by L T Ryan
"Looks like you brought company." Clem approached with a coffee pot in hand.
"Clem, meet Ben Tracy. He's the father of the little girl who went missing."
Clem cast a questioning eye over Ben. "I've seen you in here over the last couple days." Clem turned and shot an eye back towards the other customers looking over at Hatch's companion, whispering amongst themselves.
"Whatever they're saying about Ben's involvement, they got it all wrong." Hatch said.
"One of your sources?" Clem asked.
"The best kind. The horse’s mouth."
Clem turned to Ben. "I'm real sorry to hear about your little girl. The whole town's shook up about it. And never mind those whispers, just gives them something to do. Y'all look like you could use a good meal."
"Whatever your breakfast special is, as long as it comes with a bit of that cornbread." Hatch said.
"Just took it out of the pan before coming over here. And you?" Clem asked Ben.
"I'll have what she's having."
Clem filled both their mugs with coffee and returned to the kitchen.
"That's the friendliest reception I've gotten since coming into town." Ben said.
"That's how it goes in small towns like this. I grew up in one." Hatch said.
"Me too. Not this small, though."
"Is that where you met Kyla's mom?"
"No. Years later, I was a long-haul trucker. It was a good gig and I liked it. Having a brother like Jordan who went off and served his country, I wanted to cut my own path. Didn’t want to follow his footsteps or live in his shadow. After high school, I set out on my own. I've always been a bit of a drifter."
"Me too," Hatch said.
"Kind of fell in love with the trucking gig. Loved being on the open road and loved seeing the country that people take for granted when they fly over. I like the energy of a rest stop and the conversations with people you meet along the way. I met Dot—short for Dorothy, even had a little Scottie named Toto just for kicks—at one of those truck stops after a long stretch. She was a waitress And we just clicked. I took routes that enabled me to stop through as often as I could. Everything happened fast after that. Kyla was an uh-oh, but not in a bad way. I was head over heels for Dot and always planned to marry her, but I guess it wasn't in the cards."
"If you don't mind me asking, what happened between the two of you?"
"The same road that brought us together tore us apart. We moved into a small place outside of Augusta, Georgia. A drunk driver sent me into a guard rail, messed my back up pretty good. Docs put me on some pain meds. I guess it started there. The pain meds led me to other things, and before I knew it, I was shooting up between my toes to hide it from Dot. But she came from a hard life and a broken home, so it wasn't long before she started seeing the signs. But I lied, like all addicts lie. Then I got into another crash. This time there was no other driver to blame, just me. I T-boned a small four door when I blew a red at an intersection and took the life of a businessman on his way home from a conference. I took a DUI manslaughter charge. No choice after they took blood tox from me after the crash. There was no more lying to Dot at that point. It was there in black and white in the police report, the heroin in my system at the time. Kyla was seven. I got an eight-year sentence reduced to four for good behavior."
"And how come it took you until now to try to contact your daughter?"
"Even though I was out on good behavior, I hadn't behaved well inside of prison. Do you know it's just about as easy to get drugs inside as it was outside?"
"I do. I spent time as a military police officer. Prisons are prisons. Even in the military ones, drugs found their way inside."
"When I came out I was just as strung out, maybe more so than when I'd gone in. I tracked Dot and Kyla down, but I was high when I found Dot working as a waitress again. She saw the addiction in my eyes and the freshness of the track marks on my arms." Rolling his sleeve up, he slightly exposed the depressions in his skin. "I wear long sleeves now, even in the heat of the summer."
Hatch reached for her coffee. The sleeve of her lightweight sweatshirt slid up, exposing more of her right arm. "Everybody has scars, some are just easier to see. My father used to say, 'Until you walk a mile in someone's shoes...'"
Ben nodded his head and took a sip of his coffee. "I don't think anyone would want mine. I wore out a lot of welcomes and burned a lot of bridges in my life. With my family, my friends—but the most devastating to me is my daughter. And when Dot had seen me that way, she took Kyla and ran. Then I disappeared into a drug-induced haze that nearly left me dead, but at the end of it, I found help."
Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. "One year sober. I said I would get this coin in my hand before I tried to make peace with Dot and reestablish my relationship with Kyla, but they were harder to find, and it took me a while of searching."
"How'd you find them here?"
"She had distant family outside of Nashville in Mt. Juliet. I asked about her over there and they said, last they had heard, she was working as a clerk at the grocery in Jericho Falls. By the time I got here, she'd taken up with that commune. That's pretty much it. I tried to speak to Dot, but The Shepherd and his guard dog, the big mute, wouldn't let me. I planned to begin the legal battle and even retained an attorney. Everyone told me I've got an uphill battle. The Eternal Light doesn't recognize our court system, so serving them and getting any action takes a lot of work on the court's behalf, and it's going to take a lot to prove I'm even worthy of the fight after all these years."
Hatch looked at the man across from her and smiled. "I think you're worth the fight."
Just then, Clem returned with the two breakfast specials carried on one arm and a plate with two big pieces of cornbread on the other.
"Make sure you eat while you can. If these storms start hitting and the power goes out, won't be much in the way of food."
Clem left them to enjoy their meal.
Hatch dabbed her fingertip onto the plate, extracting the last of the crumbs. The sweet taste of Clem's homemade cornbread lingered in her mouth as she left the restaurant. The breeze cleared a path through the muggy mid-morning air. A girl dressed in a white gown danced around the flagpole outside of the diner.
The child's hair, the color of sunlight, was done in braids, the ends of which bounced loosely as she was lost in her dance. She carried a small wicker basket of freshly picked flowers.
A man wearing a long tunic was talking to the hardware shop owner next door to Clem's. She overheard a bit of the conversation. A trade for nails and screws was being hashed out between the two men, but Hatch wasn't as interested in the barter as much as she was the little girl.
Aside from her hair color, everything else about the child was nearly identical to the photo Hatch had of Kyla. The pang of sadness rippling through Ben as he caught sight of the carefree girl was obvious.
Hatch gave a small wave of her hand. The girl stopped. She eyed Hatch for a moment. Caution giving way, the girl smiled. Hatch approached, ignoring Ben's hushed advice not to bother.
"Hi." Hatch hunched low, meeting the child's eyes, a dazzling blue, much like the deep cobalt of Cruise. "I'm Hatch."
"That's a funny name." The girl giggled. "I'm Marigold."
Hatch thought of Daphne. Her Daffodil. The same sense of wonderment danced in the bright eyes staring back at Hatch.
"I'm looking for a little girl. About your age." Hatch pulled out her cellphone and swiped to a picture of Kyla. She held it out for Marigold to see.
The little girl turned her head. She brought up the hand holding the basket of flowers, further shielding herself from the image on the screen. Marigold looked like Dracula fending off the cross.
"Do not speak to her!" The voice came from the man in the white tunic who had left his bartering and was fast approaching.
Hatch put her hands up. "I was just asking your daughter about a little girl we're looking for. I didn't mean to offend anyone."
"I just wanted to show her a picture." Hatch gestured to the phone in her hand.
"She is forbidden to look at such devices. They provide access to the devil's tongue."
"Maybe you can speak to me, then?"
"If you want answers, then you must seek The Shepherd." He offered nothing else before turning his back to Hatch. The father took his daughter by the hand and walked away toward a horse-drawn buggy. Marigold looked back at Hatch just before climbing into the carriage. The smile from earlier was gone completely.
"That went well," Ben said.
"I'm only getting started." Hatch walked toward the Jeep as the carriage pulled away. "I guess we know who we have to talk to next. And I'd like to get there before our new friend does."
Fifteen
Savage took the early morning direct flight from Denver to Nashville, arriving just before noon. He tried to use the flight time to catch up on the sleep stolen by the all-night drive to the airport, but he only managed disjointed and fitful naps. Upon reaching the rental car agency, Savage had learned that all the SUVs had been rented, with the last one taken the day before. He was left with two choices: A light green Dodge Neon, or a white Caprice. He had opted for the Chevy.
Savage took I-40 East toward Lebanon, where the Wilson County Sheriff's Office was located. Traffic was light, and he made good time, but just outside of Lebanon, a tree branch had fallen on a car and traffic was at a standstill, adding an extra hour to his trip. It was midday by the time Savage arrived.
A large rectangular concrete building housed both the sheriff's office and the Wilson County jail. The main entrance offered visitor access to both facilities. Savage parked in the visitor lot in front and went inside. Although separated by thick concrete walls, the murmured echoes from within the jail resonated in the lobby space.
A heavyset woman in a floral dress sat on a bench crying and dabbing her tears with a handkerchief. She was surrounded by several children, some consoling their grieving mother, others taking her distracted state as an opportunity to turn the lobby into a jungle gym.
Savage bypassed the chaos and walked to the main desk. He pressed the button to talk. There was a civilian seated on the other side of the thick bullet-resistant glass. Savage pressed his badge and ID against the fingerprint-smeared barrier.
"Sheriff Dalton Savage, here to see Detective James Thorpe. I'm a little later than I planned, but he's expecting me."
"Just a moment, sugar," the receptionist said.
She pushed herself back on a rolling chair and picked up a phone, cradling it between her head and neck. Punching in a four-digit number, she had a brief conversation that Savage couldn't hear through the divider in front of him or the crying behind him.
She rolled back his way. "He'll be with you in a moment. Have a seat if you can find one."
Savage eyed the lobby. Deciding not to invade the personal space of the grieving woman, he stood off to the side, reached into his pocket, and popped a couple of pieces of black licorice into his mouth.
A door marked, "Law Enforcement Access Only," to the left of the main desk opened. Standing in the doorway was a man of average height. He had a short haircut, a hair longer than a military high-and-tight, and a thick mustache neatly groomed curled over his upper lip, stopping at the corners of his mouth. He wore a lightweight gray sweater vest over a button-up shirt and tie. Savage noticed the clean lines pressed along the edges of his shirt and slacks. He was so thin that even the sweater vest barely gave form to his chest.
"Sheriff Savage?"
"Dalton is fine."
"Jim Thorpe." The detective extended a hand, and they shook.
"Thanks for meeting with me." Dalton said
”Thanks for flying all the way here. Like I told you on the phone, I'm not sure it's worth your effort though.” Thorpe said.
"This was one of those cases that I wanted to see all the way through, you know what I mean?"
Thorpe nodded.
"I'd like to see what you have on the investigation and see where we can connect the dots, because right now, I'm drawing blanks."
"Follow me down the rabbit hole." Thorpe led Savage inside. "I'm not sure the size of the sheriff's office you're coming from, but we run about two hundred and sixty-five here, thirty in the Bureau."
"Well, you've got about ten times the number in your Bureau than I have in my whole agency, but I spent the majority of my career in Denver. Ten years in homicide."
Thorpe gave a nod of his head. "I bet you've seen some things."
"I've worn both hats, and I can say that evil exists in both the big city and the small town."
"Ain't that the truth." Thorpe led Savage down a hallway. "The first floor and down houses our patrol guys. Second floor is our Bureau admins."
Thorpe bypassed the elevator and made his way to a side stairwell. A sign said, "Prisoner Intake and Holding."
"We're not going to your office?"
"We are. Well, an office of sorts. This case is kind of my baby. I've been working it for over ten years. It became a bit overwhelming, and after reaching a peace accord with my lieutenant, they gave me a separate space away from the other detectives."
Thorpe ran his ID badge over a security panel. The door buzzed loudly and Thorpe pulled it open. The noise from the jail echoed through the stairwell. As Thorpe headed down, two detectives with long hair and beards and wearing street clothes passed them coming up.
"Hey Thorpenado. Taking a friend to the cave?" The other detective laughed, neither slowing to wait for Thorpe's response.
"Narc guys. They get a lot done, but they can be assholes." Thorpe said.
"That's true of big cities and small towns. Everybody's got one." Savage said.
They went down one flight of stairs and entered the main holding area. They walked between four sets of holding cells. The ten-by-twenty iron-barred spaces were separated by concrete walls, two on each side.
Savage heard the cacophony of noise. Men crying for their phone call, others pleading their innocence, some threatening violence. Savage had heard it all before.
Both men passed by without tossing a glance at the men in the cages, avoiding engaging them in any way, none of which would have been fruitful.
The noise faded as they turned a corner and moved along a hallway. Narrower, this one was lined with offices for intake processing, administrative efforts, and moving the masses through the penal system. Thorpe took Savage to a door at the end of the hall. There was a piece of paper stuck to the door that said, "The Cave."
"I used to tear them down. Now, I just don't care."
This door didn't have an electric lock like the others. It required a key, which Thorpe produced from the key chain in his pocket, connected to his belt with a lanyard. He unlocked both the deadbolt and the knob's lock.
"Enter at your own risk. It's a work in progress." Thorpe said.
"I'm sure I can handle it." Savage replied.
As they entered, a light on a sensor activated, bathing the small ten-by-ten room in its pale glow. Almost every single inch of the room's four walls was covered with everything from crime scene photos. to newspaper articles, to bits and pieces of police reports.
Behind a cluttered desk on the far wall was a large map of Tennessee. Overlapping concentric circles marked in red pen covered the map, moving along in a snakelike pattern that nearly split the map in two.
"What's the meaning of the circles?"
"Where the girls went missing. The X's mark where they were last seen. The circle marks the areas searched."
"Tell me more about the girl we found, or at least the parts that we found in Colorado."
"Erika Beaumont, she went missing about ten years ago. She was eleven years old at the time."
"And there was no trace?"
"It was a tough one. The report was delayed. It followed a bad tornado. There was a lot of damage from that one. We were
flooded with a ton of missing person cases. That always happens after a big one, but as recovery efforts proceeded and either the dead or the living were found, one remained missing. Erika Beaumont. But now we have her remains, or at least enough to get a positive ID. From what you’ve told me, it sounds like your Glen Miller might've been a serial."
"It looks that way," Savage said. "I'm surprised the FBI hasn't jumped on this yet."
"They may come around. I forwarded it to them, but this won't be the first time. One of the reasons I've been relegated to the basement here, when this story broke of the girl missing after the tornado, the newspaper had labeled him the Twister Man. The FBI was interested, but when leads dried up and I was left with nothing but conjecture and no substance to back it, the FBI pulled back. My sheriff wasn't real keen and Twister Man became somewhat of an inside joke around the department."
"Glen Miller's background is pretty hazy. We don't know much about him, just that he came to Hawks Landing about ten years ago."
"It matches the timeline. Maybe he killed Erika and got spooked. Maybe she was his first. I know serials, they like to keep a token."
"You work many before?"
Thorpe shook his head. "No, but I read a lot."
"I worked two in Denver. They're tough puzzles, but you're right about the token thing. They usually leave things behind, either because they want to get caught or they want to stay connected to the victim, or they want notoriety. There's a thousand reasons for why serials act the way they do. "
"For my sheriff, it's a closed case." Thorpe said.
"But you don't see it that way." Savage replied.
"All those circles, all those missing girls, all between the ages of ten and twelve years old, and all following a major tornado."
"Have there been any since Beaumont disappeared?"
"Two—actually, three. One girl had reportedly escaped."
"Was she able to identify him, give any specifics?"