Erin Solomon Mysteries, Books 1 - 5

by Jen Blood

  “How are you doing?” I asked. I fought to keep my voice steady.

  “I think I can make it. Just a second.”

  I heard the shimmy and shudder of his body against the rock and then, finally, a tug on the rope at my waist.

  “I’m through,” he said. There was no missing the relief in his voice. “It’s not much farther now. That should have been the tightest pass for now.”

  For now.

  I pulled myself forward with one arm and pushed with the toes of my sneakers hooked into every hold I could find, my mind still on the body slithering behind me. I kept moving.

  Diggs was right: It wasn’t that much farther before I heard him whisper “Thank Christ,” and then call back to me. “We’re here, Sol. Just a few more feet.”

  He was waiting for me at the mouth of the crevice, his hair and clothes caked with dirt. I took the hand he offered and half-stepped, half-tumbled from the crevice into a larger cavern just barely illuminated by the pale beam of his flashlight.

  I sat on the hard ground and closed my eyes, able to take my first real breath since we’d started inside the cave. Diggs sank down beside me.

  “You okay?”

  I leaned against him and nodded. I’d never wanted sleep so badly in my life. That would have to wait, though.

  “How’s your leg?” I asked.

  He just grunted.

  I took the first aid kit from his bag and eyed the bandage around his thigh, now stiff with dirt and blood.

  “I need to wash that out again,” I said. “And get a clean dressing on it.”

  He didn’t even open his eyes. “Try not to use much—I don’t have a lifetime supply in there. Otherwise, have at it. Just let me know if you’re gonna need to amputate.”

  I pushed the leg of his shorts up as far as it would go, and gently unwound the bandage. When I’d finished washing and re-dressing the gash, red now and already showing signs of infection, I patted his knee.

  “Looks like you’ll be able to keep it. At least for now.”

  “Thanks.” He opened his eyes. They were a startling blue in the darkness. “Your turn next, right?”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to take a look anyway.”

  We swapped places, and I sat in the darkness while he checked my fingers to make sure blood was still circulating. Even that small amount of jostling turned my stomach inside out.

  “There’s a lot of swelling,” he said. “How are you feeling otherwise? Chills, nausea? Think you might pass out?”

  “We were in a car crash a few hours ago, and there’s a psychotic killer on our heels. You’re telling me you don’t feel a little off?”

  “I’m just worried about—”

  “Shock,” I finished for him. “I know. I’m fine.”

  He got out a Power Bar that we shared, and three ibuprofen for me. We washed everything down with lukewarm water.

  “Is there anything you don’t have in that kit of yours?” I asked.

  “When your ten-year-old brother dies in your arms because you don’t have a clue what to do to save him, you tend to start over-thinking the old emergency kit.”

  “I guess you would,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It is what it is.”

  We were both quiet for a few seconds, locked in our separate—no doubt equally dark—thoughts.

  “I’m sorry about this, too,” I said, finally. “About putting you in this position.” It wasn’t the kind of admission that came easy to me—I felt inexcusably bitter for having to say the words at all. Whatever I’d hoped to do differently growing up, whoever I’d hoped to become, hardly mattered now; I was officially my mother’s daughter. I couldn’t even say ‘I’m sorry’ without getting pissed off at the universe for putting me in that position. Diggs didn’t say anything for a long, long time. Decades passed. Mountains crumbled. Finally, he cleared his throat.

  “I can’t pretend it’s no big deal this time,” he said. His eyes were shadowed in the scant light of the flashlight between us. “You push and you push and it’s like you don’t care about anyone—”

  “I do, though.” I interrupted him, swallowing past the boulder lodged in my throat. “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you. I just didn’t think—”

  “And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?” he asked. His voice was strained, like it was an effort to keep from screaming bloody murder. Not that I could blame him. “You don’t think. You never think. Your mother almost dies trying to protect you from some secret monster who’s apparently had your number since birth, and you don’t even think to call her afterward. Don’t imagine that things may have changed for her. We go to Washington and you wander around hand-in-hand with another man for three days, and you don’t think at that point I might decide I missed my shot. You leave town without a word. Don’t call. Don’t visit. And you don’t think I might move on? And then this…” He stood and walked away.

  I sat there in the failing light, cold and alone. “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I’m getting the sleeping bag,” he said. The anger was gone from his voice, but there was a coolness in its place that felt a thousand times worse. He brought the sbag back over and unrolled it beside me. “You should get some sleep. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours.”

  “I should take the first shift,” I said. “You can sleep.”

  “You’re hurt worse,” he said briefly. “You need it more. Besides, I need a little time to think.”

  I caught the fabric of his shorts in my hand and held on tight. I couldn’t think of anything to say. All at once, I thought of the first time we’d ever met, in Bennett’s Lobster Shanty one Friday night more than fifteen years before. I was just a teenager at the time—awkward, lonely. Lost. Hanging out at the bar waiting for my mother to decide who she was taking home for the night. And then, suddenly, there was Diggs: Twenty-three years old, cigarette dangling from his lips, beer in hand. Cocky. Sophisticated. But beyond that, what resonated for me then—and what resonated for me still—was that he’d been just as lost, just as lonely, as I was.

  He crouched to disentangle my hand from his shorts and set it back in my lap.

  “Get some rest,” he said. All the warmth, every ounce of connection I’d once felt between us, was gone. I nodded blindly.

  “Wake me in an hour,” I said. “I’ll take over then.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A woman answered when Juarez called the Downeast Daily Tribune at eight o’clock the next morning. She sounded young, but competent—though not professional enough to be a secretary. Another reporter was Juarez’s guess. Just who he felt like talking to.

  “My name is Jack Juarez. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI—”

  “Juarez?” the woman asked. “Hang on just a second, I’ll send it right over.”

  He paused, wondering if he’d missed something. When Erin and Diggs were back where they belonged, a good night’s sleep was definitely in order.

  “I’m sorry—you know who I am?”

  “Diggs said you might be calling,” she explained. “If you have an e-mail address, I’ll send it now.”

  “Can you tell me when you spoke with him last?”

  She didn’t answer for a few seconds. When she did, a faint touch of concern bled through her cool professionalism. “What happened? Is he all right?”

  Juarez hesitated. “He just hasn’t checked in for a couple of hours. We think they probably got lost,” he lied. “Did he contact you last night?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. He was at the Quebec Chronicle. He e-mailed me something; told me to send it to you if you called. You’re sure he’s all right?”

  “We don’t know for certain,” he admitted. “But if it is something more than them just getting off track, time is critical. This attachment that he sent—can you forward that to me?”r />
  “Of course,” she answered immediately. He gave her his e-mail address and waited while she typed out a message. “I’ll get it right to you. Is there anything else I can do? Where are you?”

  “Northern Maine,” he answered vaguely, already checking his e-mail. Within a minute, he had the photograph Diggs had scanned and sent to the newspaper. It was a faded black-and-white picture of a bar, packed full. Two teenage boys had been circled in red. Juarez checked the date, recognizing them immediately. Another circle in yellow was drawn around Hank Gendreau’s midsection. It was encircling a belt that looked very much like the one used to strangle Erin Lincoln.

  By nine o’clock, the Black Falls police station was packed tight with state and local police officers, park service employees, volunteer searchers, and four search-and-rescue dogs tended by a slender young blonde woman the sheriff introduced as Jamie Flint, as well as a teenage boy and a trio of overly pierced, tattooed women Juarez suspected were ex-cons. Juarez stood with Sheriff Cyr at the head of the small room, surrounded by wood paneling and half a dozen maps.

  “We have two priorities right now,” Juarez told the group. “The first is to find Will Rainier.” He tacked a photo of Rainier on the bulletin board, with a photo of the man’s black pickup truck beside it. “The second is to find Erin Solomon and Daniel Diggins.” He added photos of each of them to the board. “They were last seen at the border station in Fort Kent at ten-thirty last night. It’s been confirmed that Will Rainier also crossed at that station, at ten-forty-five. He was driving this pickup truck.

  “Erin and Diggs—Daniel, sorry,” he corrected himself, “were traveling in a blue 1996 Jeep Wrangler. We believe at this point that that vehicle may be off the road, though so far we’ve received no accident reports in the areas we’re searching, and no one has spotted it if it did go off the road. They would have been traveling toward Black Falls on a road with spotty or nonexistent cell service.”

  “Most of the woods out there have spotty or nonexistent cell service,” the blonde woman said. She had a southern accent Juarez hadn’t expected, and she was tall and angular—striking, actually, with clear blue eyes and a ballerina’s build. Her nose was pierced, her hair pulled up in a dancer’s bun. Despite the activity in the room, all four of her dogs were lying down, seemingly unconcerned. “And the woods out that way are thick enough on some of those logging roads that you wouldn’t even see a vehicle if it’d gone into the trees.”

  “Which is why I think it’s important we do more than fly-bys trying to find them,” Juarez said.

  “As long as we have the rough area down like you say,” the woman said, “I’ll take the guys out there and we’ll get started. I’m more concerned about Rainier, though.”

  Cyr spoke up. “We’ll be careful, James,” he said to her. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

  She leveled him with an icy stare. “The hell I don’t—I’ve been getting that party line too long now. I’m assuming he’s armed, yeah?”

  Juarez nodded.

  “Yeah,” she said with a frown. “Exactly. So if we’re out there looking for him, I want some fire power on my side. And I’d encourage anybody who runs across him to shoot first and ask questions later. Especially now.”

  “Let’s just hold on with that, all right?” Juarez interrupted. “Nobody’s shooting anyone—especially not when Diggs and Erin may be in the immediate vicinity and there’s a forest full of search-and-rescue wandering around. Let’s put the emphasis on the ‘rescue’ in that phrase, please.”

  She looked at him like he was a complete idiot, but she didn’t argue.

  “I have a press conference here at ten o’clock,” Juarez continued. “At this point, I don’t want any of this information going out to the public. I’ll release Rainier’s photo with instructions to contact the authorities if he’s spotted. News of Bonnie Saucier’s death has already been leaked, but I don’t want anyone breathing a word about anything else that was discovered there. That means no one should be discussing any theories you might have about what happened or didn’t happen or what else may be linked to this case. If you need to speculate, I’d appreciate it if you kept those speculations to yourself. Do not discuss this case with anyone.”

  Two more officers entered at the back of the room and looked meaningfully at Juarez. He nodded to them, then returned his attention to the rest of the group.

  “Everyone should have my cell number. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions or any thoughts that might prove helpful in the search. I’ll join you out there myself as soon as possible.”

  He dismissed the group and watched as they filed out, talking quietly amongst themselves. The dog woman waited until everyone was gone, then approached. Her dogs—a bloodhound, two German shepherds, and what looked like a pit bull mix of some kind—all remained where they were.

  “You know about Rainier?” she asked Juarez as soon as they were alone.

  “Know what about Rainier?” The dogs watched him with unnerving attention.

  “Know he’s a psychopath,” she said. “Ask any woman around here—they’ll tell you. I’ve been saying it for years now. It’s nice somebody’s finally listening.”

  “I’d prefer it if people go out there without the idea that they’re on a kill-or-be-killed manhunt, though,” Juarez said. He thought of Erin again, flashing once more on the way Rainier had looked at her the other night at the bar. He let his curiosity get the better of him for a moment. “What do you know about Rainier?”

  “He raped one of my girls,” she said. “One of the women who works with me. We were up here looking for some kids, and she ended up on his property. Killed one of my best dogs, too.”

  Juarez tightened his hands around the folder he held, struggling to keep his face impassive. “Why isn’t he in jail?”

  “The girl was scared. And I could never prove what he did to my dog. But trust me, you don’t want your girlfriend out there alone with this guy.”

  Juarez started to tell her Erin wasn’t his girlfriend, but shut his mouth at the look in Jamie’s eyes. Instead, he gave her a few parting instructions that he suspected she would ignore, then watched as she whistled for the dogs and all four sprang to life. As she was leaving, the cops who had signaled Juarez during the meeting reappeared. This time, they flanked a prisoner in a blue jumpsuit and shackles. He shied away from the dogs as they passed.

  “You’re Hank Gendreau?” Juarez asked.

  Hank nodded. He looked tired and confused, and more than slightly anxious at the marked disruptions to his routine at the state prison. Juarez nodded to the sheriff’s office, now empty. The guards led Hank through the door. Juarez followed behind. Once they were inside, he nodded to Hank’s wrists.

  “You can remove the handcuffs,” he said. One of the officers started to protest. Juarez looked at him evenly. “I’ll take responsibility if anything happens. Uncuff him, please. Then you can leave us.”

  The moment they were alone, Juarez pushed the photograph Diggs had found across the desk toward him.

  “Do you recognize that?” he asked.

  Gendreau looked puzzled for a moment before a flicker of panic crossed his face. He did his best to get the reaction under control, but failed. A bad liar, then.

  “That’s me and Will Rainier when we were kids. What about it?”

  “Look at the date on there,” Juarez instructed.

  He did, then looked away for another moment before he recovered. “September twenty-seventh. So what?”

  “That’s the weekend Jeff and Erin Lincoln disappeared,” Juarez said.

  “I was in Quebec that weekend. That’s been my story all along—how’s this picture supposed to be a bad thing for me?”

  “It’s not so much the when or the where,” Juarez said casually. “As it is, what you’re wearing. That belt…?”

  It was over from there. Hank blanched and stuttered and started a few stories before Juarez cut him off at the pass.r />
  “You killed Erin Lincoln,” he said calmly. “You raped and murdered a twelve-year-old girl, and then seventeen years later you tortured and strangled your own daughter.” He made no attempt to keep the revulsion from his voice. “And along the way, you and Will Rainier killed how many others?”

  Hank shook his head frantically. “No! It wasn’t me—I’m telling you, I didn’t have a thing to do with any of it. I didn’t kill any of those girls.”

  “You were there when Erin Lincoln died,” Juarez continued, undeterred by the man’s denial. He stood, planting his hands on the table, and leaned in until he was just inches from Hank’s face. “You tortured her for a week, you raped her, you strangled her nearly to death, and then you let her go so you could do it all over again—”

  “No!” Hank shouted. He slammed his fist on the desk. “No, goddammit, I’m telling you. We didn’t kill her.”

  “But you were there that weekend,” Juarez said. “How did that belt wind up around her neck? The same belt you were wearing the day her boat was found capsized in the middle of Eagle Lake?”

  “I want my lawyer,” Hank said suddenly. His face had gone from terrified to that impenetrable mask Juarez had seen in countless interrogations before. “I want to talk to Max. I’m telling you, I didn’t kill Erin Lincoln.”

  “Look, I can bring your lawyer into this. Which means word will probably get out back at the prison that we’re looking at you for the deaths of a bunch of other girls besides your own daughter. If that’s the way you want it, that’s fine with me. I’ve read your file—I know how hard you’ve worked to convince the other inmates there that you’re innocent. How many do you think will believe you when they find out you’re connected with the murders of these other girls? Once they get the details of all that was done to this twelve-year-old child?”

  “You can’t do that.”