by Tessa Wegert
I’d just finished refilling my wineglass when the happy crackle of the fire was joined by the insistent droning of a mobile device. I hadn’t looked at my phone in hours—one of the perks of being on leave—so it took me a second to remember I’d stored it in my gym bag. After rifling through my stuff, I found it buried in the folds of my gi pants. Glanced at the caller ID, and answered with a smile.
“Hi, Mom, what’s up?” With the phone cradled against my ear, I crouched down to refold my uniform. The military-caliber New York State Police training I’d received at the police academy had stayed with me throughout the years. I no longer rose at 4:30 a.m. and went to bed at 10:00 p.m., but I’d sooner die than toss my laundry onto the floor.
“Shana.” My mother exhaled as she said my name, almost as if she’d been holding her breath. “I’m glad I caught you. Do you have a minute to talk?”
There was something odd going on with her voice, a mien of formality typically reserved for when she delivered bad news. I leaned back on my haunches. “Everything okay?”
She must have picked up on my alarm, because when she spoke again her voice had returned to normal. “It’s fine, we’re all fine, nothing to worry about. You weren’t worried, were you? Your father told me not to bother you with this, but—she’s fine, Wally, for Pete’s sake!” In the background I could hear my dad running a one-sided debate. He said something that sounded suspiciously like The kid has enough on her mind. As they bickered, I folded the rest of the clothing in my bag, but when I grabbed the T-shirt I’d worn to class, something slipped free and shot across the hardwood. Puzzled, I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. It was a playing card, the Three of Hearts. The reverse was emblazoned with a photograph of Heart Island, where Boldt Castle, built by the island’s original owner, rose fairytale-like above the trees. I was sure the cards Mac and I had played with that morning were the standard Bicycle brand, but then, the deck we’d borrowed was from the bistro’s game cupboard. This must have been a stray. How it got into my stuff, I had no idea.
“Listen,” Mom said. “Something happened today. You know the Missisquoi Wildlife Refuge? That swampland over on Hog Island?”
“Sure.” I stuffed the card back in my bag and resumed my position next to Whiskey. Della Merchant knew all there was to know about Swanton and made a point of checking in on the local rumor mill. I guessed her story was headed toward an affair. A roll in the marsh, as it were.
“I’ve got it on good authority the police found something out there. Human bones,” she said.
I swallowed my mouthful of wine so fast my nostrils burned. “Seriously?”
“Now, Shay, before you—”
“Have they been ID’d? What’s the cause of death? Were they—”
“Slow down. All I know is the police are investigating and don’t have much to go on. They got an anonymous tip a few days ago, which is what led them to the area. Now, you tell me why a person who finds something like this can’t be decent enough to leave their name?”
My mind whirred as I tried to imagine this news spreading throughout my hometown. Every mouth, set in a face bewitched by horror and bilious glee, would repeat this gossip tonight and wonder who, why, how. “I suppose they could have stumbled upon the site and been too freaked out to divulge their identity. You say the tip came in a few days ago? That takes us to midweek. Lots of people hike the refuge, even this time of year. It’s got all those trails, and you can get there by canoe or kayak, either on the Missisquoi River or Lake Champlain. Could be an out-of-towner got turned around and injured. Those woods are pretty wild. Odds are good there’s nothing nefarious going on—but keep me posted,” I said, kneading the fur behind Whiskey’s ears. The little dog groaned in ecstasy. “I bet Swanton hasn’t seen this much excitement since Mickey Bellington painted his house black.”
Mom laughed. “Will do. Mary Jo at the salon—she’s the one who trims your father—has a brother who’s with the police. He hears things at the station. And you know how people talk.”
“That I do.” When I was a kid, the names on the lips of those gossipmongers often belonged to members of my own family. Bones. I took another sip of wine. Truth be told, I was indebted to this news, which would be a welcome distraction tonight. My encounter with Tim and my psych exam still loomed in my mind. If I could push them aside, I might even manage a few solid hours of sleep.
“Before I go,” my mother said, “I’ve been meaning to ask. How are things going with your therapist?”
* * *
* * *
McIntyre came home just before midnight, not long after I finished the dishes, took Whiskey out to pee, and put myself to bed. When I heard her bolt the door and shuffle off to her room, I pretended to be asleep. There was a disturbance in my bowels that had nothing to do with my pathetic supper or too much red wine, and I wanted to be alone with it. Figure out what it meant.
I used to sleep like a worn-out toddler, sprawled on my stomach and dead to the world. Lately, especially since ditching the pills Carson had prescribed to “nudge me into dreamland,” I spend most nights like this one: coffin-stiff and staring at the ceiling. When Mac closed the door to her bedroom, my eyes snapped back open, and I watched the firelight turn specks of dust into spiders and sheetrock seams into canyons. Its trickery was a good metaphor for how I’d felt earlier when I told Mom the same thing I told Sam. I’m good as new. I’ll be reinstated soon.
The claim wasn’t entirely false. Aside from that unnerving moment with my sensei, I felt markedly better. I’d assured Sam the flashbacks I experienced on Tern Island had disappeared once I got back to the mainland, and they had. I’d left the panic attacks behind, too. I still had visions of Bram, but they felt more like grit the wind blew in my eye than a murderous fiend breathing down my neck. Again and again I forced myself into the open, unprotected, and found I could handle it. Take that, Carson Gates.
And yet, I knew I couldn’t completely abolish my PTSD without facing the man who caused it. Gil Gasko, my counselor, said I had to accept the fact that my abductor was still free and learn not to live in fear. Fat chance. Blake Bram was the reason I’d been so detached during my game of Bullshit with Mac, my karate class with Sam, and everything in between. Bram had held me captive in a basement in New York’s East Village for eight days before shooting the cop who’d stumbled onto his chamber of horrors and seized his chance to escape. He may have left me behind, but he didn’t let me go.
For months I’d turned this puzzle over in my head, trying to decode Bram’s purpose. His three other victims were killed quickly, within days of their abduction, while he chose to keep me alive. He let me walk free—me, a police officer trained in suspect identification. A threat.
I’d gone back to Swanton again and again hoping to spot him. He was too clever to be flushed out so easily, but my instincts told me Bram was watching. I had no idea when he’d turn up again, or where, or what he’d look like when he did, but I had every intention of putting this fugitive behind bars. I’d find a way to lock him up. My need to contain him was innate. Sure, we shared the same hometown, but there was a deeper connection, one nobody was aware of but us.
And that’s what scared me most of all.
FOUR
The morning dawned cloudy and cold. During the night the snow flurries had turned to drizzle, and the roads were black and shiny as I made the drive from Watertown back to A-Bay. With Thanksgiving approaching, a town employee was already hanging wreaths on the James Street lampposts. I considered stopping to inhale their piney scent. Swept my gaze over the street like a searchlight instead. With a flutter in my chest, I scanned every parked car and shop window. My life had become one long exercise in counter-surveillance. And that required copious amounts of coffee.
Over the three weeks I’d been seeing Gil Gasko, we’d been to every coffee shop in town. He didn’t have an office like Carson used to; based in Syracuse, G
il went where the Employee Assistance Program said he was needed, and at the moment, he was needed at the Bean-In. Seated at a table for two, he blew steam off a cup of black tea while I ordered my own brew and joined him.
“Chilly out,” Gil said. The way he eyed my insubstantial canvas jacket reminded me of Dad. Dress for the weather, darling, my father would trill, laying on his British accent extra-thick. Gil was younger than my dad by a decade, with dark hair, a wiry beard, and a pronounced widow’s peak. Beneath his fleece and jacket, his body was shaped like a battering ram, and his fingers shared multiple qualities with hot dog rolls, but his gnome-like appearance belied a sweet and soothing disposition. The man oozed serenity. I’d come to think of this as a prerequisite for the job.
This was our routine, a few minutes of small talk before tackling the ugly stuff for which he’d come. “Got any plans for Thanksgiving?” Gil asked.
The question made me realize I didn’t. Last year, I’d spent the holiday with Carson’s family in Sackets Harbor, west of Watertown. We’d only been dating two months by then, but he insisted I get to know his parents. Rather than getting to know me, they’d spent all day spewing stories about their remarkable son.
As I considered Gil’s question, I retrieved a hair tie from my pocket and pulled my unruly mop into a ponytail. A jolt of pain shot down both arms, the aftereffects of karate. “Guess I’ll visit my folks,” I said.
“In Swanton.”
“Yeah.”
Gil nodded. “It’s been a while, right? Last time we talked you said you hadn’t seen them in, what, three weeks?”
“Not since my suspension.”
“Why is that?”
And we’re back to business. Gil’s job was to get me thinking about my feelings, my behavior, and how they were connected. His opinion of my condition mattered, because he’d be sharing his notes with my superiors prior to my psych evaluation, the evaluation I needed to pass in order to resume my role as BCI senior investigator. I had to show Gil I was the strong, stable detective the New York State Police expected me to be, so I’d done everything he’d asked, from the cliché (make a list of my fears) to the absurd (download a meditation app and listen to a guru murmur affirmations in my ear). I’d talked more over the last twenty-one days than I normally would in months, answering loaded questions like Are you able to identify your core stressors? and Are you prepared to apply positive self-talk in your daily life? I could only hope he liked what he heard.
“Why haven’t I gone back to Swanton?” I asked, confirming his question. After so many previous trips, it was a valid one. “My parents know what happened on Tern. That was my first case up here, and it wasn’t exactly smooth sailing. Couple that with my breakup and the situation in New York last year and . . . well, they’re worried about me.”
Gil used a napkin to dab tea from his mustache. “Sounds like the perfect time to visit. Bond a little. Talk it out.”
“You’d think so,” I said, “but sometimes seeing me isn’t good for them.”
“Why’s that?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Gil hadn’t asked about the origins of my scar. As a rule I didn’t tell that story, and I didn’t plan to share it now. Instead, I lifted my hand. “They don’t need a visual reminder of how dangerous my job can be,” I said, showing Gil what remained of my burn. “This kind of work—it’s my life. I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman who’s wanted this since I was five. I’m not about to gin up a whole new career now. It’ll be easier for them to accept that after my hand heals. Easier to forget the drawbacks of the job.”
Gil set down his cup and gave me a look. “When you’re recovering from acute psychological stress, having a good support system is crucial.”
“It’s not that they don’t support me,” I said. “But I’m their only daughter, and the baby of the family. I’m sure they’d prefer I had a nice, safe job in advertising like my brother, or did administrative work like half my old classmates from high school. That’s not me, though. My family gets that.”
“That’s good. And I know at least one other person who’s supportive of your career.”
I frowned. “You do?”
“Yes. Tim Wellington.”
I hadn’t mentioned bumping into Tim the previous morning. In fact, I rarely brought him up at all. “You talked to Tim?” I said.
“A few days ago. Lieutenant Henderson filled me in on Tim’s involvement with the case, so I thought it might be good to touch base with him. I’ve gotta say, Shana, he’s a fan.”
“Of what?”
“Of you. He respects you as an investigator, and he values the contributions you’ve made to the troop since your arrival. He made that very clear.”
Tim talked to Gasko and didn’t tell me? We’d been alone at Nelly’s, had even discussed the counseling I was receiving. Why wouldn’t Tim mention he got a call from Gil?
“If it were up to Tim, you’d be reinstated already. There’s just one thing bothering him.” Gil twirled his stir stick between his stumpy fingers. “He wanted me to ask you about the connection between Blake Bram and your hometown.”
Son of a bitch. The tips of my ears burned with anger. I choose not to divulge something personal, and Tim tries to force it out of me? It was a jerk move, but a smart one. Tim figured my counselor stood the best chance of bringing me to my senses. He didn’t believe I was done with Bram, and he wasn’t going to take my evasion lying down.
I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a fellow investigator. On Tern Island I’d listened to the Sinclairs dismiss the local police force as blundering small-town cops, and watched as Tim purposefully lived up to their expectations. But it took skill to fool witnesses and suspects into seeing him as affable and benign. Initially, Tim hadn’t struck me as the silent-but-deadly type, but I knew better now. He specialized in befriending witnesses and suspects, but wouldn’t hesitate to use that against them for the sake of a case. Tim was a lot sharper than people gave him credit for.
“It’s like this,” I told Gil. “Based on data acquired through the dating app Bram used to attract his victims, and patterns in the similarities between witness accounts, my former colleagues with the NYPD believe Bram spent time in Swanton, same as me. Whether he was raised in the area or only lived there for a while, they don’t know.” Don’t, and won’t. Back in New York, the detectives in the Seventh Precinct had moved on from Blake Bram. They still hoped to apprehend him, but it had been a year and a half since the first murder, and fourteen months since my abduction. Without anything new to go on, the case was growing cold. “Does it bother me that Bram has history there? Of course it does. Swanton’s my hometown, so I guess I see it as a violation. That’s probably why Tim thinks I’m obsessed with Bram. Finding him, I mean.”
Gil gave me a long, calculating look. “I’m impressed with the level of self-awareness I’m seeing from you, Shana,” he said. “But are you? Obsessed?”
I turned my head toward the window. Across the street, a man exited his car and turned on his heel to look straight at me. It’s not him, I chanted in my head as he crossed the street while holding my gaze, but I didn’t look away until he disappeared into the restaurant next door. “I’d like to see him caught,” I told Gil. “He’s a violent, dangerous criminal. But it’s not like I’m hunting him.”
That released some of the tautness from my counselor’s face. Good, I thought, but good wasn’t what I felt. I hadn’t lied to Tim or Gil, but I hadn’t been wholly truthful, either.
“So,” he said. “Thursday’s the day.”
Less than a week to go. “Yup. I’ll be there.”
Gil expressed his satisfaction with my progress once more before clearing our empty mugs. Outside, after we parted ways, I sank my hands into my pockets and pretended to search for my keys while the rain soaked my back. Again I scanned the street for signs that something was off. Short o
f sniffing the air for pheromones and tuning into the low-frequency vibrations traded between predator and prey, I was doing everything I could to identify threats. When I was satisfied that I was safe, I let my thoughts drift to Tim. He knew me better than I’d realized. But he didn’t know everything.
It was me who tipped off the Watertown Daily Times about our appointment at headquarters. The story of Jasper Sinclair and his family was all over the news, and Jared Cunningham was hungry for new developments. A meeting with my supervisor was the perfect way to generate public exposure that would be hard to miss. Tell your photographer to be stealthy, I had said, knowing Tim would be by my side. Make sure you get a clear shot of me, and use my full name. I’d made it easy for the reporter to write a big feature for the paper, and slap my face above the fold.
No, boys, I thought as I walked to my car. I’m not hunting Bram.
Bram is hunting me.
FIVE
It’s got a great view. See?”
The property manager leaned past me toward the window, and when she flipped her braid—gray and thin as a rat’s tail—over her shoulder, it whacked me in the face. I forced myself to breathe through my mouth. The stench of stale cigarettes on the woman’s clothes was unrelenting. “Chaumont Bay?” I said. “I don’t see it.”
She laughed, her voice like wet gravel. “You won’t get a water view for what you’re paying. But there are trees—and two churches, just a stone’s throw from here. Location is everything, they say.”