“He sure does. Did you want to tell us something? Maybe help us identify our killer?”
Will pulled up a few photos on his phone, scrolling through the faces of all his known suspects, while Casey looked on. Keeping a watchful eye on the casino’s front doors, she shook her head.
“No one I’ve seen before. But I work the VIP area most nights. And Feather’s lying. There are plenty of high rollers who aren’t afraid to flash a badge.”
Yawning, JB pulled the Crown Vic into the station parking lot. “We should brief the chief ASAP. Let her know our perp is more than likely a cop. She’s going to blow another gasket.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Will said. “You go home and get some rest.”
“City boys need sleep too, you know.”
Will had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours. His eyes burned. His head ached. At that point, he could’ve slept in a detention camp with the CIA blasting the Barney theme song. “After we find Olivia. And arrest Devere. Then I’ll sleep.”
JB cut the engine and turned to Will. “That’s some real hero mumbo-jumbo. If you think I’m gonna tell her you said it, you’re sorely mistaken. She wouldn’t be impressed anyway. She’d say you were being hard-headed and completely impractical.”
Will leaned back against the seat, wishing Olivia was there to take JB’s side. To tell him how stupid he was being. “Do you think she’s okay?”
“Hey, that woman is a scrapper.” JB’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “All kidding aside, we’re going to find her. I’ll see you back here at 6 a.m. I won’t tell anybody if you catnap for an hour or two. I know you’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
Sixty-Two
With the moon descending in the night sky, Will met Sergeant Kingsley on the dirt path by the Earl River behind Olivia’s house. Though they’d suspended the search until first light, he’d begged Kingsley for an update, forgoing the temptation of sleep a little longer. He had gone home though, gearing up in his heavy rubber boots and quick-drying cargo pants. The kind that came in handy in the wet Fog Harbor winters when the Earl River swelled to twice its size, swallowing everything in its path.
Kingsley pointed his flashlight down the trail. “Let’s walk further downriver. There’s a rocky low point where it’s easy to get across. I want to show you something.”
Will followed in silence, his tired mind playing tricks. Movement in the trees. Just a nightingale. Whispers from the river. The current pushing toward the sea. Olivia’s frantic screams. Only in his mind.
A quarter of a mile downriver, the banks narrowed. Three large rocks formed a passageway across the flowing water.
“Be careful. It’s slippier than it looks.” Sergeant Kingsley heeded his own warning, taking his time to cross to the other side. Will matched his steps, scrambling up the grassy bank and onto dry land.
“Take a look.” Kingsley spotlighted the muddy area alongside them, where searchers had plunged a metal stake into the earth next to a perfect footprint. The sole of a Nike sneaker, the swoosh still visible at its center.
Will gaped at it. “Olivia wore Nikes.”
“We figured as much. The dogs tracked her scent from the house to the dirt trail and across the river right here.”
Sergeant Kingsley headed into the grove with Will behind him. After walking about forty paces, he stopped beneath the canopy of an ancient redwood.
“The dogs lost the scent in this area. They circled a few times but couldn’t pick it up again.”
Will looked around them. Nothing but ferns and dirt and the soft-barked bodies of the trees. He stared up at the nearest redwood, its branches seeming to stretch forever toward the stars. Whatever it had seen, unknowable. “There’s nothing here.”
Nodding, Kingsley swept his light across the forest floor. “No disturbance in the underbrush. No signs of a vehicle coming in or out. It’s as if she walked right into these woods and vanished. No sign of her or anyone else.”
“Thomas drew a picture at the hospital. He told the psychologist he’d been inside a house made of dirt and rocks.”
“Sounds like Clawfoot.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Will didn’t mention the less believable parts of Thomas’s story. Though he figured a little boy like Thomas could have easily imagined a steam engine running down those rusty steel tracks, they certainly hadn’t come across any Christmas trees.
“We’ll send a team back to the entrance first thing in the morning. In the meantime, you should get some sleep. You look like hell.”
“Noted.” Will felt like it too. “I’m just going to look around a bit first.”
“Suit yourself.”
As the beam of Sergeant Kingsley’s flashlight dimmed in the distance, Will clicked on his own. He stood motionless, listening. A slight breeze stirred the branches above him, sending a few of its needles fluttering down like snowflakes.
Will wished he’d been smarter. Faster. Better. Now Olivia was gone, and the blame lay squarely at his feet. He waited for a moment, summoning all the strength he had left.
Then, he yelled her name into the night sky, knowing she couldn’t hear him.
Sixty-Three
Will didn’t pass a single car on his drive back to the police station. An eerie fog hovered over the road, shape-shifting like a ghost as he passed through it. His mind, just as murky. He convinced himself he wanted to take another look at the horseshoe they’d discovered in the pool. Compare it to the one near Bullock’s body. But really, he couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t stop. If he did, he’d have to admit just how hopeless he felt.
Will navigated the final turn, frowning at the familiar black truck with its oversized tires hogging three parking spots in the otherwise empty lot. It belonged to the last person on earth he wanted to lay eyes on. Cursing under his breath, Will slogged to the station door and let himself inside.
“Bauer?”
Graham sheepishly poked his head up over the divider, the desk lamp from his cubicle glowing like a homing beacon.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Will stalked toward him, newly energized by the anger zipping through his blood. He pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose, the faint ache a reminder of that asshole’s handiwork.
“I heard the news about Liv, and I couldn’t sleep. Besides, I could say the same about you. It’s two thirty in the morning.”
“Yeah. Well, you’re the only one of us in a police station out on bail.” Will slumped into his chair and glared at the pile of mail strewn across his keyboard.
“Did you put this here?”
Graham grunted.
“Since when are you allowed in the mailroom?”
“Since I’m relegated to desk duty.” Graham held up a sheet of paper for Will to see. A bulleted list of tasks assigned by Chief Flack. “Right here. Second line from the top. Mail distribution.”
“Well, you did a shitty job of it. Mail goes in a neat stack, not—” Will stopped sorting, his eyes fixed on the envelope in his hand. The small block print that spelled out his name across the front had haunted his nightmares. Because he knew the hand that penned it.
“You okay, Decker?” Graham hoisted himself from his seat, peering over the divider.
Will waved him off. His mouth dry as a bone, he ripped into the thin envelope and emptied the contents. A lone photograph.
Undeterred, Graham rounded the corner of the row of cubicles, sending Will scrambling to hide the picture in his drawer. Though he had no idea what it meant, the message on the back was clear.
This is between you and me. Come alone—no cell phones, no trackers, no funny business—or you’ll be carrying her out in a body bag. Don’t take too long. If I get bored, I’ll be forced to entertain myself.
“I didn’t realize you cared so much about your goddamn mail. Should I tie it up with a little red bow next time?”
“Why are you still talking?”
Before Will could flip the empty envelope over, Graham spotted it on
the desk. “Bad news on the test results?”
“What?”
“Come to think of it, is that why you’ve been so moody lately?”
“What test results?” Graham was making even less sense than usual.
“From the vet. Your cat.”
Will’s stomach dropped to his knees. He felt his mouth hinge open but no words came out.
“You’re acting weird, man. A guy from Fog Harbor Couriers came by with a letter from Doctor Jessup’s office. Said he had some test results for Cyclops and left that envelope. Something about a fatal condition.”
In an instant, Will jumped out of his seat, pinning Graham against JB’s desk. A picture of Tammy in her wedding dress beneath the Welcome to Las Vegas sign toppled forward. “Are you messing with me?”
The shocked whites of Graham’s eyes answered for him. Will stepped back, still breathing hard.
“I need to know everything you remember about the courier.”
“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
Will shook his head, paced to the end of the dark hall. No way he could trust Graham. Not after he’d destroyed evidence, told half-truths. Not after he’d blabbed details of every case to his ex, Heather Hoffman. But what the hell choice did he have?
“That note wasn’t from the vet’s office. Cyclops has been missing since yesterday. I think Drake Devere could be involved in Olivia’s disappearance. Maybe he’s the one who dropped off the letter.”
Frowning, Graham dropped into JB’s seat. Head in his hands, he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. Will listened to the tick of the office clock, mocking them both.
“We can review the video surveillance from the parking lot. But I’ve looked at Devere’s ugly mug on that WANTED poster enough times to know it wasn’t him.”
Will had already taken off for the IT office. “What time?” he called over his shoulder.
“Uh, I dunno. Seven thirty, maybe. The place was already pretty empty. I’d just picked up dinner for the chief at the Hickory Pit.”
His heart hammering against his rib cage, Will scrolled through the footage from the station lot until he saw Graham exit his truck, carrying a large paper bag from the Pit. When he reached the door, the courier hurried toward him, dropping his bicycle on the sidewalk alongside the station. In his hand, he held the envelope.
“Told ya.” Graham tapped the screen with his finger. “But we can call the courier service in the morning if you still think he’s not legit.”
Will couldn’t do anything but stare at the man’s face, cataloguing the pudgy cheeks, the bulbous nose. He’d never been more disappointed not to see Drake Devere.
Will hurried back to his desk, a sense of dread weighing him down like a stone in his pocket. He opened the desk drawer and removed the photograph he’d hidden there, Drake’s twisted message penned on the back. In the foreground stood a tree unlike any he’d seen before. Backdropped by the forest, it looked like the ghost of a redwood, rising up tall and thin toward the sky. Its needles a shocking shade of snow white, it seemed to radiate with an unnatural glow.
“A Christmas tree,” he muttered, thinking of Thomas. Will went straight to his computer, typing white redwood into the search bar. The first article from a website called The Tree Aficionado told him what he needed to know.
Albino redwoods, the ghosts of the forests, are extremely rare, with only fifty or so known in existence. Albino redwoods lack pigmentation, making their leaves white rather than the usual green. They are the only conifers believed to have this mutation. Because of their rarity, their locations are not often disclosed to the public. Though several of these majestic oddities can be found in Humboldt County, California, local legend has it that the largest albino redwood exists in the Clawfoot Grove in nearby Fog Harbor. But good luck finding the rare beast. After a two-day trip to the area, The Tree Aficionado returned without a single photograph of the elusive redwood.
Will flumped back in his chair, disgusted. The clock’s incessant ticking like a tap on the shoulder, reminding him what was at stake.
Graham poked his head over the cubicle wall. “You still think Devere might be involved in this?”
Will didn’t answer. He sat for a moment, studying the computer screen and contemplating the impossible decision that lay before him. He felt like JB, putting his last quarter in the slot machine and giving it a pull. “You said your uncle Marvin took you hunting in the grove, right? That you know it like the back of your hand?”
Graham nodded, hesitant. As if Will would find some way to use it against him.
“Ever heard of an albino redwood?”
Will followed Graham’s taillights as they rumbled down the fire trail adjacent to the redwood grove. When the lights flashed red, he slowed to a stop alongside Graham’s truck, and exited his own vehicle.
Graham leaned out the window. “This is as close as we can get on four wheels. You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
Against his better judgment, Will shook his head.
“At least tell me what this is all about.”
“If you care about Olivia, it’s better you don’t know.” Will peered out into the grove warily, wondering if Drake could hear him. “It’s better no one knows. That includes my partner.”
“Suit yourself.” But Graham looked worried. He reached behind him, rummaging in the back seat, and tossed something out the window. It landed softly on the dirt trail. “If you’re gonna do something stupid, at least protect yourself.”
With Graham’s tires kicking up dust, Will approached. Lying there in the moonlight was Graham’s Kevlar vest.
Sixty-Four
Will directed his flashlight back to the map in his hand, convinced he’d taken a wrong turn at the last marker—a rock Graham claimed resembled the face of an elephant. According to the map, he should be there by now. The albino redwood Graham called the Ghost Tree, a half mile north of Elephant Rock. But he’d been walking for at least forty-five minutes. Maybe he’d missed it. Overlooked it somehow in the low-hanging fog.
Will balled the map in his fist and threw it into the underbrush. He sat down on a rotting log, contemplating the longest night of his life. It served him right for trusting Graham.
He knew he should go back to his truck and radio for help. If he could find his truck. But he couldn’t unsee Drake’s warning. He felt the weight of eyes on his back, following him at every turn. He had no choice but to keep going until he couldn’t.
Newly determined, Will stood up and went searching for the map he’d cast aside. He would retrace his steps back to the rock and try again. But a light wind sent the scrap of paper fluttering with Will scrambling after it.
Finally, Will pinned it with his foot, securing it in a pile of leaves. When he bent down to retrieve it, he froze. A snow-white redwood needle rested beneath his boot. He looked up, casting the beam of his flashlight skyward.
The Ghost Tree didn’t stand as tall as the others. But it looked so strange, so out of place, it stopped his heart. With its needles swaying in the wind and its stark color illuminated by moonlight, it lived up to its ghoulish nickname.
Drake had brought him here, fittingly. Both of them still haunted by the ghosts of the past.
A flash of movement in Will’s periphery drew his eye and brought his hand to the Glock in its holster. Like a bride’s veil, the misty fog concealed his view. It coiled low around the tree trunks, sweeping silently across the forest floor.
Will tucked the map back in his pocket and took a few steps forward. Again, a gentle stirring.
He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he’d imagined it all. Hunger and sleep deprivation could make you see things that weren’t there, and right now, he was running on fumes.
Then, the snap of a twig. The sound as clean and sharp as the break of a bone. He withdrew his gun, backpedaling to take cover behind the Ghost Tree.
His tired mind played tricks, sending him flashes of that day outside the sta
tion in San Francisco when he’d shot Isabella dead. Little brain hoaxes meant to keep him on high alert, his heart pounding and ready for fight or flight.
The sounds grew louder, closer. Will’s heart thumped loudest of all. He could feel it throbbing beneath his jaw. Finally, his finger on the trigger, he revealed himself, ready to end whoever, whatever had come.
A deer gazed up at him, looking just as surprised as he felt. Both of them stood stock-still, eyes wide and set upon each other. When Will laughed, the deer bounded into the woods, stirring the fog as it ran.
As the mist parted, he spotted a clearing ahead. Trailing the deer’s path, Will jogged toward it, trying to make sense of what he saw.
A gaping hole in the earth. A heavy mesh gate laid to the side, stamped with the words DANGER: KEEP OUT. Will shined his light down into the darkness, hoping to find the bottom, but it seemed to go on forever. A rickety metal ladder led the way to hell.
He pulled Graham’s map from his pocket. Near the X he’d made to mark the Ghost Tree, he’d written: If you reach the collapsed section of Clawfoot you’ve gone too far.
Lying on his belly, Will leaned into nothing. Gone too far. Way too far to turn back.
Will dropped from the last rung onto the floor of the mine. Far above him, the stars dotted the small expanse of sky visible from down here. He spun in a quick circle, aiming both his gun and his flashlight. Immediately, he spotted the collapse. A beam had cracked at its center, leaving a pile of rubble blocking the passageway. Will realized then he’d found Thomas’s house of dirt and rocks.
Will walked the walls, wondering if he’d lost his mind to come down here. The perfect place for an ambush, and he’d gone in willingly.
To his right, the wall was solid rock. The other side, partially covered by an old shelving unit, was similar to the one they’d seen in the other section of the mine. Unlike those shelves, these were empty save for a thick layer of dust.
One Child Alive: An absolutely gripping crime thriller packed with nail-biting suspense (Rockwell and Decker Book 3) Page 26