by Jen Blood
Jenny Bishop’s father had filed a lawsuit, with a hearing held in Augusta. Juarez put a call in to the FBI to have Mandy check to find out whether or not Red Grivois had a court appearance scheduled for that day. Grace Starke’s father was in jail on drug charges; over the years, he’d had extensive involvement with the police. It took some time to figure out the link with Becca Martineau, but Juarez eventually found it: a trip to Augusta for the kids in student government, to meet with a group of lawyers and police officers from around the state. Red Grivois had been among those police officers. Stacy Long had been a high school dropout who’d had several brushes with the law, including a trial for aggravated assault against an abusive boyfriend.
And then there was Red Grivois himself, who’d spent a significant portion of his time in court or seminars or out on the streets, getting to know these kids. What if the mysterious Eliot wasn’t the key at all? What if Red had been the one to engineer this plot all along?
Beneath his welling excitement over the thought that he may have actually cracked this case and was that much closer to finding Erin, rage settled like a growth in his chest. If Red truly was the one behind this diabolical forty-year trail of death and destruction, Juarez vowed that the man would pay.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I went straight to the river as soon as I was able, just like Diggs and I had talked about. From there, I focused on putting distance between Rainier and me. I was blistered and burned and battered from the day before, but having the ability to move freely now—after a full night’s sleep and a couple of balanced meals—felt good. Or as good as running for one’s life while a psychopathic killer is hot on your trail could feel, anyway.
I thought of what I would do if I got out of this. I just had to try to find help, somewhere out here. Try not, I heard Diggs whisper in my ear. Do or do not. There is no try. I stopped myself from laughing out loud. Best to avoid outright hysteria for as long as possible. Instead, I focused on vengeance. The story at hand. Except I knew almost nothing about the story at hand. I went back to the vengeance part of the equation.
When I got out of this, I would get strong. Work out. Move more. Learn to fight. I would never be a victim again, helpless while a madman like Rainier ran his hands over me, waiting for me to break. Part Jedi, part vampire slayer.
Fueled by that thought, I kept moving. The things that I did know about the story were heartening, at least: My father wasn’t the monster. J. was the monster. J. was behind the deaths of all those girls; the one who watched and took notes and treated them like lab rats while they fought for their lives. And lost.
I wouldn’t lose, though.
I put on more sunscreen. Drank more water. I used a bandana I’d taken from the Sanctuary to keep my scalp from burning. It wasn’t as hot as it had been, but the bugs were still thick. The air smelled clean and clear, and the sunlight felt good on my shoulders for a change, instead of debilitating. I tried to keep my wrist up and immobilized, in a sling I’d fashioned from an extra t-shirt I’d snagged from the Sanctuary. A turtle lounged on a rock in the center of the riverbed. Trout were plentiful. It was a fisherman’s paradise; it couldn’t possibly be completely deserted this time of year. Somewhere, there had to be a group of rogue sportsmen just dying to save a half-dead damsel from a couple of madmen.
I traveled a good part of the way in water to my knees, just because the cool on my feet and legs felt good. I stopped once to swim, and ate half the sandwich I’d brought with me by the river while three white-tail deer drank not ten feet from me. Within a couple of minutes I was restless. I set out again.
I thought of Juarez. He had to be out here somewhere by now. He’d know what was happening. People would be looking for us—Diggs and I weren’t like the other victims, who’d simply vanished without a trace.
If Juarez didn’t come for us, though, I would find a way to get to him. Find a way to get us out of here.
The sun was high overhead and I was lost in thought and a bizarre kind of delirium-induced zen when I heard something in the trees above. My heart took a flying leap. I sought cover in the underbrush, burrowing into a cluster of ferns and brush. I scanned the skies for some kind of genetically mutated flying machine about to devour me. When you’ve been held captive inside a madman’s sanctuary carved inside a mountain, anything seems plausible.
I didn’t see anything, though. I stayed on my belly on the ground for a few minutes, the smell of earth and greenery strong in my nose. Watching. Waiting. Rainier’s words crept through my head again: Every time I catch you, I get a little more. That’s the game.
I couldn’t give him that chance.
A light breeze rustled through the canopy of greenery above. I scanned the area one more time, but there was still nothing. I got up, my eyes on the horizon.
“Psst. Solomon.”
When my heart leapt this time, it was for entirely different reasons.
I peered through the trees until I spotted him: Diggs, sitting in the crotch of an old oak. He slid from his perch, stumbling when he hit the ground. My enthusiasm faded when I saw his face.
His left eye was swollen shut and his lip was bleeding. A trail of crusted blood ran from his very swollen nose.
“It looks worse than it is,” he said. He limped toward me.
We met on the rocks of a riverbed so pristine it seemed man had never set foot there. Three hawks circled overhead. Diggs pulled me into his arms and held on so tight I couldn’t get a breath, then inhaled sharply when I returned the embrace.
“Careful,” he said. “I think my…everything, is broken.”
“What happened?”
“Rainier happened.” He held me an arm’s length away, studying me closely. “What about you? Are you okay? He told me…”
He stopped, his eyes tormented in a way I’d never seen before. I knew instantly exactly what Rainier had told him.
“I’m okay,” I said. “He lied—whatever he said, he was lying to you. It’s all part of the mind fuck. What did you do?”
“I went a little nuts,” he admitted. He wouldn’t look at me. “They’ve been jamming all this shit in our heads from the start: that picture of Erin Lincoln; you in the crosshairs. The bodies that were found. They’re using all of it to get to us—figuring out which buttons to press. Apparently, they found mine.”
Words failed me—a rare occurrence. “We should probably keep going,” I said, in lieu of anything remotely adequate considering what he’d been through. What he’d done. “Do you think you can?”
“No problem,” he said breezily. “I could do this for weeks. Or, you know…at least an hour.” We parted. I watched as he struck on ahead. I thought of that night in the Black Falls motel when we were just starting out on this nightmare, when I’d gone after him for an inadequate thank you that he’d dismissed with a wave of his hand. A furrowed brow. This is what we do.
I went after him and touched his arm. He turned.
Before he could say a word, I stood on my toes and kissed him as gently as I could—infusing it with all the words I could never say, all the history we shared. “Thank you,” I whispered.
He held me there, forehead to forehead. “I won’t lose you,” he said. “No matter what I have to do… If you go, I go. That’s the deal.”
I kissed him again, fast this time. That strength I’d been feeling since morning took root again. “Neither of us is going anywhere. Unless it’s home.”
At around noon, we stopped to eat what little food we had left. It was still mercifully cool out, and now overcast—which meant welcome relief from the sun. There was even enough of a breeze to keep the bugs away. We sat on a couple of boulders with our bare feet soaking in the river.
“We could get some fish, maybe,” I said. “If nobody finds us by tonight—just build a fire and cook something up.”
“I don’t eat fish. And how are you catching them, exactly?”
“I don’t think the vegetarians of the world would throw you out of
their club if you ate one trout. Especially not given the circumstances. And I’d catch it with my hands. They do it in movies all the time—how hard can it be?”
“If we make out again, maybe the Capitol will send us some tofu,” he said.
I laughed. “Maybe.” Things got quiet again. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Really good.” His left eye had turned a deep purple.
“Maybe you’ll get another night in the Sanctuary,” I suggested. “If we can’t get out of here… You need to put something on those cuts.”
“I don’t think I’m getting another night in Sanctuary.” I looked at him. His head was bowed, his eyes fixed on the water as he soaked his hands in the water.
For the first time, I focused on the damage there: swollen knuckles, bloodied cuts. I went a little nuts.
“What did you do to Rainier, exactly?” I asked.
“Not enough.” He shrugged wearily. “I couldn’t help it—not after what he said he’d done. I would have killed him if I could.”
The admission didn’t come easily for him. We finished the rest of our food in silence.
We kept on. Half a dozen times, we were sure we heard someone behind us or ahead, off to the side or up in the trees. Every time, we ran—always aware that if it really was Rainier or J., there was nothing we could do to stop them from doing whatever the hell they wanted to us. That sense of power I’d felt earlier drained away. We’d stopped talking and slowed down considerably when I first heard whistling again through the trees: “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” again, just one verse. Over and over again. Closer and closer. We ran.
No matter how far we went this time, no matter how fast, we couldn’t outrun it. Eventually, after I’d been running so long that my lungs were ready to burst and my legs felt like so much dry tinder, ready to split if I took another step, I felt someone grab the back of my shirt. I screamed. Diggs pulled me back, a hand clamped over my mouth.
“It’s me,” he whispered in my ear. “Ssh—Listen.”
I stopped running, and listened.
Beneath the thundering of my own heart, I heard birds and the rustling of wind through the trees, water rushing and frogs talking.
But no Battle Hymn.
We both stood there for a few seconds, gasping for breath. Adrenaline crashed through my veins; I felt like I’d been mainlining it for days now. I closed my eyes.
“I think we must have been near some campers,” Diggs said. “He was doing what he did on the road that night—herding us as far from them as possible, so we wouldn’t get help.”
I couldn’t speak. Rage and grief and exhaustion and terror vied for the top spot on my emotional Richter scale.
In that moment, I wanted them to die.
Rainier and J.—both of them, for what they’d done to me. What they’d done to Diggs, and the long list of victims who came before us. I wanted them to die, and I didn’t care whether it was me who put them down or someone else. I just wanted them gone. Diggs squeezed my shoulder, eying me with concern. We didn’t speak as we slowly made our way back to the river, and what I saw as our only hope of salvation.
We’d been there maybe two minutes before I knew Rainier was there.
There was a moment—a split second, barely detectable to the human mind—when the air changed around us. When everything hung suspended at the end of a pinpoint, ready to tip one way or the other. We would live, or we would die.
Diggs must have felt it too, because his head came up at the same time mine did. There was no time to run. After the race we’d just finished, I doubt either of us would have gotten very far, anyway. I’d just gotten my shoes off to soak my feet, now bleeding and raw, when we heard movement to our left. I scrambled for my shoes, but Diggs grabbed me and pushed me toward the forest without them.
“Just run!”
Rainier went straight past Diggs and lunged for me instead. He caught me by the ankle and I fell face first into the river, catching myself on my hands. My head went under. Then, I felt a huge, meaty hand in my hair, pushing me down farther. I fought to get free, swallowing half the river while my lungs screamed for air. Just when I was sure I’d pass out, Rainier yanked me up. Diggs went for him, but before he got close Rainier brandished a knife.
“Back up, you fucker,” he hissed at Diggs. For the first time, I saw his face: His nose was broken. A lot. Both eyes were bruised and swollen, and it looked like he was missing his front teeth. If Diggs looked like he’d gone three rounds with a champ, Rainier looked like he’d gone ten. He jabbed the knife into my side, holding me still with an iron grip on my hair. Diggs stopped moving, his hands up.
“Okay, take it easy,” he said.
“You take it easy.” He had a lisp thanks to the teeth Diggs had knocked out. If he hadn’t been jabbing my kidneys with a ten-inch blade, it might have been a little funny. I saw no humor in it at that moment, however. “Who do you think is gonna pay for that stunt you pulled back at the truck?” He pressed the blade in harder, slicing my skin. I tried to get away, but he jerked my head back.
“Come on,” he said to both of us, though his mouth was at my ear. “It usually takes a while before subjects get to this stage. You’re special, though. J. wants to meet you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Juarez met Jamie in the woods at eight o’clock that morning. Red Grivois was still missing; he hadn’t been seen or heard from since Juarez had questioned him last. Police were searching his house in Black Falls, and Juarez had an entire team going through his background with a fine-tooth comb, in the hope that they might find some record of real estate holdings in the area. There was a cabin somewhere near Eagle Lake, but so far no one seemed to know where that cabin was.
When he arrived on the scene, Jamie handed him an orange vest and a bottle of water.
“Did you get some rest?” she asked.
He nodded absently.
She smiled. “Yeah, I thought not. We missed you at dinner last night—you should’ve come out.” He didn’t respond, already scanning the horizon. “All right,” she said. “Let’s get on with it. You ready to go find your girl?”
“More than ready,” he said.
They worked with two dogs this time, the pit bull and one of the German shepherds. The other dogs were with the boy and two of the heavily tattooed, pierced women on Jamie’s team. Jamie walked alongside Juarez, keeping up a steady pace, her head up and her attention focused on the dogs and the forest around them. He got the sense that she missed very little.
“So, you figured out who the bad guy is in all this?” she asked.
“I hope so.” It was cooler than it had been since they’d arrived in Black Falls. That was good; Erin didn’t like the heat. She called Juarez a desert flower.
She’d been missing nearly thirty-six hours now.
It had been a very long thirty-six hours.
“You really think it’s Red Grivois?” Jamie asked, to his great surprise. He looked at her. “I’ve lived out here a good part of my life—know all the cops, retired and otherwise. They tend to talk.”
“They shouldn’t have said anything about that.”
“Relax,” she said. “It was just Nate—the sheriff, talking things through. No one else was around.”
They walked on in silence for a bit longer.
“So,” he finally said, when he could refrain no longer. “Do you think it could have been Red Grivois?”
“Not a chance in hell,” she said without hesitation. Juarez’s heart sank. She squeezed his shoulder. “Sorry—you asked. But I can’t tell you how many searches I’ve been on with Red over the years; he feels for these girls. Bleeds for them. It’s just about killed him. There’s no way he’s part of it. And all these years, he’s tried his damnedest to turn Will into something other than the sadistic creep he is. He’ll be ruined, once he hears it was Rainier behind this whole thing.”
Juarez didn’t know what to say. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe they would find Red Gri
vois and the whole thing would fall into place. Erin would be waiting for him, safe and sound.
Maybe.
Jamie tried to pull him into conversation a few times after that, but gave up eventually. They traveled over rough terrain for hours in relative silence, stopping frequently to rest the dogs. The movement felt good—Juarez never felt like he was honestly accomplishing something when he was behind a desk. But when he was out covering ground, his muscles aching, his mind occupied, then he could believe he was really doing everything in his power to bring Erin home.
During a water break around hour five, Jamie looked him up and down with clear approval. “You’re holding up pretty well for a suit.”
“I’m not really a suit,” he said.
“Yeah, I kind of got that.” When he looked up, she was watching him. He was struck again by just how attractive she was—even with the pierced nose. She was younger than she acted, Juarez suspected. Mid to late twenties, possibly early thirties. Certainly no more than that. He thought she and the boy, Bear, must be siblings. “So,” she said. “Tell me about Erin.”
He was thrown. “What do you mean? You have the description, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I have the description, Jack.” She rolled her eyes. “I mean: Tell me about her. Why are you out here, turning yourself inside out? I like knowing about the people we find.”
It was surprisingly difficult to articulate why he was out here; what it was about Erin that kept drawing him back in.
“She’s funny,” he said. They struck back out along the pre-established search route. The dogs—Phantom was the shepherd, Casper the pit bull—hadn’t picked up a scent in some time. They kept moving regardless.
Jamie looked at him sideways. “She’s funny. That’s why you’re out here—because she’s funny? I’ve seen pictures of this girl. Offhand, I’d say you’re probably in it for more than just a good belly laugh.”
“She is very pretty,” he agreed. He thought about their first—really, only—night together, back in Littlehope in the spring. And even that had been cut tragically short. “The truth is, I don’t know her that well,” he finally admitted. “We spent some time together last spring. Talked on the phone sporadically since then. E-mailed occasionally.”