White Out: A Thriller (Badlands Thriller)

by Danielle Girard

  She grabbed hold of his hand to stop him, the images that flipped through her mind assaults of their own. Her reality—the gun, the money, the dead man in the pool of blood, another woman’s husband. And Tim’s wife was not fooled—she knew that Lily had been sleeping with him. Were they really splitting up?

  He reached across her and unlatched the glove box. Her fingers found the place where his hand had been on her neck, and she rubbed gently. As he rifled through the glove box, a thin pack of baby wipes fell to her feet, followed by a diaper and a manual for the car. “Damn it,” he muttered, his torso in her lap as he stretched for a closer look. “I’ll bet she took them.”

  Tim slapped the glove box closed and slammed a fist on the dash. “Damn her.” He patted his jacket pockets. “That was all I had.”

  “It’s okay,” Lily said to calm him, then stooped to pick up the fallen items from the floor.

  “You’re not quitting,” he said, scoffing at her. “That’s bullshit. You say that like once a month.”

  Quitting what? What was she doing? She placed everything back in the glove box.

  “The buzz is so good,” he said, pressing his nose to her neck.

  She held a fist to her stomach, fighting off the nausea.

  “The sex is so good.”

  From the backseat, the baby began to cry.

  Lily felt a wave of relief.

  “Hush now, Sky,” he said as he sat back upright and started the car. “We’re going home now.” He pulled out of the parking lot with a rough turn and spun out briefly before his wheels gripped the road.

  Lily drew even breaths. She would be home soon. There would be answers there. She would sort this all out. Her gaze drifted sideways to Tim.

  He looked over and smiled at her, displaying a row of nicotine-stained bottom teeth. “Almost forgot,” he said, and she stiffened as he reached into his pocket. He handed her his phone. “You wanted to call someone?”

  The word sister was on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back. Instead, she shook her head, tucking her hands under her arms.

  He made a turn without signaling, the car fishtailing slightly on the slick road. “What were you doing on a bike in this fucking weather?”

  “Being an idiot, obviously,” she said, her pulse a deep, insistent bass under her ribs. Would he believe her? She scanned the streets for something familiar. How far was the damn house?

  Behind them, the girl shrieked in protest, her foot kicking the back of Lily’s chair.

  “Sky, we’ll be home in a few minutes. Keep quiet, you hear?”

  Lily kept her eyes on the road.

  “I can’t do anything about the crying, Lily. She’s a kid.”

  “I know,” she said, trying for a soft voice. “Your daughter.”

  He eyed her, and she forced a smile. He had a daughter. And a wife. What was she doing? Was this who she was? A thief, a cheat . . . but also a nurse?

  “You sure you’re okay?” Tim asked as he turned off the main street. “You seem off.”

  “Little headache is all,” she lied.

  “You need a little fix. I got you.”

  Tim drove straight for several blocks, then turned again and slowed to a stop in front of a small gray bungalow. She exhaled. Her house. The house was in need of paint. One of the shutters on the front window hung askew, and a thin layer of frost covered the small lawn. But her relief was short lived. The house felt cold and unfamiliar.

  A white Volkswagen Passat was parked at the curb. It had to be her car, but it, too, looked strangely wrong. Then she remembered the contents of her wallet. There had been no driver’s license—only a state ID issued in Arizona. Maybe it wasn’t her car at all. Tim would know, but she felt the weight of his stare on her. She didn’t ask.

  Beside her, he had shifted the car into park and turned in the seat to face her. “How the hell did you do that?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got scratches all across your forearm.” He pointed to the place where she had rolled her sleeve back to help with Brent. “And on your chest, too,” he added, reaching to pull her collar down. “What were you wearing on that bike ride?”

  She yanked her sleeve down and held her shirt closed.

  His breath was hot on her cheek. “Sorry. They made me think of the other ones,” he whispered. “Freaked me out.”

  Other ones?

  His hand gripped her leg. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t like to talk about what happened.” But the force of his fingers was anything but comforting.

  She stared at him a moment, wanting to ask what he was talking about. What other ones? Other what? What had happened? Her breathing felt ragged and shallow. She had to get out of this car. Lily opened the car door.

  “I’ll call you later,” Tim said. “I need to see you, you hear? I’ll bring something, too. Get your mind off all this. We’ll relax,” he added with a twisted smile that gave her chills.

  Lily nodded, wanting nothing to do with him. How had she ever? She stepped from the car and walked toward the front door. She didn’t turn back as the car drove away.

  Only standing on the front porch did she realize that she didn’t have keys. She waited until Tim’s car was gone, then squatted beside the single pot on the porch to lift it up. No key. She checked in the pot’s frosty dirt, under the doormat, and beneath the cushion on the small wooden chair. When she scanned for another hiding place, she came up empty. She sank down on the chair, which creaked beneath her, the wood cold and wet. She could break in. It was her house.

  She stared in through a small living room window. The answers were inside. All she had to do was go in. But she couldn’t shake the fear about who she was. About what she’d done. Why hadn’t she asked Tim about Abby? Or about the name in her Bible? Because she didn’t want anything to do with Tim, with his nicotine-stained teeth and his drugs and his wife and daughter.

  She caught sight of the coffee table, glasses and bowls on its surface as though it belonged in a fraternity. This is who you are. Where you live.

  She wanted nothing to do with that either.

  Then she remembered that there had been an address in the Bible. She found the book in her bag and opened the front cover: 416 Fourth Street. The sky was growing darker, and she had the sense that it had to be close to dinnertime. She would go there first.

  Shouldering her purse, she walked off the porch and down to the corner, where she checked the street signs. She was at Eighth and Townsend. She continued, walking slowly. The wrap on her ankle helped support the injury, but it was tender. The next block was Seventh Street. Whether by some buried memory or dumb luck, she was headed in the right direction. She rubbed her arms, noticing the light snow that had started to fall, and continued to walk toward Fourth Street.

  She arrived at 416 Fourth Street and climbed the stairs. A small white note was taped on the front. Come on in. Back by 6. Xo, I.

  The small block lettering was the same as in the Bible. Relief flooded through her.

  Lily gently pulled the note off the door and stared at the familiar handwriting as though it held a promise that everything would be fine. The note pressed in her hand, Lily reached for the doorknob and, when it turned easily, stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 13

  KYLIE

  At just past five, the sheriff pinged Kylie to come to his office. She hoped it was to tell her he’d decided to get a warrant to search the bar. Davis rarely made decisions quickly, and when he’d decided on a course of action, he preferred to do things in person. She was getting used to going to forty-five-minute meetings in his office that would have taken two minutes over the phone.

  As she emerged from the stairwell on the second floor, she passed Steve Cannon. He stopped when he saw her. “Scene this morning go okay?” he asked. “Heard it wasn’t pretty.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  He nodded quietly. Murdered girl. What was the right thing to say? A beat passed, and he said, “I’m calling for a tow truck
now.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about.

  Just then, Carl Gilbert entered the department.

  Cannon swung around. “How many keys do you have, Dilbert? You sound like a kid carrying a damn piggy bank.”

  Frowning at Cannon, Gilbert took hold of his keys and quieted the clanking. The two men regarded each other, but neither said anything else. Cannon headed off down the hall. She noticed he hadn’t said stay safe. Maybe he’d been distracted by Gilbert and his keys. Gilbert ducked into the kitchen, and Kylie came in after him.

  “Don’t mind Cannon,” she said.

  As Gilbert topped his coffee with cream and lifted the bright-green-and-yellow mug to his face, Kylie waited for him to sniff it the way he always did. A pause at his lips, and then he smelled it, not like inhaling an aroma—more like making sure it didn’t smell rotten. Kylie felt annoyed for no reason. She turned to leave the room when Gilbert said, “He doesn’t bother me.”

  As she approached Davis’s office, she was surprised to see two other men sitting across from him. One was District Attorney Glen Vogel, but she didn’t recognize the other. He was about Vogel’s age—maybe midfifties—and dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and a button-down shirt. He sat with one foot propped on the opposite knee, and something about him made Kylie think he represented one of the drilling outfits. Probably here about Brent Nolan. The big drilling companies often sent their senior folks—always older white men—to make nice with local law enforcement and politicians. Those meetings never included her.

  She paused in the doorway until Davis spotted her and waved her inside. She greeted Vogel and Davis. The third man stood and reached out his hand. “Gary Ross,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ross,” she said, shaking his hand before glancing at Davis.

  “Ross is a special agent out in Saint Cloud, Minnesota,” Davis said.

  FBI. She looked to Davis. What had changed? She gave Mr. Ross a smile. It took an effort, that smile—like chiseling stone. “What brings you to Hagen, Agent Ross?”

  “I worked the Derek Hudson case for about six years. I joined the investigation about a month after the girls escaped, when we were investigating the possibility of a second perp. I thought I’d come down for a few days, help out.”

  She studied his expression, wondering if this was more of Vogel’s bullshit. Her thumb crossed over her index finger, and she felt the satisfying release as the knuckle cracked.

  “We sure appreciate your help,” she said.

  He nodded. “Happy to be of service.”

  “We get any word on cause of death?” She eyed Davis and Vogel to test how much they were willing to share with Ross. People in this town tended to get testy when outsiders stepped in. But now—when it was supposed to be her case—they seemed all too happy to share.

  “Actually, yes,” Davis said. “Coroner said there was blunt-force trauma to the back of her head—either she was hit by something or she struck her head on something. But she was also strangled.”

  “Did she struggle?” Kylie asked, thinking of the evidence that might entail.

  “Yes,” Davis confirmed. “They found skin beneath the nails.”

  “What about time of death?”

  “Estimate is between nine p.m. and one a.m.,” Davis said.

  So she had died while the bar was in full swing.

  “Body’s en route to the ME in Bismarck,” he told her. “They’ll collect DNA evidence from under the nails and confirm cause of death. Results will trickle in over the next few weeks—four to six on the outside.”

  In four to six weeks, Kylie wanted this case closed so she could put in for a transfer to Fargo. “I spoke to the deputy sheriff, Pete McIntosh, over in Glendive, last known residence of Jenna Hitchcock. She was—”

  “The third survivor,” Ross said.

  “Right. Police did a welfare check. No sign of Hitchcock.”

  “They have any idea how long she’s been gone?” Vogel asked. “Possible she just moved or took a trip?”

  Kylie nodded. “I’ll follow up.”

  “Let’s find out if Iver Larson’s been out of town anytime recently,” Vogel suggested. “Glendive’s, what, an hour from here?”

  “Just about,” Davis agreed.

  Kylie studied Vogel. Was he finally taking the possibility of Iver Larson seriously? Did that mean they’d get inside Skål?

  “You check that out, Miss Milliard?” Vogel asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s next, then?” Ross asked.

  “Think the next step is to get a look inside the bar where Jensen was found,” Kylie interjected, holding back her smile. “I believe DA Vogel was working on getting us a warrant.”

  Vogel’s lips vanished into a thin line of pale mouth.

  “That sounds like a good place to start,” Ross said, either clueless to Vogel’s displeasure or ignoring it.

  Davis nodded to Vogel. “Let’s get a couple of the crime analysts over there. If you can’t get a warrant, I could probably call Iver Larson. I think he’d give us permission to look.”

  Vogel sat up in his chair. “I can get the warrant,” he said, a little edge in his voice.

  Kylie turned to Davis. “Great. I can head over—”

  “Actually,” Davis said, stopping her, “right now, I’d like you to go out to the scene of Brent Nolan’s car accident.”

  “What?” Kylie made no effort to hide her frustration, realizing now why Cannon had mentioned a tow truck.

  Davis raised a palm. “Highway patrol is sending an officer to inspect the scene. Someone from our department has to be there.”

  “So send Patrol to meet them. Abigail Jensen’s death is a murder investigation. She was held in captivity for nearly sixteen months and escaped almost ten years ago to the day. We need to find whoever killed her.”

  “We’ll get the crime team into the bar,” Davis said calmly. “In the meantime, we want to make sure that the accident was an accident.”

  Kylie stared at him. Was this just about kissing ass, or did they know something? “Why wouldn’t it be an accident?”

  Davis and Vogel exchanged a look, and Ross rose from his chair. “I’m going to refresh my coffee.” He crossed the room and paused at the door. “If you don’t mind an old man tagging along, Detective, I’d like to join you at the scene of the accident. If you end up going, of course.”

  Kylie fought her frown. Why would he want to come to the scene of a car accident? She eyed him as though she might be able to uncover some hidden agenda.

  Vogel cleared his throat.

  “Sure,” Kylie said. “You’re welcome to join.”

  Ross nodded and left the room.

  The moment the door clicked closed, she asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Brent Nolan died in the ICU this morning.”

  “I know. I was sorry to hear it. But it was an accident—he hit a patch of ice and drove off the overpass.”

  Vogel leaned back in the chair. “Before we rule it an accident, we want to be damn sure we’re not overlooking something.”

  “Is there some reason to believe that it wasn’t an accident?” she asked.

  “Just a precaution,” Davis added with a little shake of his head.

  Bullshit, she thought. She could read between the lines. If Vogel and Davis didn’t want to tell her what they knew about Nolan’s accident, there were plenty of other ways to find out. Information in Hagen leaked like a sieve. You wanted to hear gossip, all you had to know was who to ask. And she did.

  CHAPTER 14

  LILY

  Lily took another look at the note in her hand, the neat block letters. Come on in. Back by 6. Xo, I. As she entered the foyer, a medium-size black dog rose on stiff hips and made his way to greet her, the wagging tail instantly reassuring. With his dark hindquarters spotted white and the splotches of brown on his underside and across his muzzle, the dog looked a little like an Australian shepherd, mixed with a lot of
mutt. She squatted down as the dog pushed his nose into her hand. He knew her. Of course he did. She had been here before. She belonged here.

  She didn’t allow herself to think about how her brain recognized an Australian shepherd but couldn’t pull her own name from her subconscious. She was safe now. In the entryway, she removed her wet boots and left them beside a pair of men’s Pumas and a pair of Blundstone boots. She started to lift the strap of her bag over her shoulder but thought twice. There was something comforting about the weight of her things. Even if one of them was a gun. Or maybe because one was a gun.

  The house felt warm, and she shivered off the cold she’d been carrying. She moved slowly through the foyer, pausing at a table against one wall, its surface piled with mail and keys, catalogs and magazines. In a wood frame was a photograph of a man standing between an older couple—his parents, likely. The man wore a military uniform. She studied the young soldier, feeling hopeful.

  But there was nothing familiar about him.

  Panic rose in her chest and throat, and she fought to calm herself with breath. It made sense that he didn’t look familiar. No one was going to look familiar. You’ve lost your memory. It’s just amnesia. It could be over in minutes.

  Or it could last.

  “No.”

  The dog peered up at her as though startled. She couldn’t focus on what would happen if she never remembered. Focus on this, on now. She was in a safe place, where she was meant to be—the note on the front door said so.

  She studied one of the envelopes in the stack of mail. Iver Larson. She spoke the name out loud, watching as the dog wagged his tail. At least one of them recognized the name, but not her. Was Iver her husband or boyfriend? Had she been cheating on him with Tim? The thought of Tim made her a little ill.

  How odd to wonder at her own behaviors, her own reality, as though maybe she wasn’t this Lily Baker at all. As she moved through the living room, she studied the pictures and books on the shelves. There were no images of her, and the home definitely belonged to a man. So they weren’t married. Were they dating? If they were, wouldn’t there be some sign of her in his house?