Beneath the Ashes

by Dea Poirier

  “Harper, could you come out, please?” I can’t imagine how terrified, how broken, this little girl must be. The sound of movement behind the couch causes me to step back and shut off the flashlight. When she crawls out, she stares up at me, her huge brown eyes like saucers. Her lower lip trembles, and tears well in her eyes. All at once she closes the distance between us and hugs me so tightly I’m not sure she’ll ever let go. I scoop her up and prop her on my hip. Then I grab a blanket from the back of the couch and throw it around her. We’ll have to take the nightgown for evidence, but for now, she’ll have to stay in it.

  “Harper, are you hurt?” I ask her as we step outside.

  She shakes her head. “No, but Mommy is.”

  “I know. Do you hear the sirens? An ambulance is coming to get her now.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that the ambulance isn’t going to do any good. The only person this little girl had in the whole world is now dead. She’s all alone. My heart aches at the thought.

  An ambulance and three patrol cars pull up in front of the house. Sergeant Pelletier climbs out of one of the squad cars and approaches.

  “This is Harper,” I say, motioning toward the little girl. Though I have a feeling Sergeant Pelletier already knows her name, just not that she’s Austin’s daughter instead of her sister.

  “Hello, Harper,” he says, looking at her.

  She says nothing but doesn’t shy away like other children might. Instead she stares him down, as if challenging him to say another word to her.

  “Where is she?” he asks.

  “Master bedroom. I haven’t been able to secure the scene yet. I just found her,” I say, motioning to the little girl.

  “I’ve got it.”

  “I need someone to grab her a change of clothes, some of her things. We’re going to have to call social services, or I can call the babysitter that watched her for Austin.” I go down the list in my head, because it’s easier to focus on what actions I need to take than it is to deal with the flood of emotions rising inside me.

  He shakes his head. “I’ve already called. My wife and I are registered foster parents. We don’t have anyone in our care at the moment; we can take her,” he says. “Blake checked McConnel’s house. He isn’t there. Blake’s now checking all the motels in the area to see if he showed up there.”

  I don’t know what to say. It catches me completely off guard. But I prefer that to her being rushed off to a complete stranger. I process the information about Blake. Though he’s already checked the house, I want to see it for myself. There may be some hint about where McConnel’s gone. Or could he have gone back once he saw the squad car leave?

  “I’ll grab some of her things after the scene is secure. I’ll have my wife meet us at the station.”

  Harper’s eyes flash between me and Sergeant Pelletier. “I want to stay with you,” she says to me.

  I hoist her a little higher on my hip, and she clutches tighter to me. “I know. But I’m going to have to find who hurt your mommy.”

  “The man who hurt her,” she says in a voice that’s low, cold.

  “Yes, the man who hurt her.” Did Harper witness what happened? It’s not like we could put a five-year-old on the stand during a trial. I fish my phone out of my pocket and google a picture of Aidan McConnel. “Do you know this man?”

  She yanks the phone out of my hand and scrutinizes the image, her little nose wrinkling. She stares at it for so long I expect her to say no. But her lips purse, and finally she nods her head. “He hurt my mom.”

  “Thank you.”

  I carry Harper to my car, place her in the front seat, and turn on the heat. She pulls the blanket tight around her as she snuggles in. Footsteps crunch behind me, and I turn to find Sergeant Pelletier with a little purple backpack.

  “I’ve put some of her things in there. There are also some juice boxes and snacks.”

  I take the bag from him. “Thank you.”

  After he disappears back into the house, I change Harper out of her bloody clothes, help her into clean ones, and stuff the evidence into a plastic bag. By the time she’s changed and sucking on a juice box, the CSI team has arrived, and I hand off the bag to them.

  When I head back to the car, Harper glances up at me, her eyes pleading. As if I can help sort this out for her. God, I wish I could. My heart is breaking for Harper.

  A few hours later, I drive with her back to the station, stopping to get her lunch on the way. She gnaws on a chicken nugget while playing with her new toy, and if I didn’t know what had transpired for her in the past two days, I’d never guess it. Children are resilient little things. When we pull into the station, the parking lot is swarming with media.

  “Harper, I need you to sit tight in the car for a minute, okay? Please don’t touch anything.”

  Though I know I probably shouldn’t leave a five-year-old alone in a car, I need to make sure none of those reporters say anything in front of her that they shouldn’t. There’s a roar of voices as soon as I open the car door. Several reporters rush toward me, and I brace myself. News vans are lined all around the parking lot, their numbers displaying what stations they belong to.

  “We have reason to believe that the Pen Bay Strangler killed an officer of the Camden Police Department. Can you comment on this?”

  How the hell did this already leak to the media? Sure, they’ve been up my ass this entire case, but there’s no way they could have known these details unless someone inside the station is talking to the press.

  “I can’t comment,” I say, keeping my voice firm, steady.

  A woman surges forward, shoving a microphone in my face. “Do you have any suspects yet? Any news on a pending arrest?”

  “I need you all to back up. Get back to your vans. You need to be at least thirty feet from the station entrance so personnel can enter.”

  One of them glances at my car, and I move automatically, shielding Harper from view. Slowly, reluctantly, they move away from my vehicle. I walk to the other side, grab Harper, and get her into the building as quickly as I can. The last thing I need is her overhearing something about a dead cop and realizing they’re talking about her mother. When I get inside, Sergeant Pelletier’s wife, Tiera, is waiting. Tiera is older than I expected. I think she’s probably got a few years on her husband. She’s got a kind smile and long black hair flecked with silver, and her skin has a deep olive tone.

  “Is that Harper?” she asks, peering at the bundle in my arms. Though I gave her new clothes that are plenty warm, Harper enjoys being cocooned in the blanket from her house—not that it surprises me.

  Now that she’s here and I’ve got to hand Harper over, something inside me shifts. I don’t want to. If she stays in my arms, I can keep her safe. What if Sergeant Pelletier can’t? This is the only piece of Austin left. What would she want?

  Harper peers over the edge of the blanket to inspect Tiera. Curiosity sparkles in her dark eyes.

  “Hi,” Harper chirps at her.

  “I’m Tiera,” she says. “How old are you? Seven?” she asks with a smile.

  There’s no way she can think that Harper is really that old. But the little girl laughs, and I realize what Tiera is doing.

  “No, I’m five,” Harper says, her voice still lifted with amusement.

  “Oh my gosh, really? You seem like such a big girl already.”

  Harper tries to squirm from my grasp. I set her down beside me, where she props her hands on her hips. “I am a big girl,” she asserts, straightening to her full height.

  “Oh, I know. I can tell,” Tiera says. “I know you’ve had a hard day. Do you like cartoons?”

  Her eyes light up. “Yep.”

  “Come with me, then. Let’s go watch some until everyone gets back.” She holds out her hand, and to my surprise, Harper runs over and takes it.

  Tiera glances up at me. I close the distance between us and pass over the backpack with Harper’s things. Tiera asks, “Are you going to be okay?”


  I nod, though I have zero faith that I will be. Right now, it feels as if grief is pushing at me from all directions, threatening to suffocate me. While I still can, I escape to the bathroom. My cheeks are so hot they feel like they’re on fire—until the tears fall across them. My hands shake, and my breaths come fast.

  The room spins as emotion grips me. Reality slams into me. I lost a partner. A friend. A little girl lost her mother. If I had done more, if I had kept her safe, this wouldn’t have happened. Rage swallows my grief. This could have all been avoided if we’d had her watched properly. How Aidan got past his tail to kill Austin is beyond me, but we could have done something if we’d just tried harder. I know it.

  There’s a knock on the bathroom door, forcing me to pull myself together. I can’t wallow. I can’t fall apart. Thanks to Harper, we have confirmation of who did this. We know who we’re after. I need to find Aidan and haul in his ass before he hurts anyone. else. He’s hurt far too many people already.

  I splash some water on my face. When I open the bathroom door, Sergeant Pelletier is waiting on the other side. Though he doesn’t say anything, his cocked eyebrow says it all.

  “I’ll be fine,” I lie.

  “I need you to find McConnel. I called the hospital. He’s not there,” Sergeant Pelletier says.

  “I’m going to sweep his house again. He could have gone back after Blake left,” I say, urgency rushing my words.

  “Take one of the guys with you.”

  “I will. Someone needs to try and call Vera,” I say. He may be planning to kill his wife next. I explain the pattern we’ve identified so far. We need to try to find Vera and get her to the station. Sergeant Pelletier told her to stay with a friend for a few days, but I’d feel better if she were out of Aidan’s reach. We need to get her away from Aidan without making it clear to him what’s going on. If she learns what’s happening and already knows about his crimes, she could warn him, allowing him a chance to escape. If she had no idea, she could try to confront him and put herself in danger. There’s no real good scenario for how this could play out.

  “We’ll try to find her, and we’ll get this guy, Claire.”

  I don’t say anything, but the promise feels empty. Words so hollow I can hear the echo of them. We might get this guy, we might nail Aidan’s ass to the wall—and then what? It doesn’t bring Austin back. It doesn’t repair all those lives he’s already destroyed. It’s as if all these women were connected by a web, by him, and he ripped it all out from under them, leaving only ruins and torn threads.

  On my way through the bull pen, I grab Zane. He’s easily the biggest guy on the squad. He’s got to be six foot six, more than a foot taller than me. I hope he fits in my car. As we walk outside, I catch him up on the situation. Though I don’t feel good about having another partner, I know how stupid it would be to corner Aidan alone. We know what he’s capable of. I’m going to need backup for this. Based on how he left Austin’s body, it’s clear he’s escalating. All the patterns we’ve seen before from him can no longer be trusted. And based on the other crime scenes, he may have a gun, a knife.

  I throw the car in reverse and glance over my shoulder. Media still rings the parking lot, like a pack of vultures. I’ve got half a mind to back up a little too closely to them. But I decide against it. We don’t need to be in the media for anything else. We’ve been in the spotlight enough already.

  Zane helps me navigate through the streets of Camden to find the McConnels’ house. We pass the small shops lined up downtown, the school, a large park. The farther we drive, the farther apart the houses become, and the larger they grow. We pull up in front of a picturesque white colonial with forest-green shutters. The lawn is covered in snow, and I note that the sidewalks and driveway haven’t been shoveled. Usually in communities like this, if you’ve gone too long of a stretch without clearing the snow, you’ll face a fine.

  Zane pops open his door, and I follow suit. My boots sink in the snow as I step onto the lawn. A frigid wind blows past us, making the trees moan and ice break away from the branches. It skitters to the ground, clinking. I glance at the house, looking for any signs of life. I unholster my service weapon and creep toward the house, my heart pounding with every step. Adrenaline rushes into my blood, making my head swim.

  “There aren’t any cars here,” Zane says, and I nod.

  My phone buzzes. I grab it and swipe to accept the call. “Calderwood.”

  “We haven’t been able to get through to Vera. She’s not answering her phone,” Sergeant Pelletier says, his words capped with static.

  “We need to find her. Get a GPS trace on her phone.” It can take a while to secure a warrant to compel a phone company to comply. We need to get a jump on it.

  “I’m on it. Keep me updated on your movements,” he says.

  I end the call and reach the front door and try the handle, but I find it locked. Zane and I circle around the back of the house, listening intently for any signs of life, but there’s nothing, nothing but the wind. I step up onto a deck that looks out over the forested yard and try the back door. Zane pushes me aside, fishing a lockpick kit from his pocket. He eyes me.

  “You saw nothing. It was unlocked.”

  I hold my hands up. “Saw what?”

  He slides one piece of metal into the lock, then another, and turns it slowly. After a click, he says, “We’re in.”

  The back door opens into an immaculate kitchen, tall cabinets in a matte gunmetal gray, shimmering quartz countertops ticked with silver and teal blue. The backsplash is punched tin, in the style of old ceiling tiles.

  From the kitchen I can see into the dining room, an austere, modern space filled with neutral-toned Swedish furniture with pops of blue and orange. We check an office and two guest bedrooms but come up empty. No sign of a struggle, no sign of life on the first floor at all. But more importantly, no sign of death.

  My pulse thunders in my ears as I creep soundlessly up the cement stairs. On the second floor landing, I can see straight down the hall into a bedroom with an open door. The duvet, blankets, and pillows are strewed on the floor, which puts me on edge. The rest of the house is in perfect order. Vera doesn’t strike me as the type that would leave an expensive duvet on the floor. I signal for Zane to check the other bedrooms while I continue down the hall. Once I slip past the doorframe, I see that it’s not just the sheets, pillows, and blankets askew, but both of the nightstand lamps have been knocked over. Something definitely went down in this room.

  From the bathroom, Zane calls to me. “Hey, Claire.”

  I walk into the large master bathroom and find him staring at the counter. A small plastic stick sits on the counter next to a pink-and-white box.

  “Is that a pregnancy test?” he asks.

  I glance at it, and sure enough it is. The digital readout says PREGNANT. I suck in a sharp breath. Is the baby Aidan’s or Ian’s? Did Aidan find out about the affair and force her to take a test? Vera has been a bitch through this entire investigation, but if she’s pregnant, it’s not just her well-being I need to be concerned about. There’s an innocent life that doesn’t deserve to be in the middle of this.

  I text Sergeant Pelletier and warn him of the signs of a struggle, attaching pictures. If we can provide evidence of Vera being in danger, we may be more likely to get a warrant for a GPS ping or at least compel the phone service provider to lending their support.

  An hour later, after we’ve secured the house, my phone buzzes.

  “Calderwood,” I say as the call connects.

  “We’ve tracked Vera’s phone. I’m going to send you the coordinates. We don’t have a warrant for the house. Get out of there.”

  “Where are we headed?” I ask.

  “Camden Hills State Park is the last place her phone pinged. We can’t get a read on where she is at the moment. Her phone has been shut off. My guess is he took her up to the ski shelter up there,” he says.

  I relay this info to Zane, who nods. Clearly, h
e knows where this is. I’m not familiar with that park. I end the call with Sergeant Pelletier, and we climb back into my car.

  “Head north on Route One, then turn left at the park, and we’re going to follow the main drive all the way up,” Zane says.

  “You’ve been up there before?” I ask as I pull away from the house.

  “When I was in high school. The place is usually empty. We’d go up there to drink, party. We had an arrangement with one of the rangers. He’d look the other way if he saw anything.”

  That doesn’t surprise me. There’s always some place like that. But how did Aidan find out about it? Any local, I wouldn’t be surprised by. But Aidan has only been here a few years.

  We drive up Route 1 past rows of houses built in the nineteen hundreds, small shops, bakers, butchers, and a small bookstore. Trees crowd around the road as we get closer to the park. The foliage parts, and a road appears on the left. I throw on my blinker and wait for a break in traffic. The road curves upward, carving a path through the forest, the evergreens rising on either side of us, blotting out the sky.

  The ribbon of road spirals up the mountain. Frost clings to the branches, the needles. A gray sky casts a gauzy light on the road. The higher we climb, the more mist rolls across it, shrouding our path.

  “It’s coming up here soon,” Zane says. And sure enough, the trees start to open up, revealing a cabin in the middle of a clearing. A BMW is pulled up alongside the cabin, one of the back doors of the car yawning open. The cabin is large—the size of an average three-bedroom house. It’s got two windows on each side, but someone has tacked up blankets inside, blocking our view. On the side of the cabin facing us, a brick fireplace is inset in the wood. The walls are all weatherworn, splintered, a testament to the many winters they’ve withstood.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I grab it and see Sergeant Pelletier’s name on the screen.

  “Sergeant,” I say.

  “Blake just pulled up some information about Aidan. We have reason to believe that he owns several firearms.”