“Ash would have wanted to be here,” Mila said as they clustered around the gravesite. “She loved her gran more than anything in the world.”
“Sure,” Stevens said. “This is a beautiful spot for them both.”
“Her gran gave her that old knife,” Mila said. “That’s how I knew it was Hurley who did it. He stole that knife from her.”
“You did a damn good job finding him,” Windermere said. “We wouldn’t have caught him if it wasn’t for you.”
“Yeah.” Mila studied the headstone. “I just wish I hadn’t let her take that ride.”
She went silent, Ronda’s hand on her back, reassuring, and Windermere was struck again by the senselessness of it, angered by her inability to do, well, anything in the face of this grief.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry we didn’t catch Hurley sooner. And I’m sorry we didn’t kill Hurley when we had the chance.”
She started to say something else, couldn’t decide what. Knew she was babbling, getting emotional. Shut herself off.
“I’m just sorry,” she said. “I’m really goddamn sorry.”
And then Mathers was beside her, pulling her close, rubbing her back, and even sorry didn’t seem like enough, not here. Not for what she was feeling.
127
They cast Ashlyn Southernwood’s ashes to the wind, let them fall onto her grandmother’s headstone, let the wind scatter the rest.
“I think she would have wanted it like that,” Nicole Corbine said when the urn was empty and Ash was gone. “She couldn’t ever stay in one place, you know?”
“Sure,” Stevens said. “Sounds like someone else we know.”
Mila smiled at that, a tentative smile, and they stood there a few minutes more, until the chill off the lake became too much to bear, and then they bundled their coats around themselves and started back to the gates.
Windermere hung back, just a couple of steps, stole one last glance at the gravestone, Ashlyn’s remains already all but vanished. She felt foolish for making a scene, stupid, knew she was supposed to be the tough cop, the hard-ass, knew a life behind bars was supposed to be punishment enough.
And then Ronda Sixkill was beside her, falling in step, and they were walking together. Ronda didn’t say anything for a few steps, and then she did.
“It wouldn’t have mattered, you know?” she said. “Even if you’d killed him, you’d still be hurting.”
Windermere didn’t say anything. She’d read Ronda’s file. She knew the woman’s history.
“That anger, it doesn’t go anywhere,” Ronda said. “There’s nothing that satisfies it, even after he’s dead. It just eats and eats and eats, sends you in circles, fighting the same battles over and over, even though there’s no one left to fight. You can’t fall for the trap.” She touched Windermere’s shoulder. “You stopped him, Agent Windermere. You put him away. You did good.”
Windermere nodded ahead, toward Mila Scott. “Tell that to her.”
“She knows. You saved her life, too, don’t forget.”
“I just wish we’d done more,” Windermere said. She wanted to argue the point, but they were at the cemetery gate, and Mathers and Stevens were there, holding the gate open for them, and besides, Windermere figured she’d said all she could say.
128
So where are you heading now?” Windermere asked Mila once they’d returned to the vehicles and the good-byes were just about taken care of.
Mila looked away shyly. “San Francisco?” she said. “Ronda knows a woman down there. She runs a clinic for . . .” She trailed off, blushing. “I’m going to get myself clean,” she said. “Ash was always bugging me about it, so . . .”
“That’s good to hear,” Windermere said. “And how are you planning to get there?”
Mila didn’t answer. Looked down at her feet.
“You aren’t planning to ride, are you?”
“I don’t have any money,” Mila said. “But, it’s no big deal. I’m used to it now. As soon as I get to Chicago, it’s a straight shot to the coast.”
“Cripes,” Windermere said, reaching for her wallet. “It’s the dead of winter, child.” She pulled out a handful of bills. “This should keep you fed, at least.”
Then she straightened. “Ronda.” Mila stepped aside as Ronda looked back from her pickup, met Windermere’s eyes. “Take this girl to the bus station,” Windermere told her. “Buy her a Greyhound bus ticket anywhere she wants to go. Bill the FBI if you need to, but make sure she gets on a bus, okay?”
Ronda looked at Mila, who stared down at the ground, trying not to smile. “I guess I could take the bus,” Mila said.
“You guess?” Windermere shook her head. “Get on out of here, kiddo. Go somewhere warm. But be safe, do you hear me? No more playing cop.”
“No more, I promise.”
“You ever feel like the cops don’t care about you, you call me and my partner. We care. I promise.”
“I know.” Mila chewed on her lip. “Thank you.”
“No thanks required, kiddo,” Windermere told her. “You did good by your friend. You’re a hero.”
Mila blushed, still couldn’t meet her eyes. “There is one thing I wish,” she said. “I wish I could have stolen Ash’s knife back. I really hate knowing that asshole got to keep it.”
Windermere felt her spirits lift a little. “That, we can help you with.” She nudged Mathers, who missed it at first. Nudged him harder and he figured it out, pulled a plastic bag from his pocket.
“Got this back from the Canadians a couple of days ago,” Windermere told Mila. “It’s not needed as evidence, not anymore. And the damn thing saved my life, so I kind of want to see it wind up in a good home.”
She took the bag from Mathers, pulled the knife out from a brand-new sheath. Held it out to Mila. “We thought you would want it,” she said. “Something to remember your friend by.”
Mila stared at the knife, disbelieving. Took a couple of seconds to process. Then, in an instant, she’d taken the knife and stuffed it into her coat. Wrapped her arms around Windermere before Windermere could react, caught her in an inescapable bear hug. And it was all Windermere could do to hold on, stay upright. Let the girl hug her, and try to feel like she deserved it.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’ve never been interested in writing serial killer novels. I don’t quite have the stomach for it. But a couple of years ago, I moved to a neighborhood in Vancouver, Canada, known as the Downtown Eastside. It’s a notoriously seedy part of the city, rampant with drug use and extreme poverty—and it’s a neighborhood where, in the 1980s and ’90s, a man named Robert Pickton murdered as many as forty-nine women, most of them prostitutes, many of Native descent.
For years, Pickton’s activities were something of an open secret in the Downtown Eastside. Women disappeared, simply vanished, their absences marked by neglected doctors’ appointments and uncashed welfare checks, by missed phone calls to families on Christmas and birthdays. Rumors abounded—a serial killer on the loose. But these women were streetwalkers; they were junkies, society’s flotsam and jetsam. And the police response to each case was shockingly apathetic.
The Downtown Eastside is a scary place, on its surface. It’s easy to write off the whole neighborhood, to look past the people and see only the grime and the garbage, the discarded needles and broken pipes, the dingy, rent-stabilized, single-room hotels. And for years—decades—the police, and the city at large, did just that, while the community’s women continued to die at an appalling rate.
The details of the Pickton murders are horrifying in their brutality. I’ll spare you the details, but if you’re interested in the case, I recommend Stevie Cameron’s excellent book On The Farm. It’s a devastating read—but it’s well worth your time, if you can handle it.
I walk my dog through the Downtown Eastside
every day. There’s a memorial rock that we pass, by the water’s edge, installed in the memory of the community’s lost women. On it is carved:
The heart has its own memory. In honor of the spirit of the people murdered in the Downtown Eastside. Many were women and many were Native Aboriginal women. Many of these cases remain unsolved. All my relations.
It’s a beautiful, terrible, sacred place. It’s a reminder that these women were daughters, mothers, sisters. That they loved, and were loved, that they are missed. It’s a reminder that they mattered, they all mattered, no matter their circumstances.
This is the background to The Forgotten Girls.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m grateful as always to my agent, Stacia Decker, for her support and encouragement. And to Neil Nyren, Alexis Sattler, Katie Grinch, and everyone at Putnam. It’s a privilege to work with such a wonderful team, and I’m so proud of what we’ve accomplished together. (A special thanks to the copy editors and production staff who are perennially saving me from making a fool of myself. Heroes, every one of you.)
There are many, many booksellers who’ve championed my stuff, and I’d like to single out a few of them: McKenna Jordan, John Kwiatkowski, and Sally Woods at Murder By The Book in Houston, Texas; Lynn Riehl at Nicola’s in Ann Arbor, Michigan; Barbara Peters and Patrick Millikin and everyone at the Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, Arizona; Fran, Adele, and JB at Seattle Mystery Books; Anne Saller at Book Carnival in Orange, California; Maryelizabeth Hart at Mysterious Galaxy in San Diego, California; Walter Sinclair and Jill Sanagan at Dead Write Books in Vancouver, British Columbia; and, with all my heart, Pat Frovarp and the late Gary Shulze at Once Upon a Crime in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Thanks to you all.
Thanks also to Becky Stewart and Tim Hedges; you make the road just a little less lonely.
Thanks to Alexis Tanner, Kristi Belcamino, Lynn Cronquist, Alex Kent, the Malmons (Dan and Kate), the DoJos (Aaron, Mellissa, Felicity, and Vera), the Parents (Jason, Angele, Josh, Ben, Al, and Denise), the Thompsons (B.J., Vicki, Owen, Jake, and Ava), Jesse Cope, Brianna Coughlin, Timothy O’Brien and Jennifer Hogan, Jon McGoran, Jon Stern, Steve Shadow, Keith Rawson, Michele Lewis, Michelle Isler, Dayne Cody, Arthur Crowson and Megan Elias, Brandon Colby Cook, Robert Johnstone, the Beetner family (Eric, Marie, Molly, and Gracie), Sarah Husmann, Sarah White, Bill Gordon, Bill Bride, Kyle Shipps, Robin Spano and Keith Whybrow, Steve Weddle, Court Harrington, Chris La Tray, Dietrich Kalteis, Alma Lee, Lonnie Propas, Cathy Ace, Tricia Barker, Wayne Arthurson, Peggy Blair, “Diamond” Phill Gribben, and Tara Imlay.
And thanks to my partner, Shannon Kyla, and to my family—Andrew, Terry, Mom, Dad, Phil, and Laura. You make everything possible, and you make it all worthwhile.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Owen Laukkanen is the author of The Professionals, Criminal Enterprise, Kill Fee, The Stolen Ones, and The Watcher in the Wall. The Professionals was nominated for the Anthony and Barry Awards for best first novel, Spinetingler Magazine’s Best Novel: New Voice Award, and the International Thriller Writers’ Thriller Award for best first novel. Criminal Enterprise was nominated for the ITW Thriller Award for best novel. The Stolen Ones was nominated for the Barry Award for best novel. Laukkanen is a resident of Vancouver, British Columbia.
owenlaukkanen.com
facebook.com/TheOwenLaukkanen
twitter.com/OwenLaukkanen
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