by Jen Blood
“It’s not exactly sporting,” Diggs agreed. He looked around our homey little hovel. “I think the best thing we can do at this point is figure out an easy way out of here and get moving again. I’m gonna go on ahead and check out the tunnels, just to see where we come out. You mind waiting here for a few minutes?”
I minded very much, as a matter of fact. “I thought you said we should stick together.”
“I won’t be gone long. But there’s a limit to how much of this tunneling you’ll be able to do with that wrist. If I go ahead, I can figure out the most efficient way for us to get out of here.”
“What about the opening up top there? Why don’t we just go out that way?”
“I checked it out while you were asleep,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s too high up—there’s no way to reach it. Just trust me, okay? I’ll be gone twenty minutes. If you hear anyone coming, just follow me inside. You’ll have hold of the rope; we won’t get separated.”
“Twenty minutes?” I asked.
“At most. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Famous last words.
I watched Diggs disappear into the tunnels a minute later, while I held tight to the other end of his rope like it was my only lifeline. Which it very well may have been. We’d been trying to conserve the power on our phones so that if we ever did come within range of a cell tower again we might be able to make a call, but now I kept mine on and watched the minutes tick by the entire time that Diggs was gone. It was five thirty-two in the evening when Diggs left. There were some kind of cave dwellers—crickets or frogs or something—that had been cheeping incessantly since we got there. Their chatter got louder while Diggs was gone, until it felt like that was the only sound on the planet. Occasionally, I’d tug on the rope just to make sure someone was on the other end; within a second or two, Diggs would return the tug, but the interim until that happened lasted years.
The fourth time I tugged the rope, at five forty-seven, there was no answering tug. A minute passed. Then two.
“Diggs?” I called into the tunnel softly.
No response. I tugged the rope again.
Another thirty seconds passed. The cave dwellers had fallen silent.
And then, deep in the network of tunnels, I heard the shuffle and shimmy of someone moving. I wet my lips, trying to slow my heart. Somewhere so far off it sounded more like imagination than reality, a song bubbled up from the rock. I strained to hear, my ear pressed to the cave wall. My hands were sweating, goose bumps up and down my arms. When I realized what I was hearing, fear moved like an electric shock through my system:
That same low, tuneless whistle we’d heard back at the river.
“Diggs?” I whispered again. I tugged hard enough on the rope that I figured there was no way in hell he couldn’t feel it. The whistling got louder, but the main tunnel Diggs had gone into branched off in three different directions. I couldn’t tell which tunnel the whistling was coming from.
I knew what Diggs’ answer to the dilemma would be: Run. Save yourself. My feet remained rooted to the spot.
I was just getting ready to go in after him when I felt a hard tug on the other end of the rope. Seconds later, Diggs appeared a few yards into the tunnel, moving fast on his belly. “Get our stuff,” he whispered frantically. “Then run.”
I grabbed his pack and mine, and stuffed the flashlight into my belt. We had three choices of escape in our dismal little cavern: the entrance at the top of the cave that Diggs had already said was too high up, the network of tunnels Diggs was just emerging from—where J. was apparently gaining on him fast—or an almost impossibly narrow fissure in the opposite cave wall.
Diggs made it the final few feet through the tunnel and dove out, pushing me toward the entrance in the cave ceiling he’d told me not half an hour ago was too high for us. I stopped moving with Diggs’ hand at my back and J.’s tuneless whistle ringing in my ears. Diggs almost ran me over. I pointed toward the narrow fissure I’d been hoping to avoid.
“What about that?” I asked. “We could try that way.”
“If we can get up there, then we’re out,” he whispered. “Then if we can block up that entrance, we’ll get some time on him.” Before I could argue, he pushed me toward his intended escape route again. The opening was maybe ten or fifteen feet up, and I could hear J. getting closer. “Put the pack on,” Diggs ordered. “I’m gonna give you a boost up.”
“What about you?”
“Throw me the rope when you’re up there. I’ll climb.” I started to argue, but he cut me off. “Just do it, dammit. I don’t think he knows where we are yet, but it won’t take him long.”
He knelt and I clambered up his back and stood on top of his shoulders. He stood, steadying me with his hands on my calves while I tried to figure out the best way to maneuver.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Hang on, I’m looking for a way up.”
I searched for a hold at the opening, but only succeeded in sending a cascade of stones down on both of us.
The whistling got louder suddenly, like J. had just gotten past one more barrier between us.
“Erin,” Diggs whispered frantically.
“I know,” I said. I tried to get hold again, but between the crumbling rock and the fact that I could only hang on with one hand, I was getting nowhere. “It’s the splint. I can’t maneuver with it.” I tried one more time, then shook my head. “Fuck it.” I ripped the splint off and tossed it up through the opening, ignoring the searing pain in my wrist as I finally caught a solid hold and pulled myself up and through.
Once I’d birthed myself through the opening, I turned around and tossed one end of the rope back to Diggs, then searched for something to attach my end to. I’d emerged at the top of a bare rock wall, surrounded by little but other rocks, smaller pebbles, and some scrubby brush. There were no trees to speak of. I couldn’t find anything that seemed strong enough to hold a grown man’s weight.
“Erin?” Diggs called. There was no missing the panic in his voice.
“Just a second, I’m almost there.”
“I don’t know if I have a second.” He didn’t sound good. “If I tell you to run, I want you to do it, all right?”
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m not running anywhere without you.” My hands were shaking. I expected my heart to fly right out of my chest at any minute, but I finally found a rock that was narrow enough to tie the rope around, but solid enough that it wouldn’t dislodge when Diggs started climbing. I peered through the entrance.
“It’s solid,” I said. “Come on.”
He tugged on the rope, just in case. Miraculously, it held.
He heaved himself up.
Somewhere in the cavern below, I heard a single refrain of something familiar: “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Then, it stopped. Diggs was only a foot from me now. I could see his face—the fear in his eyes, the determined set of his jaw. And then, suddenly, just when I was sure he would make it, someone jerked the rope. When the whistling started this time, it was directly below us. I couldn’t see past Diggs to figure out who was down there, or what the hell he was doing.
“You have to go, Solomon,” Diggs ground out. He wasn’t climbing anymore. It took me a minute to realize why:
He couldn’t.
“I’m not leaving without you.” I lay on my stomach and peered down at him; reached down and grabbed his hand. “You’re almost there.”
Diggs clung to the rope, his eyes as cold and as hard as blue steel, while J. tried to pull him down. Diggs kicked out and I heard the sound of his foot connecting with something—a body, presumably. He scrambled up the rest of the way, his head just clearing the opening.
I grabbed hold of his arm to try and help pull him through. His shoulders and chest were clear when I heard the sickeningly wet sound of a knife slicing through flesh. Diggs screamed. I reached for him as he fell, my hand touching his on the way down, but the contact was fleeting. He was i
n my grasp…and then he was gone.
When I peered down inside the cave, Diggs lay on the ground, gasping for breath. Standing above him, his eyes fixed on mine, was Will Rainier.
Chapter Nineteen
After his conversation with Hank Gendreau, Juarez held a press conference in front of the Black Falls police station. Word hadn’t spread that far yet about Bonnie Saucier or the other bodies that had been found. He knew from experience that it wouldn’t take long before reporters were arriving from far and wide, however, all of them intent on getting the latest scoop on a case already making national headlines. After the press conference came status updates, none of which showed any promise, and then a call from Dr. Sophie Laurent—who had been called in to consult on the case, and who’d been at the Saucier grave site since six-thirty that morning. Now, it was eleven o’clock. The heat was rising, the woods behind Luke and Sarah Saucier’s home crawling with crime-scene techs, police, and investigators, and Juarez could think of little beyond the fact that Erin had been missing for a full twelve hours now. He returned to the relative coolness of the barren police station and took Sophie’s call.
“It seems we’re spending a great deal of time together, Agent Juarez,” she said. “We’ve found four females, approximately eighteen to twenty-four years of age,” she began. “Three were killed within the past two to three years; one was more recent.”
“How recent?” Juarez asked.
“Within three to four months. All have the same mark I found on the victims in Quebec, the J. carved into the chest.”
“Sexual assault?”
“I’ll need to conduct more tests for that. I’ve seen no evidence of it yet, however—no seminal fluid or spermicide present on any of the remaining clothing, at any rate. We haven’t done a thorough examination of the bodies, of course, and it’s difficult to determine something like that with any certainty this long after the fact.”
“And no idea who the victims were?”
“Two look as though they may be indigents—possibly from Mexico or Central America. Definitely third world.”
“The farms up here hire migrant workers, don’t they? Is it possible these girls came from that type of situation?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” she agreed. “It’s too early for positive IDs on the others yet, of course, but we have a couple of leads.”
It would take a more detailed examination before anyone would know the finer points of the victims’ final days: whether they had been imprisoned, the presence of any genetic material the killer may have left behind, the physical state of the victims when they were killed. Like Bonnie Saucier, strangulation was the probable cause of death. Juarez gave Sophie the go-ahead to prepare the bodies for transport, but he’d already been given instructions to have all remains shipped to DC. No one argued that detail with him. From everything he’d seen thus far, the authorities in Maine couldn’t get rid of this case fast enough.
When Juarez emerged from the sheriff’s office, an attractive dark-haired woman was waiting for him in the lobby. Though he didn’t know her well, he still placed her immediately.
“Dr. Everett,” he said, extending his hand to Erin’s mother as he strode forward. “Thank you for coming.”
“What do you know so far?” she demanded, ignoring his proffered hand. “Where are your people looking?”
“Why don’t you sit,” he suggested. “Can I get you something?”
“I’m not here for the hospitality,” she said wearily. “I’ve been driving since five o’clock this morning. I just want to know what the hell’s happening. What’s the last thing you heard from my daughter?”
He gave her the details of the search, providing cursory details of Will Rainier and the current theory about where he might be now. Juarez poured a cup of coffee for Kat and then one for himself, and sat on the edge of an unoccupied desk. Kat sat in a nearby office chair, holding the coffee mug with both hands. She was small like Erin—perhaps two or three inches taller with a few more curves, but hardly the larger-than-life monster Erin portrayed.
“You’re Erin’s G-man, aren’t you?” she asked. “Juarez?”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “She never said anything to me—we don’t discuss those things. But Maya told me. They talk.”
She sat with her back rigid, her green eyes—eyes Erin had inherited from her—taking in everything.
“I wanted to talk to you about your ex-husband,” he said. She didn’t look at him. Said nothing. He continued. “Erin said you told her you didn’t know what happened to his sister. That you didn’t know he and Hank Gendreau grew up together. That’s true?”
“I never said I didn’t know about his sister. She never asked me. And as for his link with Hank, I don’t see how that’s pertinent now.”
“I’m just trying to get any information I can that might help us find Erin. It’s hard to tell sometimes what’s pertinent and what’s not. You knew about Adam’s sister, then?”
“I know too much to keep track of anymore,” she said vaguely. “It’s hard to remember which secrets I can tell and which ones need to stay buried.”
He ignored that, irritated at her unwillingness to cooperate when Erin’s life hung in the balance.
“Did you know Adam is in the area again?” he asked. She tried very hard not to react, but he saw the barely perceptible tensing of her shoulder, a telltale spasm in her jaw. “I believe whoever killed Erin Lincoln is now after your daughter. Hank says it was either Will Rainier or your ex-husband. I don’t believe it’s your ex doing this.”
“Where did you see him last?”
“No one’s spotted him since he left the bar Saturday night—”
“Not Rainier,” she interrupted. “Adam. You said you saw him?”
Juarez hesitated. “He was at the crime scene where Bonnie Saucier’s body was found. Why?”
“No reason. I was just curious.” She looked around the room restlessly. “What else do you need from me? I’m assuming you called me here for a reason.”
With the exception of a couple of volunteers manning the phones, the little police station was empty. Juarez stood and went to the map, taking a moment to control his temper. He thought of Erin, suddenly—those vulnerable moments when he felt like he was actually connecting with something beyond that hard, flippant shell. With a mother like Kat Everett, it was no wonder she had difficulty showing her softer side.
“I called you because I wanted to know if Adam ever told you what happened the weekend he went to Eagle Lake. The night that Will Rainier and Hank Gendreau stormed their campsite in the middle of the night and Will raped his sister,” he said. Anger burned in the words.
She turned on him, surveying him coolly—as though she viewed his emotional response as some kind of weakness. “He didn’t want Erin to know about that,” she said. “I honored his wishes. What good would it have done?”
“Did he tell you who killed his sister?” Juarez asked.
“Gendreau didn’t tell you?” she asked. She watched him closely, something wary in her eyes.
“He said he didn’t know,” Juarez said. He thought of Hank’s tears when he’d told the story. We got to the campsite late that night. Jeff and Bonnie were there, passed out in the other tent. Will and I went in to wake up Erin. It was just supposed to be part of the game, you know? That’s what we did—Jeff was the one who came up with the whole thing, for Christ’s sake. He was already doing my sister; what right did he have to tell us Erin was off limits?
“Jeff—or Adam, whatever you want to call him—woke up when his sister started screaming. According to Hank, he went crazy and went after them both. Hank thought he was going to kill them. Jeff and Will started fighting; Hank took off.”
She turned her back on him halfway through the story and went to the map. No reaction. Not a word.
“Do you think Will Rainier killed her?” he asked her.
“That’s not rea
lly for me to say, is it?” She remained focused on the map, touching the colored pins with a shaking hand. It took a moment before he realized there was a physiological reason for the tremor beyond just anxiety. “Do you think he did it?”
“Maybe,” he said honestly. “But I think if he did, there was someone else pulling the strings.” She turned and met his eye, waiting for him to continue. “I don’t think Will Rainier would have the patience, the intelligence, or even the attention span to come up with the elaborate games J. —our serial killer—has been playing for the past forty years. Will is a sexual sadist who likes little girls. Most of the victims we’ve found recently haven’t even shown obvious signs of sexual assault.”
“But you don’t think Adam did it, either?”
“From a purely logistical standpoint, it doesn’t seem that plausible,” he said. “He would have been gone for long periods of time while he was keeping and hunting these girls in the ’80s, while he was living out on Payson Isle with your daughter. Even if he was just checking up on them every day or so, it would have required much more than the occasional shopping trip to the mainland.”
She looked relieved, though she tried to hide it. “Well, there you go. I guess it must have been someone else.”
“In Erin Lincoln’s journal, she mentions someone named Mister E. Do you know who that might be?”
For the first time, he saw a flash of genuine emotion: Fear. Terror, as a matter of fact. She recovered quickly, but there was no mistaking it. She shook her head and turned back to the map.
“Can’t say that I do,” she said. “Is that the only way she refers to him? Never by any other name?”
“I don’t know. Your daughter hadn’t finished reading it when I left her and Diggs in Quebec. She didn’t say anything about it, though.”
“It was probably just one of those silly codes kids have sometimes.”
He was debating throttling her when the door opened behind him. A moment later a furry white thing came barreling toward them, headed straight for Erin’s mother. Rosie, the young bartender they’d met at the bar Saturday night, followed close behind.