drily. “If need be you lock them all in a steel cage and
whoever is the last one alive chooses the music. Kind
of like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome.”
“Nice to know after all these years Mel Gibson still
exerts influence over all realms of pop culture.”
“Stop whining,” she said. “Here. Try this one. And
if I hear one reference to ‘sugartits’ you can walk
upstate alone.”
She pressed Play, and soon a familiar tune came over
the speakers. It was Bob Dylan’s “Not Dark Yet.” It was
a beautiful, melancholy song. I looked at her, confused.
“I know you like this song,” she said, a sweet smile
spread across her lips. “I figured we can split music
choices. There’s more stuff you like on there.”
I stayed quiet, just smiled at her, listened to Dylan
sing.
As we began the drive, we fell into a routine that was
becoming familiar and comforting. Our conversations
came easily. Each silence felt warm rather than simply
because of a lack of topics to discuss. Being by this
girl’s side filled me up in a way I’d never truly experi
enced. Nothing between us had been forced. From the
moment we met during the most stressful situation
imaginable, there were a million moments when, if
we’d not been stronger, things could have broken apart.
Not too long ago I’d done just that. I thought I was
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being noble, chivalrous. Putting her life before mine. I
learned quickly my heart didn’t agree with that
decision, and neither of us had rested easy.
When I contacted her for help on a story—that phone
call as much for emotional help as professional—it was
only a matter of time before we got back together.
Amanda was smart, tough, resilient. Stronger than I
was. And together we were more than the sum of our
parts. If not for her, my father might still be sitting in an
Oregon prison trying to simply wait out the legal
process. At least now we had a chance to help set things
right.
Of course, the one bad thing about being together
was our tendency to snack. We went through two large
coffees, a giant bag of Combos and half a dozen cookies
by the time we hit I-95. If we kept going at this pace I’d
have to ask Amanda to start hauling my big ass around
in a pickup truck to talk to sources.
The scenery driving up was truly breathtaking. Pine
trees studded the landscape as we passed numerous
hiking and cross-country skiing trails. There was little
up here for visitors other than what nature offered. I
could see why Stephen Gaines liked to come here. As
much as I loved the clicks and clacks of the newsroom,
there was something about the peace and quiet this area
offered that appealed to me.
It was six o’clock by the time we turned onto I-87
North heading toward Blue Mountain Lake. The city
itself was nestled in Hamilton County, in the town of
Indian Lake. After passing Albany and Saratoga
Springs, we turned onto Route 28 toward Indian Lake.
The drive down 28 was breathtaking. The roads were
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teeming with lush, green trees, small-town stores and
crisp blue water. It was the NewYork that existed outside
of what people commonly associated with New York.
Nearly untouched by technology, commerce and
industry.
About half an hour down 28, we passed a brownbrick building on our left. The sign read, Adirondack
Museum. The lettering was burned into a wooden
plaque, and unlike some other museums I’d seen in my
travels this one looked remarkably well maintained. It
was a shame, I thought, that I’d seen so many places yet
actually experienced so few. When I traveled, there was
always a reason. A story, something pulling me to a des
tination. There was never much time to enjoy my sur
roundings. I was here for business, and as much as I
could admire the beauty of this place, I wouldn’t—at
least now—be able to lose myself in it.
We drove several miles down Route 28, the majesty
of Blue Mountain Lake on our left. I could picture
Stephen Gaines (or was it myself?) sitting in a chair by
the water, writing in a spiral-bound notebook, listening
to nothing but the world itself. It was a far cry from what
I’d gotten used to in the city. Either I could love being
here for the blissful solitude—or it would drive me
crazy not to hear blaring horns and the music of the
newsroom.
There were several unpaved roads, which, according
to Rose, led to various cabins. There weren’t many
year-round residents up here, and most of the occu
pants were, like Stephen and Helen, city dwellers who
came to get away from the hustle and bustle. Each house
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stood far enough away from its neighbor to allow peace
and quiet, but were close enough that it did feel like
somewhat of a community up here.
As we approached the turn onto Maple Lodge Road,
on the northeast ridge of Blue Mountain Lake, I noticed
a set of tire tracks leading up to the cabin that looked
fairly recent, and another set leading away. They looked
like the same type of tread. The weather reports said that
it had rained here just two days ago, so whoever had
come here had done so in between the time Stephen
Gaines had died and now. And if, as Rose thought,
Helen had come here, we would hopefully find her.
The tracks leading away could have been Helen
shopping, picking up supplies.
Amanda turned the stereo off. I could feel the breath
become shallow in my chest. Helen Gaines had to have
answers. Even if she didn’t know who killed her son,
she would certainly know what he might have been
mixed up in that got him killed. She was our only hope,
our only lead. My father’s only hope.
We pulled onto the driveway and slowly entered the
Gaines residence. The only sounds were the rustling of
leaves in the slight wind. I could hear Amanda breathing
beside me. I felt her hand on my elbow for reassurance.
As we got closer we could see the cottage. It was two
stories tall, made from rounded interlocking logs. The
front door was bracketed by six logs surrounding a
makeshift porch. A chimney jutted from a roof lined
with a green material. It looked as if some sort of moss
or other plant life was growing on it. The chimney was
static. I lowered the window, smelled the air. It was
clean. If Helen was here, she hadn’t made a fire recently.
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“Henry,” Amanda said, her hand gripping my arm
tighter. “Look at that.”
In the dirt driveway, we could clearly make out the
tread markings from a second set of tires. These treads
were marked with numerous crisscrossi
ng lines, both
vertical and horizontal in even patterns. Truck tires
tended to have more grooves, deeper cuts, better for
sluicing water and specifically designed for off-roading.
These tracks likely belonged to a some sort of SUV. Our
eyes followed the tracks back to a clearing in the woods.
Whoever had come here hadn’t used the front door.
They’d come in a different way. They didn’t want to be
seen arriving. Who could have come here besides
Helen? And what kind of person would have come not
wanting to be seen? Clearly, whoever had come here
knew they would be coming in through the woods, and
needed treads that could handle it. Somebody wanted
to not be seen using the front door.
“This can’t be good,” Amanda said under her breath.
“What if someone is still there?”
She didn’t need to say that that person might not be
Helen Gaines.
I stopped the car short of the driveway and put it into
Park. I kept the engine running. Just in case.
With the engine purring, we both unlocked our doors
and tentatively stepped into the evening air. Wind
swirled around us as we stared at the cabin. I couldn’t
see much inside, so I crept closer, hunched low to the
ground. Dirt crackled under my feet as Amanda kept
pace several steps behind me.
I crept up the front steps and up to the door. Both side
windows were closed, and a drape prevented me from
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viewing what was inside. I gently knocked on the door.
There was no doorbell.
“Miss Gaines?” I called. “Helen?”
There was no response.
I called louder. Waited a minute. Heard nothing.
I walked back down the steps, then decided to go
around the house to see what we could find.
Heart pounding in my chest, I slid up to a side
window, cupped my hands to the glass and peered in.
The room was dark. There was a long couch, and I
could make out a television stand and what looked like
a desk. Other than that the room was impeccably clean.
Peering in closer, I could see a faint yellow glow ema
nating from a room beyond this one. A light was on
somewhere on the first floor.
“Stay here,” I said to Amanda.
“Like hell,” she replied. That was the end of that
discussion.
Staying low, we sidled around the back of the house
where another window faced the forest. Off in the
distance, I could make out a narrow road, paved poorly
but wide enough for a car to fit through. It did not face
the front of the house, and would be unseen by anyone
who was not in this room at the time. The window was
mere yards from the SUV tire tracks.
There was no doubt; whoever had come here had
used that path to gain access to the house.
I approached the window. My breath was ragged, and
I could hear Amanda panting behind me. Gently I stood
up until my eye line was just over the windowsill.
I made out the top of a shower rod and a medicine chest.
This was clearly the downstairs bathroom. Then I saw it.
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The right medicine cabinet was open. Pills and
makeup were spread out all over the counter. Bottles
were broken. Things scattered everywhere.
That’s when Amanda stood up, saw the entirety of
the bathroom, and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
When I saw what she was looking at, it was all I
could do to stifle mine.
A body was facedown on the floor. Her blouse was
ripped and tattered. Her arms were splayed out in a
horribly unnatural position.
And a pool of blood was spread around her head like
a gruesome sunrise.
Without thinking, I ran to the nearest tree, propped my
foot against a limb and pulled until I heard a crunch and
the thick branch snapped off. Taking a running start, I
brought the limb back behind my head just like when I
played Little League, and slammed the branch against
the windowpane. The glass didn’t shatter, but a large
crack snaked down the middle. Just enough. Two more
whacks and enough glass had broken for me to clear the
rest out with the branch. I carefully climbed through the
window. The blood around Helen Gaines’s head looked
dark red, almost dried but not completely. A small piece
of metal floated in the gore, but I couldn’t tell what it was.
I smelled the air, a faint but still noxious odor present. I
looked closer. There was a chance she was still…
I gently moved her hair away from her neck so I
could check her pulse. And that’s when I realized that
this woman was black. It was not Helen Gaines.
I pressed three fingers against her carotid artery,
praying for a pulse. I felt nothing. I pressed again, this
time on her wrist. Silent. Dead.
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I looked at the body.
My hands shook as I reached into my pocket and
pulled out my cell phone. Thankfully there was recep
tion. My fingers fumbled and I had to dial 911 three
times before getting it right.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“A woman’s been killed at 97 Maple Lodge Road.
Please get here quick.”
“Sir, can you check her pulse?”
“There’s no pulse. Please just get here.”
“All right, sir, an ambulance is on the way. Do you
know the victim?”
“No,” I said, nearly passing out as I sat down on the
rim of the porcelain bathtub. “I don’t.”
Sitting in the pool of blood, about two feet away from
the body, was a tiny diamond earring, lying next to
another thin sliver of what looked like gray hair. The
diamond was a princess cut. One day, a few weeks ago,
I was looking online at engagement rings. Thinking
about whether I could see Amanda wearing one. I re
membered seeing the name—princess cut—and
thinking it was perfect. A princess for a princess, I’d
thought.
But there was only one earring on the ground.
The other was either taken by the killer. Or still being
worn by someone who’d escaped.
Then I looked at the body again. The victim’s ears
weren’t pierced. Which meant the single earring on the
ground had belonged to Helen Gaines. And she’d
dropped it before she fled.
15
Her name was Beth-Ann Downing. She lived two
floors above Helen and Stephen Gaines in their apart
ment in Alphabet City. She and Helen had been friends
for fifteen years. She owned a Camry, which she parked
in a garage on Fourteenth Street. A call to the garage
confirmed that Beth had taken the Camry a few days
ago and had not returned it. Beth-Ann Downing was
fifty-three years old. Divorced. One daughter who lived
in Sherman Oaks, California, Sheryl Harrison, who was
on a flight to New York City to attend her mo
ther’s
funeral.
Beth had worked as a bank teller. According to the
police, gas and credit-card receipts showed she’d left the
city with Helen Gaines the very night Stephen Gaines
was killed. A waitress at a diner on I-87 recognized Beth
and said she’d been eating with another woman. That
woman fit the description of Helen Gaines, Stephen’s
mother. Beth was either fleeing from something, or was
simply helping an old friend who was fleeing from
something.
And last night she was killed when a bullet severed
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her brain stem, fired from less than a foot away. Death
was almost instantaneous.
Almost.
And I wondered if Beth-Ann Downing had even
known what her friend was running from.
We’d given our statement to Deputy Reece Watts of
the Indian Lake Police Department. I took a little extra
time washing the blood off my fingers.
We told the police everything we knew. From early
forensics, it appeared that an SUV or van of some sort
approached the Gaines residence during the night, when
both Helen Gaines and Beth-Ann Downing were asleep.
They pried open the storm shutters and snuck in through
the basement.
Beth had awoken, and went downstairs to check on
the noise. She saw the intruders. The police confirmed
there was more than one. Several pairs of footprints,
they said. They chased her to the bathroom, where they
shot her. In the confusion, Helen Gaines had escaped.
That’s why we saw tire tracks leaving the cabin.
Helen had fled while her friend was being murdered.
Nobody had any idea of the whereabouts of Helen
Gaines. She hadn’t called the police. Hadn’t stopped
anywhere for help.
She’d just disappeared.
It might have just been me, but that didn’t seem like
typical behavior for a woman whose only son had just
recently been killed. Especially when the alleged
murderer was locked up awaiting trial.
I had no idea how this would play in regards to my
father. Stephen Gaines was still dead. The police were
still figuring out if anything in the cabin was missing.
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If they could chalk it up to a burglary gone horribly
wrong. Or if there was something else. Another reason
the intruders had come to that cabin in the middle of the
night.
Regardless of how the autopsy and discovery came
out, I couldn’t believe the murder was the result of a
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