He got Mallon’s voice mail and left a message. He was about to call Wilkes and Sanchez next, followed by the coroner and then his partner, Vince Perry, when he happened to catch the search results that had finally come up on his computer screen. Under the list of abandoned cars registered to known users, he recognized a name that sent the contents of his stomach churning in new directions.
Patrol officers had called in a gray 2008 Nissan Sentra with a flat tire and a smashed driver-side window abandoned on Mt. Misery Pasadena Road. Behind it, parked half in the road, was a bronze Honda CR-V.
The Honda was registered to that bastard Darren Baumhauer. Fate couldn’t catch up to him and kick his ass fast enough for Pete. The other car, the Nissan, belonged to his friend Julia Russo. And so help him, if the scenario that the report was suggesting was anything close to the truth—if Darren had hurt her and left her in the Pine Barrens—Pete would kill him himself.
Pete turned to the area map tacked to the wall behind Fender’s and Bryce’s desks. Mt. Misery Pasadena Road . . . Mt. Misery Pasadena Road . . .
“Shit,” Pete muttered, and hit the redial button on his phone. Mallon would have to get his ass down there right quick.
Mt. Misery Pasadena Road was just outside of Nilhollow. That meant Julia was officially a missing person in Nilhollow, just like Todd Mackey had said.
FIVE
It had already been a long and messy morning, and once again, it was vaguely connected to that damned Nilhollow spot.
Stan Mallon had arrived after midnight the night before, following Pete Grainger’s call. It had been difficult to make out everything he was saying—stuff about spores and trees and Nilhollow and the crazy guy in cell 4—but he’d ascertained that the crazy guy was now dead, and that Sanchez and Wilkes had been called and notified, as well as the coroner. The latter had confirmed the manner of death was self-inflicted, apparently by a loose spring from the underside of the cot. The body had been removed after the scene was processed, and as the morning shift of officers filed in and grabbed their coffee, Mallon himself had taken Grainger’s statement.
And there, as people say, was the rub. It was not that he doubted Grainger’s account in the slightest; Grainger was a good cop and an honest one, which Mallon was finding he appreciated and respected as he inched closer to retirement. Further, the scene as he saw it in cell 4 and the coroner’s preliminary findings confirmed Grainger’s report. And Grainger knew well how to observe a crime scene. His becoming detective was now only a matter of time; he was observant and detailed and shouldered a lot of grunt work without complaining. Nearly everything he had reported could be counted on as credible information.
Nearly—and that was where Mallon was stuck, because Grainger, in being so honest, was risking ribbing at the least, and a psych evaluation at most, by telling everything he had seen and heard.
Grainger reported that the crazy guy, one Todd Mackey, had claimed the trees in Nilhollow had crushed his brother, Kenny Mackey, to death, and thought they were whispering to him in the cell right up until Grainger had left him to look into the wild claims he’d made. In and of itself, that wasn’t anything Mallon had a problem with putting in the report. Crazy people said all kinds of things. That Grainger was trying to convince him there might be something to it, that it wasn’t just the babbling of a delusional man, was a tougher sell.
So Mallon had asked him why he believed it. Grainger had hemmed and hawed a little, starting with the theory that a woman he knew, Julia Russo, was missing; patrol officers had reported that her car had been found abandoned, and there was no record of her at any of the local hospitals, jails, or shelters. The relevancy of this piece of information was that this Mackey guy mentioned a woman in danger of suffering the same fate as his brother because she was lost in Nilhollow, the same woods where Julia’s car had been found. Mackey hadn’t given a name for this woman, but Grainger was convinced that it was more than just coincidence. He’d said the woman was the ax-wielder’s lady, and Julia’s car window had been smashed by something that could have conceivably been an ax. Plus, she had a psycho ex-boyfriend whose car was found abandoned just feet away from hers. Grainger hadn’t wasted any time; after his phone calls that evening, he’d entered all the info he had on Julia and Darren into the New Jersey Law Enforcement Telecommunications System, the National Center for Missing Adults system, the Red Lion Station’s internal database, and the New Jersey State Police website’s missing persons section. He was wholly convinced Julia was in danger, and had intimated that it wasn’t just from Darren.
Mallon had given him an expectant look—Grainger’s face and tone of voice said there was more to it—and Grainger had sighed and told him about the tree growing out of Todd Mackey.
In Mallon’s experience, Grainger was a grounded kind of guy. He had a healthy skepticism for all things paranormal, supernatural, religious, or otherwise otherworldly. He was as much at a loss for how to explain what he’d seen—or thought he’d seen—as Mallon was for how to report it. He wasn’t pushing a delusion through to pass it as a reality; he had no doubts about exactly what he’d seen, but was trying to understand it. It made him sound credible to Mallon.
There was another reason Mallon was inclined to believe Grainger. Mallon had known a town cop out in Lakehaven, one of those areas up in northern Jersey, who used to refer to what he called “spin” cases. Those were cases where the kind of lunatic rantings of crazy witnesses just maybe had some truth to them—UFOs, cryptids, boogeymen, spirits, monsters, ghosts, all the stuff of nightmares that unexplainable evidence seemed to indicate were walking, flying, slithering, slapping, or swimming around the wilder parts of New Jersey. Mallon had thought the guy was pulling his leg; it was maybe a loathing of extra paperwork or laziness. He personally had never really experienced anything of the sort . . . until he’d been given the captain job at Red Lion Station. Since then, there had been a number of such cases, all related to the Nilhollow area of the Pine Barrens.
The people who lived nearby were uneasy with that place. The Red Lion Station had its fair share of calls out to the area to check on everything from strange animal noises and tracks to bright lights in the woods to ritual chanting. Someone was always having car trouble. Many cars like Grainger’s friend Julia’s were left abandoned on Mt. Misery Pasadena Road. And old folks had answers, it seemed, or at least speculations. They would point out (but only to the persistent questioner) that the odd prints in the ancient earth were dragging and deep, like the tracks of heavy snakes, but irregular, as if those snakes skipped along the ground. In fact, the old folks would say, the prints were more like the roots of trees, if trees could pick up and walk. They’d mention the cracks and snaps of twigs so often nearly eclipsed by heavy, irregular breathing or a low, dull, keening sound. Even the most oblivious to that which was beyond the norm would complain of a heavy feeling in the chest when they were out there, a sense of being watched, and notions in their head that weren’t theirs at all. Getting his officers to patrol the Nilhollow stretch was always a pain in the ass; word got around and scared the new guys.
Most of the surrounding towns had legends passed from old-timer to teenager, generation after generation. People believed there was something out there.
Why the New Jersey Pinelands National Reserve didn’t just burn it all to the ground was beyond him. He supposed they thought it was enough to leave it wild, virtually untouched woodland—no hiking trails, no picnic or camping areas, nothing to monetize. That didn’t stop thrill seekers and extremist hikers from traipsing into there anyway and getting themselves good and lost, however. Or worse.
Weighing the wisdom of it, Mallon decided to tell Grainger he believed the story, more or less, to gauge his reaction. Mostly because it was Grainger—ex–Boy Scout and genuine idealist—and partially because the area had a history, a reputation that everyone at the station knew about, Mallon told Grainger that he understood why the younger officer believed there was more to Mackey’s death than s
uicide. Grainger looked relieved.
“So . . . you don’t think I’m crazy, then?”
“Didn’t say that,” Mallon replied noncommittally.
Grainger remained un-deflated but antsy, his fingers drumming impatiently on his leg. He wanted to go out searching for his friend. It was more than responsibility to the job that made him want to go, Mallon suspected, and that same responsibility was the only thing keeping him there to give his statement.
Grainger said, “I did some more searching through the missing persons database while I was waiting for you. The numbers have doubled in that area over the last two years. And it’s not just missing people. Over the last year, there have been more unexplained deaths, murder-suicides, and violent self-mutilations. More admittances to St. Dymphna. I believe there really is something out there—”
“Gas leaks, maybe. Chemicals in the water. Or maybe an abundance of some kids’ marijuana crops growing wild.”
Grainger shook his head. “No, sir. It’s more than that. You’ve said so yourself. The guys here know it, too. There’s something bad out there. And if Mackey brought it here—”
“Coroner checked for spores and seeds, like you asked. Nothing transmittable, nothing airborne that he could find, remember?”
Grainger shrugged. “Maybe it’s not transmitted that way. But it gets to people all the same. It got to Mackey. And if Julia’s out there, she might be stuck in the heart of it. I’ve got to go find her, boss.” The last part came across as a statement of intent, not a request.
Mallon replied, “This woman—you worked with her and Colby on, what was it, a domestic abuse charge?”
Grainger nodded.
“If you’re right, and something is going on out there in Nilhollow, we need it identified and rectified ASAP. I expect you to be focused, despite your feelings for this woman.”
Grainger blushed a little. “Feelings?” For all his good looks and common decency, the guy had no game. With a small smile, he asked, “That obvious?”
Mallon offered him an easy grin in return. “These high-powered perceptions and refined detecting skills are why they pay me the big bucks. That, and your voice gets all soft when you mention her. And the time she was in here, you stared at her like a starving man at a steak house.” He sat back. “Go. Find her. But take Perry with you—no one goes to Nilhollow alone until we sort this out. Got it? Report back on the hour.”
Grainger brightened. By the time he answered, “Yes, sir,” he had snagged Perry, who had been, in his very unsubtle way, waiting to hear what was going on, and they were out the door.
* * *
Vince Perry had been Pete’s partner for the last seven years. Maggie in dispatch had once described him as not everyone’s cup of tea (and at the precinct holiday party after a few wine spritzers, as a crude, loud-mouthed Pac-Man), but for all his quirks, Pete couldn’t imagine leaving his back to anyone else.
Still, there were times when his way with words rubbed Pete the wrong way.
“So you think killer trees popped the blood balloon in cell four? Is that what you’re tellin’ me?”
Pete shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat as they sped toward Mt. Misery Pasadena Road. “I—I’m just telling you what I saw. What I think I saw. I don’t know. Look, it sounds crazy to me, too. But—”
“Say no more, Grainge. If you say it was killer trees, I’ll roll with it. I’ve got you, brother. And besides, I’ve been itching to pull the Nilhollow patrol for months. See what all these townies are talking about, am I right?” Perry also had a habit of calling Pete “Grainge,” which by his estimation was a mere vowel away from “grunge” and made him feel (perhaps ridiculously) unshowered. Still, he knew it was better to let Perry wear a thing out than to explain why he’d prefer something else.
“I guess. I just want to find Julia.”
“You really wanna bang this chick, huh?”
Pete felt flustered all over again. “We’re friends, Perry. She just got out of a relationship—”
Perry waved his hand. “You been hard over her for like, what? Three, four years now?” He laughed.
Pete refused to meet his gaze. “She’s beautiful, yes, but it’s not like that.”
“Like what? You don’t want to bang her?”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean—ah, do we really have to do this now? I’m working on fifteen hours of no sleep, I just saw a guy splattered all over our jail cell, and my friend is missing and very likely in trouble. I—I just don’t have it in me to do this with you right now.” In his peripheral vision, he saw the uncharacteristically serious sideways look that Perry cast him.
“Just trying to lighten the mood, bro. Look, we’ll find her, okay? If it’s your girlfriend’s asshole ex, we’ll get him. If it’s some other crazy ax-wielding, mask-wearing lunatic, we’ll take him down, too. And if it’s killer trees . . . well, fuck, we’ll have a hell of a story to tell at the bar next Saturday, eh?” He slapped Pete’s shoulder reassuringly. “We’ll find her. Like I said, we got this.”
Pete nodded, let go of the tight knot of breath he’d been holding in his chest, and said, “Okay. Yeah, okay. We’ll find her.”
There was a pause in the conversation, and then Perry said, “So I’m gonna need a date to my cousin’s wedding.”
“That’s a sweet offer, but no thank you.” Pete smirked.
“I can do better than you anyway,” Perry said, grinning back. “Maggie, for instance. She likes me.”
Pete snorted. “Like you in what way? If you mean ‘like’ as in if you were on fire, she might dump her drink on you to put you out, then maybe.”
Perry snorted. “Nah, man, she wants me. The vibe is there—the spark, ya know? She wants to ride me like a New York subway.”
“No one wants to ride the New York subway.”
“You know what I mean,” Perry said, not flustered in the slightest. “She wants me to throw one in there. Damn, that ass. The things I could do to her in the backseat of this cruiser in six minutes—”
“I’d advise not leading off your smooth talk with the six minutes thing, if I were you.”
Perry grinned. “It would be the best six minutes she ever had, I guarantee it. Change her life.”
They traveled the rest of the way in relative silence, Perry occasionally humming a few bars of some song to himself or making some comment about the passing scenery or office gossip. It was hard not to think about Julia and what Darren might be doing to her right then, but Pete sure was glad for Perry’s inane distractions. At least it leeched away a little of the tense impatience he felt about the drive and what might be at the end of it.
As Pete turned onto Mt. Misery Pasadena Road from Pasadena Woodmanse, though, even Perry grew quiet. Keeping a lookout for killer trees, Pete supposed. But the thickly wooded area to their left was intimidating, tenebrous within, even in the morning sun. Pete kept to the speed limit, but couldn’t help feeling like he was sneaking down the road past the trees so as not to draw the attention of whatever was in those woods. They drove awhile; the abandoned vehicle reports for Julia’s and Darren’s cars said that both were found almost all the way out by Glassworks Road. When they were about a quarter of a mile from the turnoff, Pete slowed and pulled off onto the shoulder, then put the car in Park and cut the engine.
He swept the area with a tight expression; there was broken glass on the opposite shoulder across the street and a tiny trail of shredded rubber leading up to it. The cars had already been towed; there were no other signs that Julia or Darren had ever been there. That was the thing about missing persons cases that had always unnerved Pete: It amazed him how people could just be absent from the world they touched and interacted with and sent their own tiny ripples of influence through every day. Even when police could pinpoint the likely last-seen location, the place from which they’d disappeared, it was almost always a neat, normal scene, a part of the world going on as if the missing person had never been part of its reality at all.
“So . . . here, then?” Perry’s voice seemed both breathlessly excited and hesitant. Perry was an excitable type under normal circumstances, so it was hard to tell.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so,” Pete replied. “Cars went off the road there, where the broken glass is. So, yeah, let’s start there.”
Perry clicked the safety off his gun. “Ready when you are, partner.”
As they crossed the street, Pete noticed bits of plastic and metal just at the edge of the grass. Instinct told him it was another bad sign. As he got close enough to realize what it was, he swore under his breath.
“What?” Perry asked, coming up alongside him.
Pete gestured. “A cell phone. Hers, maybe.”
Perry whistled. It was his “looks like trouble” whistle, and probably a more honest indication of Perry’s thoughts on the subject than anything he’d be inclined to say. “Could explain why she didn’t call anyone for help.” That she might not still be alive to call was left unspoken, but hung there between them all the same. Glass windows and cell phones didn’t break without something or someone to break them.
Pete looked at the trees, gathered close as if in curiosity, and noticed that beyond a thick carpet of ferns and shrubs, there was a dirt path leading away into the Barrens. Pete was certainly no tracker, but he had been a Boy Scout, and thought at least he might recognize if someone had made tracks along the path.
When he turned to his partner, Perry gestured at the path. “Let’s do this, Grainge.”
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