised knee.
Minion, on the other hand, remained quiet and subdued, the little yellow dog almost mournful as she followed me back into the hotel, her tail between her legs. She’d come to the rescue younger than most of our dogs did—barely four weeks, far younger than any pup should be separated from its mother. She’d been the sole survivor in a litter of five after the mother died giving birth in a little shelter in northern New Hampshire. Ren had only been twelve at the time, and new to the rescue—new to America. She barely weighed eighty pounds herself. Hardly spoke English. But she volunteered for the task of keeping the little mutt alive.
For the next month, things were touch and go for Minion. Ren kept at it, though, hand feeding the pup when she wouldn’t eat; keeping her warm at night by sleeping beside her; investing every ounce of her energy into ensuring that her charge pulled through.
And she had. Now, at five years old, Minion was one of our most reliable search dogs. Assuming, of course, that she had Ren at her side to lead her. Without the girl, Minion seemed lost.
“They’re coming back tomorrow,” I whispered to the dogs as I led them back to my room.
I stripped off my clothes on the bathroom floor and left the door open as I ran the shower, scrubbing off the dirt and grime left behind from the day. Everything on me ached. Hell, my skin hurt. My knee was purple and twice its normal size, but I’ve had worse injuries over the years. I ran the miniature bar of hotel soap over the scar at my side, tracing the rough skin all the way down to my thigh.
I didn’t think of Brock Campbell, though on some level the man is always in the back of my mind, the memory of cruel eyes following me into sleep.
Instead, I thought of our son. I thought of Bear’s shy smile when he was little. The way he’d somehow always seemed more animal than human to me, even as a baby. That probably said more about me than it did him—hell, what do you expect from a kid named Bear?
I got out of the shower, toweled off, and didn’t bother to dig through for a clean T-shirt. Instead, I went to the bed and crawled beneath the covers naked. Phantom was sleeping soundly on her dog bed by the window, and paid no attention to me. Casper, on the other hand, hopped right up beside me the moment my eyes were closed. I opened one weary eyeball to find myself nose to nose with the mutt.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Chill.” He gave a goofy little whimper, body still wagging, and circled three times—trampling me soundly in the process—before he finally lay down at my right side. I looked over to my left. Minion stood disconsolately at the edge of the bed, her head hanging low.
“Come on, Min,” I called. I patted the mattress. She hesitated only a moment before she hopped up beside me.
For the next few hours, I slept without waking, without dreaming, sandwiched between two mutts while we waited for the reckoning day to dawn.
* * *
Chapter 21
I WAS UP by quarter past four the next morning. I met Cheryl, Wade, and the other handlers outside, but no one said much as we watched the dogs go through their morn
ing routines. Phantom stayed by my side as usual, and Minion remained aloof and withdrawn until Casper finally drew her out with his typical persistence. If something happened to Ren, how would Minion handle it? I’ve seen dogs wither from grief before, so bonded to their human that they seem unable to shake the loss. It seemed to me that Minion could be one of those dogs.
It was cold and drizzling outside, with heavy rains in the forecast for the day. Not great conditions for a search. No matter, though—we’d all worked in worse.
After the dogs had played and eaten, everyone returned inside to gear up. I handed Casper off to Wade, but kept Minion and Phantom with me as I returned to Glastenbury. The place was chaos when I arrived, news vans lit up and parked for a quarter of a mile along the road to headquarters. More law enforcement had arrived, including half a dozen more federal vehicles and a couple of cruisers. The only good thing I could see out of all this was that the cops were keeping a tight rein on the press, and for once I didn’t have to deal with Angie Crenshaw or her cohorts as I walked the now-familiar path to the war room.
Gordon was in McDonough’s office, though Rita was gone now and Jack had taken her place. His hair was wet and he smelled of aftershave, but his face was drawn and his eyes heavily shadowed. I wondered if he’d slept at all. McDonough seemed to have vacated the premises completely.
“How’s the leg?” Jack asked me.
“Fine,” I said briefly. I felt like ants were crawling under my skin—I didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be anywhere but out in the field. “I just came to check in, see if there’s anything new I need to know. I need to get out there, though.”
“I understand,” he said with a nod, though his eyes kept slipping to my leg. My knee was wrapped and I’d iced it all night, but anyone with any common sense would know I shouldn’t be traipsing around a mountain on it right now. Jack didn’t say anything, though. “McDonough hasn’t come in yet, but he called in and said the searchers should be good to go at first light.”
I nodded, relieved. I considered asking after Rita, but didn’t want to spend more time in conversation than I had to. If McDonough hadn’t come in yet either, maybe they were still together. Either way, though, I didn’t have time to worry about it.
Over the course of the evening while Jack and I had been trapped, a few more dog-and-handler teams had joined the search. Now, armed with new information and a clear objective, a crew of twenty teams hit the dark and stormy Vermont wilderness at five-thirty that morning. Winds were high and rains were heavy, lashing each of us in turn as we plowed forward, heads down.
Our starting point was the well I’d discovered the day before. We fanned out from there, each team of two handlers and their dogs taking a different direction. Cheryl and Festus stayed with Phantom and me, our focus on the trail I’d followed underground the day before. It seemed like our best chance at finding the other end of the tunnel.
“You’re sure you’re up to this?” Cheryl asked before we’d gone twenty yards. She had to shout to be heard above the rain and the wind.
“I’m up to it,” I said.
The fact was, if I had been in charge, I would have benched me in a heartbeat. My knee had ballooned up overnight to nearly twice its normal size, and every step sent pain through me so fierce I was fighting to keep my breakfast down. Phantom kept a slow pace beside me, pausing every time I stumbled. She’d look up at me, body still, as though searching my face for some indication of what was happening. Why we were out here when I so clearly shouldn’t be.
I focused on putting one foot in front of the other as we climbed higher. Phantom kept her head down, water dripping off her raincoat. I slipped in the mud as I was climbing through a ravine about half a mile from the site where the cave-in had taken place, and gasped as a lightning bolt of pain shot through me. Phantom stopped moving and turned, watching me warily.
“You all right?” Cheryl asked from up ahead.
I straightened, teeth clenched. “I’m fine.”
She shook her head. “Sure you are,” I heard her mutter.
We kept moving.
#
Jack was pleased but frankly a little stunned when Barrett Redfield contacted him before he ever had to go looking for the youngest living Redfield.
“I just think you should know some things,” Barrett said. Somehow, he’d gotten Jack’s cell number—which meant he couldn’t possibly be calling from Glastenbury Mountain.
“Where are you right now?” Jack asked.
“Close,” Barrett said. “I can be there in twenty minutes. Will you wait for me?”
Jack assured him that he would wait, despite the fact that time was passing all too quickly. Whatever Barrett had to say, Jack couldn’t imagine it would prove irrelevant in this whole mess.
Twenty-five minutes later, Barrett pulled into the parking lot in a black pickup and strode to the front steps of the old Glastenbury church with his head down. Jack greeted him and checked for a weapon, but Barrett was unarmed. He wore top-of-the-line raingear, but was missing his trademark smirk. He didn’t even look up when reporters called for him, and kept his head down as Jack opened the church door and ushered him past the threshold.
Barrett followed him in silence through the church sanctuary, where McDonough and several other members of law enforcement were meeting. They looked up in interest when Jack and Barrett walked through, but made no comment. Jack stopped at the side office McDonough had been using, and held the door open. Barrett looked around uneasily, lowered his head, and walked inside.
“Can I get you anything?” Jack asked, closing the door behind them. He noted that Barrett looked tired, and not necessarily well.
“You got coffee?” Barrett asked.
Jack nodded. He went to the coffeemaker and poured Barrett a mug. The younger man took a sip, grimaced, and set the mug back on the desk that stood between them.
“Jesus,” Barrett said. “You have any idea when the last time was I had a decent cup of coffee?”
“One of the dangers of moving to the middle of nowhere, I guess,” Jack said.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I guess so.”
“One of our agents did a little research,” Jack said. “He said you haven’t been doing all that well the last year or two. How long have you been out of work?”
“The company downsized last year,” he said. “No more corporate account, no more paid travel…”
“And that’s when you got sick?” Jack asked. He leaned back in his chair, keeping things casual.
“I wasn’t feeling great before that. Stress, doctors said.” He paused. Jack waited him out, curious where he would go next. “Anyway,” Barrett finally continued, “that’s not why I’m here. I need to know what you’re going to do about getting those fucking kids away from my brother.”
Jack couldn’t hide his surprise. “Didn’t you help him take them in the first place?”
“Hell, no!” Barrett said. “I didn’t know he was gonna lose his shit like that. We went down there because one of our guys was keeping track of you and said something was up—but I sure as hell didn’t know he’d freak out and the kid would get shot.”
“Did you talk about anything like what happened?”
Barrett nodded reluctantly. “Not that specifically. Dean said you needed more motivation to get the job done, but I just figured we’d put the fear of God into you. Nothing like this, though.”
“And now you want us to step in and get the kids back,” Jack clarified.
“Exactly,” Barrett said. “That’s what I want.”
A second passed, then two, while Jack tried to digest the request. Finally, he shifted position and leaned forward at the desk. “Do you know where Melanie and Ariel were headed the morning they were taken?”
Jack read a flash of surprise, then possibly a beat of fear before Barrett shook his head. “I’ve told you all how many times before? I’ve got no idea.”
Jack studied the man for a second. A shine of moi
sture had formed on Barrett’s forehead. “That’s a nice jacket,” he said, nodding toward the raingear Barrett still wore. “Is it new?”
Barrett looked confused, glancing down at the jacket. “What? Yeah, I got it a couple of—” He stopped, aware that he’d been led into a trap. “I still have a discount from my old job.”
“Really?” Jack said. “You don’t mind if I confirm that, do you?”
He saw panic this time in Barrett’s eyes. Jack remained still, waiting. Barrett’s gaze fell to the still-full coffee cup on the desk in front of him.
“When June and Katie died,” Jack began, “it came out that they’d been hooking. We never did figure out who was handling the business side of things, though.”
Barrett’s hands curled around the coffee cup, clenched until his knuckles went white.
“Do you know what I think?” Jack continued.
“What?”
“I think you make a good show of being a shallow, relatively harmless womanizer without a whole lot of sense or ambition.” Barrett didn’t say anything, tensed now. “You know Gordon thinks you’re the one who killed your sisters?” Jack asked, keeping his tone conversational. Barrett’s head came up. “And he thinks you did those prostitutes, too—that you were traveling for work, so you could have pulled it off.”
Barrett stared at him. Genuinely stunned, Jack thought. “Gordon said that?”
“He did. He’s spent a lot of time in prison because he didn’t want to turn you in—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Barrett demanded. He pushed his chair back and stood, vibrating with anger and confusion. “He knows me. He knows I wouldn’t do that—“
“But you could sell your sisters to the highest bidder though, couldn’t you?” Jack said. Still calm, still casual. “And do the same thing with your nieces. It must have been easy—I’ve seen the pictures, they’re good looking girls. This community you’re setting up on the mountain, there are probably more than enough buyers. But then what happened, Barrett? You could sell them, but you couldn’t actually stomach it once they’d done—”