The Hunted Girls

by Jenna Kernan

  “Nadine, we’re good together, aren’t we?”

  “Great.”

  “Then why won’t you spend the night?”

  “Last time I did that, your house was surrounded by news crews trying to get a quote from the daughter of a killer.”

  “That’s not the reason.”

  “I thought we agreed to go slow.”

  “It’s been over half a year. That’s pretty slow.”

  She gave him an imploring look.

  Where did he think they needed to go, exactly?

  Although she supposed it didn’t matter. Any next step led to the steps she was unwilling to ever make.

  She had no problem with Clint. The problem was her. She knew what she was. Because even if she could hold back the monster, she wasn’t letting that genetic minefield loose in another generation.

  She hadn’t allowed them to have the talk about what they wanted, except that she knew Clint wanted them to “move forward” and “take the next step.”

  Did that mean he wanted common residence? Marriage? Kids?

  What would he do when he discovered she didn’t?

  “I could come to your room.”

  She shook her head, hoping he didn’t make her say no, yet again.

  “Why, Nadine?”

  “It’s my private space. I need that.”

  “But you enjoy our time together.”

  “Very much. But we’re here for a reason. Let’s keep that our priority.”

  “My reason is that you’re here.”

  That answer tugged at her heart and made her feel guilty all at once.

  She kissed him and ducked into the bathroom to dress. When she emerged, he was also dressed.

  “You don’t need to walk me to my room.” She was only one floor above him. Her team wasn’t all together because the first floor of this wing was reserved for those traveling with pets.

  He gave her a long stare and she said nothing more as he accompanied her in silence.

  At her door, he leaned in and kissed her gently on the mouth. When she opened her eyes, she caught only a glimpse of him before the door closed.

  “Lock it,” he said from the hall.

  So much for their romantic evening, she thought.

  Beautiful evening, he thought, returning to her after moonrise. But on seeing the empty cage, he momentarily feared she had somehow escaped. His instinct was to run. A detective had already spoken to his employer.

  He waited, there in the brush. Were the FBI watching him right now? His gaze flashed to the black recesses beneath the tree canopy, beyond the reach of the moonlight.

  Why hadn’t he worn the forest ranger’s uniform he’d stolen? Then he might succeed in bluffing his way out of here.

  And then he saw her, much as he’d left her in the middle of the afternoon on Tuesday. He had not meant to be away so long. But he’d been so occupied with watching his real target and capturing the other one.

  But she was there. He could see her in the silvery light. A lump of clay in his trap. Beside her was a hollow she’d dug between the bars filled with groundwater.

  She’d been clever enough to take advantage of the downpours to make a mixture of mud to protect her skin from sun and the biting insects that hovered about her, searching for tiny cracks in her armor.

  “Bibi!” he whispered. “Wake up.”

  She startled and rolled upright, shrieking as she clutched her calf. The movement caused the silver shaft of the arrow to glint. The scream made his skin tingle in excitement.

  He smiled.

  Her eyes went wide and white all the way around as he inched forward. She slid on her bottom in the opposite direction.

  Why did they do that? He could reach her from anywhere. She was his plaything.

  He circled the cage, lunging into the bars as she screamed and moaned. Delicious.

  “You understand me?” he asked.

  When she didn’t answer, he reached through the bars and yanked her by her hair.

  She screeched and twisted, trying to bite his arm. A cornered animal, trapped, but not helpless.

  He shook her. “Do you?”

  “Yes,” she said, panting. “Let me go.”

  “Yes. I will. I will let you out and you will run.”

  He tugged her hair, forcing her up off her seat, and then dropped her.

  Her expression registered a flicker of hope and then he lifted his crossbow.

  “You understand?”

  She gasped. Silvery tears ran down her cheeks. “No. I won’t.”

  “Then I’ll shoot you through the bars.” He lifted the bow and aimed at her head.

  “No. I run.”

  They always chose that, too. He released the locks and opened the cage, stepping back so that she had a clear path in the direction he wanted her to run, toward the water.

  She cried as she tried to stand. The arrow, sun, rain, insects and days had softened her for him. She limped away and he pursued. If she moved to the right or left, he cut her off. But she was slow and the game grew tedious. He sighed in disappointment.

  When she reached the shore of the lake, she paused to look back.

  “In,” he said.

  “¡No sé nadar, me ahogaré!”

  This time her hesitancy bore consequences. He aimed and released the arrow. The point protruded from her hip, striking bone. No spine injury for this one. She’d be able to feel them bite.

  Bibi fell backward into the water and thrashed. When she managed to stand, he slipped the chain about her and clipped it tight. She tried to use it to drag herself from the water and he hit her opposite leg with another arrow. Down she went again. He glanced out over the water at the ripples.

  The alligators sensed prey. He knew there were several fourteen-footers here and they were coming.

  He waded in, taking a risk, and yanked his arrows from her. The one in her hip left its point behind, as he intended.

  She struggled, gasped and cried. She called to God for help.

  He moved to the shore to watch the other apex predators, knowing he was her god now.

  Ten

  SATURDAY

  In the morning, Nadine headed to Lawtey Correctional and Clint to Lowell Correctional, the women’s prison where his mother was held. Arlo was expecting her, and she planned to speak to him about Tina and discourage the relationship.

  She suffered through the indignities of the security screening and entered the visiting area, well inside the drab interior. Did every prison smell like mildew and bleach?

  Once in the main gathering room, she perched on a stool at one of the many circular tables. The seats were fixed to the frame, because you couldn’t throw a chair that was bolted down.

  The prisoners entered through a metal door, transferring custody from the interior guard to the one beside the prisoner exit. She noted that this guard, though he clearly spent too much time lifting weights and guzzling protein shakes, greeted every prisoner by name.

  It was only when she heard him say her brother’s name that she recognized Arlo, and stood with her jaw swinging open. He looked so different than when she had visited last month. Then, his hair had been a wild tangle and he’d grown a scruffy beard that made him look more like Robinson Crusoe than the boy she remembered from their childhood.

  This Arlo had short hair, a neatly trimmed mustache and wore round wire-rimmed glasses. She gaped.

  “It’s me, Dee-Dee.” At least she recognized his smile.

  “You’re so polished up.”

  “I’ve been working on that. Trying to make an impression. I have another hearing coming up.”

  “Is that so?” He’d written her about that and all she could think was that he shouldn’t get out. She believed in her heart that he was like them, the killers in her family. The only reason he was eligible for parole at all was the deal he received in exchange for a guilty plea. She knew what he’d done to his girlfriend at the time, and it might have been more if the neighbor had not hea
rd the fight and called the cops. Mostly affable, he had an emotional firestorm lurking just below the surface.

  Emotional damage from unresolved chronic trauma, family disruption and a psychologically unavailable parent, all resulted in rejection sensitivity and socially deviant moral reasoning justifying preemptive assault. Or that was what she would report, had she been asked to evaluate Arlo.

  “Well, you are sure to make a good impression.”

  Arlo had been admitted into a program for inmates to train dogs over a year ago. Shortly afterward, she began to notice changes in his attitude and demeanor. He also seemed happier.

  “Want something to eat?” she asked, turning toward the vending machines. She had brought small bills to buy food.

  They walked together to the machines. He was several inches taller than she and muscular. This adult Arlo made her nervous and she missed the way they had been when they were kids, the two of them looking out for each other. He chose a cola and she selected water.

  She worried over his release, dreaded it at a visceral level, fearing what he was becoming before his arrest. At the perceived threat of abandonment by his then girlfriend, Arlo had chosen a preemptive attack. He had been unable to handle the emotional rejection of even a possible breakup. And how much worse had his emotional difficulties become in the prison system?

  She bought them each a breakfast pastry, slipped him fifty bucks, and they headed back to their table.

  She handed him one pastry. “Happy Easter,” she said.

  “Hmm. Will be if it’s my last in here,” he said. “You get my message about Mom?”

  “I wrote and told you that I did.”

  “Haven’t had computer rights since yesterday. Anyway, she’s plenty pissed at you for cutting her off.”

  “She sent a killer to encourage me to commit murder. What did she think would happen?” asked Nadine.

  “I don’t know, but she’s really mad. She’s got a biographer and I just know she’s going to slice you up in her version of events.”

  The shiver traveled all the way from her tailbone to her face. Her mother had managed to send a serial killer after her from behind bars. Now she was writing a tell-all book. That could only be bad for Nadine.

  “The guy writing for her contact you yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s aggressive. Persistent too.”

  “You’ve met?”

  “Phone interview. I hung up.”

  Nadine waved her hand, making a show of dismissing his concern. Meanwhile, she was certain the barbed arrows her mother might launch with that book would draw blood.

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Just be careful. She’s dangerous when she gets like this.”

  “Okay. I’ll be careful.”

  Nadine took the warning seriously. But really, her mother was dangerous at any time. Arleen Howler could no longer write her daughter, but she was far from helpless.

  The pause lengthened. She thought of her main objective this visit.

  “Listen, Arlo, about my assistant. I’m not sure you should be writing her.”

  “She wrote me.”

  “Yeah. But she’s only twenty-two. I don’t think a relationship is wise.”

  “I know she’s too young for me, Dee-Dee. What are you afraid of?”

  “I don’t want her hurt.”

  His face flushed and the hand on the tabletop knotted into a fist.

  “And you think I’ll hurt her? I’ve told you. I’ve got it in control now. I don’t let my emotions take over.”

  She smiled, certain that wasn’t true.

  “Great. So… no more emails?”

  Correspondence of any sort was valuable to an inmate because contact with the outside world was precious.

  “Fine. Be sure to tell her the same.”

  “Thanks.”

  He heaved a heavy sigh, then finished the soda in several long swallows as if anxious to get the taste of this place from his mouth. When he set the empty can between them, she had an idea. It was terrible, but there it was.

  She could take that can and have a DNA sample to run with the others. She could see, once and for all, if Arlo had the killer code sequence she suspected ran through their family like a metastasizing cancer.

  When he opened his pastry, she used her napkin to bring the can beside her water bottle.

  “You’re lucky, kiddo,” he said. “Lucky to be able to walk out of here. I’d do anything to come with you.”

  “Soon.”

  “Here’s hoping.”

  Rather than enjoy his pastry, he seemed to be choking it down.

  “I could be in here, too, Arlo.”

  He regarded her a moment.

  “You got reason to look over your shoulder?”

  “No. But I used a knife on the first person I ever profiled.”

  “I read about that. Self-defense. It doesn’t count.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. I have to think about it as part of my job. Murder, I mean. Really horrific murders.”

  “Thinking ain’t doing.”

  The lump in her throat surprised her. Arlo still had her back.

  “You’re not like them.”

  Nadine looked at the empty soda can beside her water and suddenly found herself confessing about considering taking his DNA sample without his permission.

  “So I’m a sneaky little turncoat.”

  “But you didn’t take it. You told me. As for the DNA thing, go ahead and run it.”

  He was a convicted felon. She had little doubt of the results.

  She hesitated. He pushed the can in her direction.

  “I’ll put it in writing for you. How’s that? Sign a waiver.” He reached across the table, breaking the rules on contact, and patted the top of her hand. “You could do anything, Dee-Dee. All of us could. But it only counts if you take actionable steps.”

  Actionable steps. Had Arlo been studying law?

  “Like stealing a DNA sample?”

  “Yeah. Like that. But technically, you only moved it.”

  “And told you.”

  “That part wasn’t wise. Admission of guilt.”

  “Actionable steps, admission of guilt. You sound like a lawyer.”

  He flushed.

  “What?”

  “I’m taking law classes. Already finished three semesters.”

  “That’s great!”

  “I can’t ever practice. Not allowed to sit for the bar.”

  “I still think it’s terrific.”

  He lifted his pastry and then set it down. “There’s another reason I needed to see you. Something I couldn’t put in writing.”

  He’d said as much in his email. She tried to hide her trepidation as she leaned in.

  “Go on.”

  “Mom has friends in this prison. I’m afraid she might send one of them after me.” Arlo’s face was pale. “It’s easy. Cheap, too. Lots of the inmates have nothing to lose. No chance of parole. Maybe do it for free. I know she writes some of them. I might get shivved in the shower or while I’m sleeping. It’s not hard. The money you just gave me is enough to buy a hit.”

  “Oh, God, Arlo!”

  “I want you to understand how simple it can be.”

  “But why would she send someone after you? I’m the one who cut her off. And you haven’t done anything to her.”

  He gave her a look that made her question that assumption and revise her denial.

  “I’m about to.”

  She leaned in again.

  “You remember Mom telling you that she killed some guy by accident and used his truck to move him?”

  Nadine sat back. Her suspicion was that this unnamed stranger might have been their dad. She’d told Arlo as much and now wondered if that had been a mistake.

  “Of course.”

  “You said she told you that he owed her money. And you were right that Dad owed her child support. He never paid her, at least that’s what she sai
d.”

  Nadine had heard often in her childhood of her deadbeat dad who ran off with another woman.

  “She said she hit him,” said Arlo.

  “With a shovel,” she added. “Arleen told me that she used his truck to move him. Then buried the body somewhere near the St. Johns River. She wouldn’t say exactly where.”

  “I could help find them.”

  “Them?”

  “Yeah, plural.” He gave her a hopeful look. “I think she killed them both.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Dad and his girlfriend, Infinity. You look her up, Infinity Yanez. She’s gone. I’ll put money on it. Missing person. You understand?”

  Nadine gaped. Her ears buzzed. She considered her options and then told Arlo what she already knew about the woman her father had left her mother for.

  “I had the same thought about Mom and had someone look into it. Yanez has been missing since 1993.”

  “I knew it!” He pumped his fist as if scoring the winning goal.

  “But I don’t have a shred of proof that Mom had anything to do with it,” she said.

  “I might.”

  Her mouth was so dry. She wanted desperately to find their father. But not like this.

  “What, Arlo?”

  “I rode over to see Dad the day before he left.”

  “On your bike. You told me.”

  Arlo had been only eight at the time, but fairly independent for a kid that age. Certainly, Arleen hadn’t reined him in.

  “Yeah. I saw them, Dad and Infinity kissing, so I never got the nerve up to speak to him. They drove off in that black truck. I rode over the next day and he wasn’t home, but his truck was there. It had a red sticker on the driver’s-side windshield.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “The state police have to check all cars and trucks on the shoulders of highways. They check for theft or injured drivers.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “My van broke down and got red-tagged by a trooper.”

  “I see.”

  “If the car is unoccupied, they red-tag it. It’s a big red sticker on the driver’s-side window. Then they call it in.”

  She didn’t understand.

  “What has this got to do with your parole?”