Find Her

  Eventually, I would call out the letter A. Then he’d find B. And we’d be okay again.

  Because that was life heading west. And after enough time, anything can become normal, even hanging out with your kidnapper who’s killed three women and counting.

  In Georgia we stopped to refuel. Jacob was gone for a long time inside, doing whatever it was he did. I sat. I stared out my window. I saw cars and trees and blacktop. I saw nothing at all.

  And I wondered how long a person could live like this. Dying inch by inch. Mile by mile every time she crossed the Florida line.

  I pictured my mom. I thought of her for the first time in so long. Not because you ever really forget but because a person can only take so much pain. But now I allowed myself to picture her. Wearing one of her stiff outfits from the press conferences. The sheen in her eyes. The silver fox at her throat.

  I wondered what she’d say if she could see me now. I wondered if she’d still beg for my safe return. Or if she would realize, as I had realized, that there are some things a person can’t come back from. I wasn’t a child from the wilds of Maine anymore. I was the plaything of monsters.

  And just for a minute, I wished I could see her again. If only to tell her to let me go. Move on. Be happy. Build a life.

  But let me go.

  Because then maybe I could let myself go. I wouldn’t fight so hard, do such terrible things in order to survive anymore. I’d just fade away.

  Surely that would be better than this.

  For the first time in a long while, I sent my mother a prayer. I prayed she would never find me. I prayed she’d never see me like this. I prayed that all the things I’d done were things she’d never have to know.

  Then Jacob returned and we drove and we drove and we drove. And he found the letter Q and later I found X, and then I started to laugh, and then I started to cry, and Jacob said we’d driven far enough. He splurged for a motel, told me to shower and clean up. He even left me alone after that as I lay curled up in a ball and cried and cried and cried.

  For the mother I hoped and begged and prayed would never see me again. For the little girl who’d once fed foxes and now helped hunt humans for sport. For the life I’d lost and for the future I needed to give up. Because I couldn’t go back to Florida again. There was only so much you could adapt to and accept.

  I’d hit my limit and Florida was it.

  Which meant it was time to let go. Give up.

  After all those days, nights, weeks, Jacob had threatened to kill me—now I needed him to get the job done. He had a gun. I’d seen it. A single shot through the head. Certainly it would be kinder than what he and Lindy had done to the others.

  But how to provoke him? Crazily enough, he seemed to have come to like me. Lindy might be his homicidal partner, but I was his audience. A man liked an audience.

  In the morning, I would refuse to climb back into the rig. I would scream. I would scream and scream and scream. Then he’d have to shoot me, if only to shut me up.

  In the morning.

  * * *

  I NEVER GOT MY CHANCE. At dawn, just as I was starting to open my eyes, a loud explosion came from the window. Shattering glass. The sound of gunfire. Then a hissing cloud of . . .

  Jacob running out of the bathroom, shirt still untucked. He had a towel in his hands. He slapped it, wet and dripping, around my lower face. I didn’t understand, not him, not the hissing gas, not the shouts from outside.

  Jacob raced to the other bed. Coughing, hacking. I watched his eyes swell, tears streaming down his face, snot flooding from his nose. His hand under the pillow pulling out his gun.

  I remained sitting, mesmerized behind my dripping face mask as the door of the motel room flew open and black-clad men poured into the room.

  Jacob falling to his knees. Moaning. Groaning. Sobbing pitifully. He stared straight at me, reaching out with his hand.

  Offering me his gun.

  So I took it. Hefted its weight, felt its heaviness.

  While black-clad men continued to stream in and yell words I couldn’t compute.

  This wasn’t about them. This had never been about them.

  This was about Jacob and me.

  His lips were moving. He was begging me to shoot him. No, he was ordering me to shoot him. Just do it. Pull the trigger.

  The black-clad men came to a halt. They stood all around us. They didn’t seem to know what to do.

  Because of me, I realized. Because I was holding a gun and they didn’t know what to expect. No doubt they had instructions to shoot Jacob, his murderous ways having finally caught up with him.

  But me? No one knew what to do about me.

  For the first time in four hundred and seventy-two days, I was the one holding the gun. I was the one in power.

  “Do it,” Jacob commanded. “Pull the fucking trigger. I ain’t ever going back, so come on now. End it. Put us both out of our misery.”

  Then, when I still didn’t move: “Hell, save a bullet for yourself. Why not? Once they hear what you’ve done, think they’ll take it easy on you? Think you’re really any different than me?”

  I knew what he was saying. I understood completely.

  “You’ll never get over me. You’ll never forget. I’ll always be inside your head. Every night you wake up, you’ll reach for me. Every time you drive down a highway, you’ll look for me. Any man you’ll meet, you’ll wish he was as tough as me. There’s no coming back. So just pull the trigger. Fucking end it.”

  He was right, I thought. But he was wrong.

  I was not who I was, and yet I wasn’t who he wanted me to be.

  My mother. Stiff clothes, silver fox charm. My mother begging to see me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. But I wasn’t talking to Jacob. I was talking to my mother, who had no idea she was about to get exactly what she’d wished for, which, if memory served, was a kind of ancient curse.

  I placed the gun against the top of Jacob’s head. Then I leaned down and I whispered in his ear:

  “I’m not going to die. I’m going to stay alive. And someday, when I’m strong enough and skilled enough, I’m going to head to Florida. I’m going to track down Lindy, and then, I’m going to kill her. There will be nothing of you left, Jacob. You, your daughter, the ‘strong ones.’ I will kill you both, and it will be all your fault; you never should’ve snatched me from that beach.”

  His eyes widened. A look of fear, not for himself but for his precious Lindy.

  “I will never think of you again,” I promised, swore, lied.

  Then I pulled the trigger.

  A fine mist. Blood and brains in my hair. The men in black surging forward.

  I won, I thought.

  I lost, I already understood.

  Then a woman was standing there. “Flora, it’s okay. Flora, Flora! My name is SAC Kimberly Quincy. I’m here to take you home.”

  I felt sorry for her because I already understood that the Flora everyone once knew and loved would never be going home again.

  There was simply me.

  And I didn’t even know who that was anymore.

  Chapter 42

  BY THE TIME D.D. ARRIVED AT TONIC, the nightclub was in full swing. Music so loud the blacked-out walls vibrated with the beat of the bass. A dance floor crowded with writhing bodies. Strobing blue lights casting everything into a surreal glow of moving parts.

  D.D. cut through the line outside by virtue of her badge, then worked her way around the outskirts of the dance floor until she came to the hall leading to the manager’s office. Sure enough, Jocelyne Ethier sat inside wearing the same black top and black slacks from earlier. Except she was not alone. Across from her sat Keynes.

  D.D. drew up short. And not because the victim specialist had finally traded in his trademark suit for some ridiculously expensive designer jea
ns, but because there was no good reason for Keynes to be here. As in, what the hell? As in, what was he once again not telling her?

  “Evening,” she drawled from the doorway.

  Ethier looked up, pale face shuttered, which only heightened D.D.’s tension.

  Keynes, on the other hand, smiled. Contained. Mysterious. D.D. hated that smile.

  “Didn’t realize you were into the club scene,” she said pointedly.

  “I was in the area.”

  “Funny, me too.”

  “Would you care to join us?” Keynes waved a hand, as if inviting her to his party.

  In contrast to Ethier, his expression was open. D.D. didn’t buy it for a moment. She stepped into the room warily. Her left hand drifted automatically to her hip, where once she’d carried a sidearm. Except she wasn’t permitted to carry anymore. She was a restricted duty desk sergeant out on her own.

  “I had some follow-up questions,” Keynes said.

  “Really.” D.D. eyed the manager. “So do I.”

  Ethier sighed, appeared less than happy. “If both of you could come back tomorrow—”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” Keynes said.

  “Only a minute,” D.D. echoed.

  “A minute? Have you seen the bar? This is peak hours. Look, I don’t mean to be rude—”

  “Then don’t,” Keynes said. He was staring right at the woman. And just for a moment, D.D. saw Ethier hesitate. As if responding to the power of a handsome man’s gaze? Or as if receiving an unspoken signal?

  Once again, her hand drifted toward her hip. Once again, there was nothing there.

  Keynes caught the motion. And she would have sworn he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “I was just asking some more questions about Natalie Draga,” Keynes said. “The first victim.”

  “She implied she didn’t know Natalie very well,” D.D. murmured.

  “I don’t—” the manager began.

  “But perhaps someone on your staff does,” Keynes continued smoothly. “A fellow bartender, best friend. It’s important. The sooner you find that person for us, the sooner we’ll be out of your hair.”

  Ethier scowled, shifted from side to side. “Larissa,” she stated abruptly. “She’s another bartender. She and Natalie often took their breaks together.”

  “Is she working tonight?” Keynes asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t you fetch her for us.”

  Ethier hesitated, clearly reluctant. Then, when Keynes continued to stare at her: “Fine. I’ll get her. But keep your questions short. It’s Killer Band Night—can’t you see how busy it is out there?”

  The manager rose, pushing her way past D.D. A second later, she disappeared down the hall, leaving D.D. alone with Keynes.

  She was already turning on him when he spoke first.

  “Something about our first conversation with her kept bothering me,” he said.

  “You mean other than her obvious lie about her relationship with Goulding?”

  “Yes. Because covering up a past relationship with a suspected rapist is a logical thing to do. Not necessarily a sign of guilt.”

  “Whatever.” D.D. kept her voice hard. She remained suspicious. And something else . . . frightened? No. Wary.

  “Five years,” Keynes said abruptly. “Jocelyne Ethier said she’d been the manager here for the past five years.”

  “So?” Except then D.D. got it. “Five years, as in exactly how long Flora’s been home.”

  “It could be a coincidence,” Keynes said.

  “Sure.”

  “Except I did some digging. You know where Ethier worked five years ago?”

  D.D. shook her head. It was an obvious question, and no, she and her team hadn’t gotten that far.

  “She managed another bar. In Tampa, Florida.”

  Now, D.D.’s heart accelerated in her chest. “Florida, as in Jacob’s home state?”

  “Think it’s still a coincidence?”

  “No. But why did you send her out of the room?”

  “So we could compare notes. I could tell you were suspicious—”

  “You sent her away! As in, how do you know she’s coming back?”

  Keynes’s eyes widened.

  D.D. didn’t bother to wait. She was already bolting down the hall.

  Chapter 43

  STACEY MOANS AGAIN IN THE HALLWAY. In search of attic access, I pause, kneeling by her side, uncertain of what to do.

  Her side looks terrible, a mass of bloody flesh and wooden splinters. Infected, inflamed, why not. But I don’t think that injury alone would cause her this much distress. My best guess remains that something more has gone wrong, some kind of internal damage I can’t see. A slow bleed? Invisible but deadly?

  I consider moving her out of the hallway. Sooner or later, the stairwell door will open, our captor returning from wherever to come storming down the corridor. Enraged at our escape. Prepared to cow us once again into submission. Or exact further revenge.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  Stacey moans again. I need to think quicker, act faster.

  If she has some kind of internal damage, chances are dragging her from room to room will only make things worse. Instead, I bring the shredded mattress over to her. I prop her head onto one corner. Maybe the sedative-laced foam will put her to sleep. Maybe she’ll be grateful for the escape.

  The musty, grassy odor teases at me again. A sense of déjà vu. I should know what this is.

  Then, it comes to me. Standing in a bar. Drinking a beer. Hops. The mattress smells of hops. Reeks of them really.

  I’d read about hops while researching various herbal remedies and basic first aid. Hops have been used as a sleep aid since medieval times, when people realized the workers in the hops fields had a tendency to fall asleep on the job. Now, some companies even sell hops pillows for better sleeping, that sort of thing. The science behind it is still sketchy, but I read one report that said if the hops are distilled down to a strong enough extract and then mixed with viburnum root, it boosts effectiveness.

  So that’s the trick then. The mattress has been treated with hops and viburnum. Easy enough to do if you have access to hops.

  Say, Devon Goulding, bartender extraordinaire.

  Coming to get me from beyond the grave?

  I killed him, I remind myself. Which seems to be my theme for the day. I killed Jacob. I killed Devon. And yet here I am, kidnapped and locked away with a dying girl.

  For someone who keeps killing people, I am just not getting the job done.

  The thought angers me, kick-starts me back into action.

  I leave Stacey on one side of the hall, head on the hops-soaked mattress; then I start my search for the attic in earnest. Room by room, eyeing ceiling panels.

  Boston is known for its triple-deckers, three-story homes built narrow and deep, perfect for wedging into skinny rectangular lots. This floor’s layout, hallway in the middle, bedrooms either side, is consistent with that. If my assumption is right, the hall should end in a common room with front-facing bay windows, but maybe that part has been walled off. As for which level I’m on, top level makes the most sense. More isolated, no one above to be disturbed by the screams below.

  I start by going room to room, gazing overhead.

  The bedrooms are tough. The rubbery black paint obscures everything. I’m not studying a ceiling as much as trying to dissect a Teflon pan. I can’t see anything. I return to the hallway, where the water-stained drywall is just as disappointing.

  Stacey is still moaning, moaning, moaning.

  I rub my temples. Feeling a rising tide of stress and anxiety.

  I’m trapped. We’re trapped. Four rooms and a hallway. It doesn’t matter the size of the cage. Quantity of real estate makes
little difference when there’s still no way out.

  I should return to the broken window. I’ll finish removing the glass. Beat against the plywood. Maybe I can knock it loose.

  With what? A ramming mattress? A tightly coiled spring? An elbow that is still bruised from my last attempt?

  Think, think, think.

  My apartment. Top corner of my landlord’s triple-decker. Where the attic access panel is at the landing at the top of the stairs.

  And that quickly, my heart sinks. Because I’m pretty sure I know where the stairs are: on the other side of the locked metal fire door.

  Stacey’s head is thrashing from side to side on the mattress. She is dying from my stupidity.

  Boarded-up window it is.

  Except at that moment, I hear it. A sound. Not the thundering of my own heart or Stacey’s labored breath.

  A creak from down the hall. On the opposite side of the door. There it is again. And again.

  Someone is coming up the stairs.

  Chapter 44

  D.D. HAD JUST MADE IT DOWN the hall when Ethier appeared, pulling a tall blonde with puffy hair and a micromini in her wake. D.D. drew up short, hand on her hip, feeling, if anything, more bewildered than before.

  The manager stared at her questioningly. “Larissa Roberts,” she said, introducing the blonde. “I think it will be easiest to talk in my office.”

  She passed by D.D., and then Keynes, who was halfway down the hall. He exchanged a glance with D.D. Both fell in step behind the manager and her charge. Neither said a word.

  “So you knew Natalie Draga?” D.D. said at last when they’d all returned to the very tight office. She was trying to regroup, uncertain whom to study hardest. Jocelyne Ethier, who she was pretty sure might be Jacob Ness’s long-lost daughter, or the new girl, Larissa, who apparently had been friends with the first victim.

  She did her best to split her attention between the two, mostly interested in Ethier’s reaction to anything Larissa had to say.

  “Natalie and I were friends,” Larissa volunteered now. “Hung out together, that sort of thing. But Natalie, she wasn’t big on the personal stuff. I always had the impression this place was just one more stop along the way. When she didn’t return, I wasn’t surprised.”