by Jen Blood
“You shouldn’t be out here,” she said disapprovingly. “Your suit…”
He shrugged. “That’s what dry cleaners are for. It’s nice to be outside. Feel the soil under my hands.”
“You garden at home?”
“Not now—I live in the city. When I was a teenager, we had fruit trees.” He thought of Sister Mary Louise, watching him with her sharp eyes under the brutal Miami summer sun while he helped pick bananas and mango, grapefruit and oranges. He didn’t mention Lucia’s garden in Santa Rosa; kissing her after a day’s work, when she smelled of strawberries and sunlight.
“Where was this?” she asked.
“Miami. The sisters at the place where I grew up loved having fresh fruit. They had no problem putting me to work.”
“Ah,” she said. “C’est bien. It’s good putting boys to work. Less trouble, non?”
He couldn’t argue with that. A giant, long-haired gray cat strolled into the garden and made for Juarez directly, rubbing against him with a low, rumbling purr. He held up his hand and she butted her head against it, tail twitching.
“Miranda,” Sarah said to the cat. “Allez.”
“It’s all right,” Juarez said. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m more of a cat person anyway… Let her stay.” He resumed working in the soil while Miranda wove around him.
“When you were growing up,” he asked after they’d worked in silence for a short time, “did Bonnie ever talk to you about being at Eagle Lake the weekend Jeff and Erin went missing?”
She didn’t answer.
“Sarah?” he pressed.
She looked at him unhappily, her lips in a tight line. “Her and Jeff—they were together sometimes, oui? He didn’t usually date just one girl, mais he liked Bonnie. All the boys liked her. Elle est tres jolie.”
“Did you know a Mr. E—or an Eliot, maybe—who spent time with them, too? Or maybe hear them talking about someone with that name?”
To his surprise, she nodded readily. “Bien sur. He came to stay that summer. Avec Jeff pis Erin.”
“So you knew him?”
“Oui.”
“Do you know where he is now? Or have any idea what he did after they disappeared in 1970?”
She shook her head. “Non,” she said regretfully. “He wasn’t here long. Everybody liked him, though. He never did nothing mal the way they did. He was tres intelligent. Very quick.”
So, nothing since 1970 according to Sarah. Except that if Rosie really had heard this Eliot at Will Rainier’s when she was a child, that couldn’t have been longer ago than the late ‘90s. Juarez excused himself and left Sarah and Miranda to finish in their garden. He jogged along the by-now well-traveled path to the crime scene, his head clearing with the movement.
Sophie Laurent, the medical examiner, was just finishing up when Juarez arrived. The entire clearing had been taped off. Stakes and string cordoned off the sites where each of the bodies had been buried. Bonnie Saucier and all four of the other bodies had already been excavated and were now in transit. A small team from CSU was all that remained now, painstakingly covering every inch of the area to ensure no evidence had been missed.
Sophie finished discussing something with the crime scene techs and greeted him with a pleased smile.
“I was just getting ready to call you. We have some interesting developments I wanted to speak with you about.” He waited while she leafed through her paperwork.
“First,” she began. “Bonnie Saucier… Something seemed a bit off with her COD, so I had someone double check something for me.” She consulted one of the reports again. “She died of asphyxiation, as I suspected when first examining her. The distribution of weight and the pattern left by the belt were inconsistent with strangulation, however.”
“So how did she die?”
“Suicide would be my guess,” she said promptly. “Off the record until a thorough examination can verify that, of course. Hanging.”
“And someone moved the body here,” Juarez said. He thought of Red Grivois’ story about the phone call he’d received at three o’clock the previous afternoon. “Can you tell when that was done?”
“Oui. Time of death would have been between noon and four p.m. yesterday, based on liver temp and lividity.”
“You can’t pinpoint any closer?”
“Not until further tests can be done.”
“That’s all right, I understand,” he assured her. “That’s a good start.” He made a mental note to speak with Red Grivois again about that phone call. “Was there anything else?”
“I spoke with the technicians about that belt you wanted analyzed for fingerprints.” Juarez was still stuck on the revelation about Bonnie’s suicide, but nodded absently for her to continue.
“Ms. Saucier’s fingerprints were on the belt, of course, so no surprise there. But Jeff Lincoln’s prints were not. There were fingerprints from an unidentified male who was not in the system, but there was no trace of Lincoln’s.”
“That’s impossible,” Juarez said. “I saw him holding it. He dropped it right in front of me; there was no time for him to wipe his prints, and he wasn’t wearing gloves. You’re positive about that?”
“I knew you’d ask, so I had them run it through twice. There’s no question.”
His head was awhirl with questions. Everyone to that point had agreed that Adam Solomon and Jeff Lincoln were the same person; that the teenager in Black Falls was the same man in the photos on Payson Isle years later. He excused himself, already dialing Mandy as he walked back up the path toward his car. It felt as though a huge piece of the puzzle was about to drop into place.
“I need a photo of Jeff Lincoln,” he told her. “One taken directly from the Lansing asylum where he was held in ’72. The place where we first got prints on him.”
“That won’t be easy,” she said immediately. “This is an awful lot of years later… I doubt they even have anything like that.”
“You said I should keep the faith. Right now, it’s all wrapped up in you,” he said.
He could practically hear her roll her eyes. “That’s low, Jack. But I’ll see what I can do.”
He hung up and stood there for a moment, his body humming. The assumption up to that point had been that the Jeff Lincoln who went missing from Eagle Lake in 1970 was the same Jeff Lincoln who resurfaced in Lansing in 1972, was fingerprinted, and then escaped two weeks later. But what if that had merely been someone posing as Jeff? Someone who knew the scant details necessary to steal someone’s identity in the ‘70s. If the mysterious Mr. E was a friend of Jeff’s at the time, he would know the time and place of Jeff’s birth, and would likely have had access to his social security number, as well.
He could have killed Erin Lincoln, then left her brother reeling and in shock in the woods… Juarez had no idea where the fifteen-year-old might have gone from there, but it made sense that he might simply disappear rather than going home to tell his abusive father what had happened. He became someone else… And Jeff Lincoln was reborn a monster.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I don’t know how long we’d been going before Rainier slowed. Diggs and I had been silent through most of the trek, my body sapped of strength, running far too long with no food or water or sleep. It turns out it’s basically impossible to maintain any kind of good humor during a death march.
We were back at the side of yet another mountain in the middle of yet another wooded glade when Rainier ordered us to stop.
“It’s about fucking time,” he said with a sigh. “We’re here.”
I looked around. All I saw were more deep woods; more horseflies; more mosquitoes and sunlight and blackflies and pain. I wondered if he was going to kill us there… If he’d rape me first, while Diggs watched. I tried to imagine my life back in the real world: shopping Trader Joe’s; walking Einstein around Portland’s Back Bay. I closed my eyes.
I really missed my dog.
Instead of raping me or torturing us both or even just kil
ling us and getting it over with, Rainier pushed us toward a tangle of brambles and brush on the mountainside. We were less than two feet away before I realized he wasn’t trying to force us into the side of the mountain.
Or he was… Just not in the way I’d expected.
Concealed behind the brush, painted to blend perfectly with the landscape, was a door.
Rainier brushed past us both and unlocked it with a rusted skeleton key. He stepped aside and motioned us through, then followed behind. The door echoed when it closed behind us. He snapped on the lights.
I blinked twice, taking in our new surroundings. Carved into the side of the mountain, deep in the woods and completely concealed from the rest of the world, was a simple, tastefully furnished subterranean prison.
“Welcome to the Sanctuary,” Rainier said. He pushed us farther inside. “You can check out... But you’ll never leave.”
◊◊◊◊◊
The neatly decorated foyer was only a way station for Diggs and me before Rainier pushed us through a dimly lit living area, to a barred door with another reinforced steel one behind it. He opened both doors with his magic skeleton key, and turned on more lights inside. I could hear a generator humming somewhere inside the mountain.
“You stay here tonight,” Rainier said. “I’ll come for you at five o’clock tomorrow morning. Be ready. Rules are on the dresser.”
He untied both of us, left the room, and closed and locked both doors behind us.
When he was gone, Diggs went straight to the dresser, while I took in our surroundings. The floor was poured concrete, with a couple of sedate throw rugs. The walls were carved into the mountain itself. There was a kitchenette with a stocked refrigerator, small stove, microwave, and a cabinet with a few dishes; a double bed with a down comforter and a dresser; a bathroom with a working toilet and a double shower. The medicine cabinet was stocked with first aid supplies. The apartment was notably lacking computer, telephone, or TV.
“So, we’re basically being held captive in the Bat Cave,” I said to Diggs. “Is that what you’re getting from all this?”
“Basically,” he agreed. “Listen to this.” He took a placard from the dresser and sat down on the bed: “ ‘Welcome to the Sanctuary. During your stay, you can be assured of the following: All food is safe; All clothing, first aid supplies, and food are available for the taking; You are under neither auditory nor visual surveillance; You will not be disturbed until your prearranged wake-up call; Subjects are allowed one night in Sanctuary with a partner; After said shared night, the victor in subsequent matches will periodically be allotted additional time in Sanctuary; Suicide is discouraged, but not prohibited. Best of luck. – J.’ ”
I scratched my head. “What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t have a clue. But would you look at this place?”
“Martha Stewart meets Soldier of Fortune. Pretty sweet.” I tried to ignore the bubble of hysteria welling in my chest. “What are we supposed to do now?”
He lay back and closed his eyes. “I don’t have a clue. Sleep comes to mind, though… And food. And a shower. In that order.”
“You’re going to sleep now? Aren’t you freaked out?”
“Mm hmm,” he said. “But I’m also exhausted. And so are you.”
I sat there another minute or so before I knew I’d come unglued if I didn’t do something. Anything. I went in the bathroom and checked the shower. The dual showerheads shuddered and sputtered, but eventually came to life with surprisingly good water pressure. I raided the medicine cabinet, pulling out bandages and ointments and everything else I could imagine us possibly needing. When I returned to the bedroom, Diggs was already asleep. I pulled the blanket around him, but I resisted the urge to lie down myself. According to the clock on the dresser, it was already after five p.m. We had less than twelve hours to figure out some kind of plan… I couldn’t afford to sleep that time away.
I started by searching the place for hidden cameras or wires or any other sign that Will Rainier and whoever else was in on this was listening. I found nothing, but that didn’t mean I believed for a second we were really on our own for the night. I went to the refrigerator next and surveyed the contents: bottled water, bread, eggs, cheese, bacon. Juice. Oranges. There was peanut butter and Shredded Wheat and a few canned goods in the cupboard. On the inside of the refrigerator was a note that read: For those who have not eaten in excess of 24 hours, moderation is critical. May have difficulty digesting ‘heavy’ meals. – J.
I took out the bread and cheese and sniffed them both. They smelled fine… Of course, unless they were well past the Best If Used By date or someone had laced them with almond-scented cyanide, I didn’t really have a clue what the hell I should be smelling for. I made a sandwich, grabbed a bottled water and some aspirin, and sat on the floor in the far corner of our cell, my eye on the door.
I ate slowly, in case I started to feel like my intestines were filled with razor blades or the room took on Degas-like overtones. Neither of those things happened.
Diggs was snoring by the time I finished eating. I started the shower, took care of business, and then stripped out of my filthy clothes—with the exception of bra and underpants, so I wouldn’t be completely vulnerable if Rainier decided now was a good time to go Psycho on me. I opened the bathroom door and kept the shower curtain partially open so I could keep an eye on Diggs… I didn’t want to get out and find him murdered in bed while I’d been in the bathroom sucking up all the hot water.
The shower was one of those natural-type deals they have on HGTV a lot, with a drain in the floor and two square showerheads overhead meant to mimic rainfall. I stood beneath the spray and considered our situation. As far as I could tell so far, there wasn’t a chance in hell of escape; that’s one of the drawbacks of being imprisoned inside a mountain. I thought of Erin Lincoln’s journal; the J carved in her chest when she died; all the other girls who’d been imprisoned and hunted… Dr. Laurent had said those girls had been bound, starved, and confined to a small area. Was that what Diggs and I had to look forward to, once these ‘matches’ referred to in the rules began?
I thought of Rainier again. From what I’d seen, he didn’t have the intelligence, patience, or vision for this kind of lunacy. He couldn’t be the one behind it all. But if it wasn’t him, I honestly didn’t have a clue who it was. I closed my eyes and leaned against the rock wall, letting the water wash over me. The pain in my wrist had migrated up my arm and down to my fingers… I couldn’t tell where the hurt ended anymore. Quebec City seemed light years away now. I winced at the memory of that fateful decision that brought Diggs and me here instead of some little motel in Montreal. If we survived this, Juarez would probably never speak to me again. I imagined him out there somewhere, trying to find us. Tracking down leads. Beating in doors. Had he learned something we hadn’t?
I drifted, standing there as exhaustion moved through me. When I opened my eyes, Diggs stood at the bathroom door, watching me. He didn’t look away when our eyes met. When I made no move to cover myself, he stepped into the room.
“I don’t know how much hot water there is,” I said. I took a breath. Thought of the rules: No surveillance. And Rainier’s words: I’ll come for you... Be ready. How did you get ready for something like this? Diggs was still watching me. His eyes were dark, filled with a kind of hunger I’d almost forgotten he possessed. “There’s room for you, if you want.” I couldn’t look at him when I said it.
He nodded silently. I watched him strip to his boxers, taking in the battle scars—both old and new. There was one over his heart that he’d always refused to tell me about—a burn about the size of a silver dollar; a razor-thin scar along his jawline from a night in Tijuana that I’d missed; a cigarette burn on the inside of his right elbow from a night that summer in Bridgeport that I only wished I’d missed. Celtic tattoos on both arms. He stepped into the shower without touching me and raised his face to the spray. Between the two of us, the concrete shower
floor was filthy as all the blood and the mud and the… Whatever the hell else we’d carried in with us, magically washed away. When Diggs finally made contact, it was to nudge my shoulder so that I’d turn away from him.
He took shampoo from a shower caddy in the corner and wordlessly poured some into his hand, then gently tipped my head back.
“You got burned today,” he said. I looked from my vantage; Diggs upside down. Inside out. His finger skimmed my forehead.
“Yeah… I didn’t have the kit with me to put any sunblock on. It’s not so bad, though—we were in the woods most of the time. More bites than burns.”
He put the shampoo in my hair and massaged it in until my knees had gone soft. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. I did, and kept them that way while he rinsed the soap out. He turned me around. We faced off once more.
“What do you think happens tomorrow?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing good.”
“That was my thought.”
I watched the water run down his chest, drip off his shoulders. He’s bigger than most people think when they first meet him, in the office with his concert tees and jeans and vintage hats; there’s a physical power there that people just don’t suspect. He’d gotten a little soft in recent months—his arms not quite so big as I remembered them, his stomach a little soft. I thought of Andie, back in Littlehope waiting for him to come home. I stepped away.
Before I got very far, his hand skimmed my side; he pulled me back to him. His eyes were still on mine. I could tell that the same old battle was waging again: should I stay or should I go now…
I steadied myself with my good hand at his side and raised myself up on my toes, our bodies pressed close. I could feel him against me now, hard where I was soft, warm and solid. We remained that way for a few seconds, the water washing over both of us, our gazes locked. When he finally lowered his mouth to mine, all the air left the room.