Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake #4)(50)

I quickly run their names on J. B.’s proprietary company search, and there are open investigations into all of them. There’s no commonality of place; they’re all over the southeast. But they’re all white, fit young men of a certain age: the youngest is seventeen, the oldest is twenty-two.

I step out of the room, lean against the hallway wall, and call Sam. He answers on the second ring. When I check the time, it’s after one in the morning. “Hey,” I say. “You still awake?”

“Yeah, I was hoping you’d call. Can’t seem to sleep, even though I’m tired enough to crash like the Hindenburg.”

“Ouch.”

“Too soon?”

“Too accurate. Are you home?”

“No, we stopped at another hotel. I figure we’ll hang here until Kezia gives us the all clear. Which shouldn’t be too long, right? Bon Casey and Olly Belldene don’t sound like masterminds.”

I’m relieved he hasn’t driven straight back to Stillhouse Lake. Far too many unknown threats there. “Enjoy the room service,” I tell him. “I’m at a hotel too.”

“How’s the case going?”

“Interestingly,” I say. I press my back against the wall. There’s a headache forming behind my eyes, and I shut them for a moment. “She says she was supposed to meet Remy, and he was going to give her money to get out of Knoxville. But he never showed up, and nobody saw him again. And she’s got his backpack. Now that I know there’s a pattern of disappearances—thank you for that, by the way—I’ll hit her up with the other names in the morning and see what happens.” I debate for a second whether to tell him this, but plunge in. “She says she belonged to a cult. Well, she says ‘church,’ but everything about it screams ‘cult’ to me.”

“Oh.” I hear the shift in his voice. “Like Wolfhunter?” Wolfhunter had been a toxic tangle, but at the rotten heart of it had been a nasty cult, with a cruel philosophy of oppressing women. Chattel. Carol had said that. Most of the cult was dead; the leader, I’d heard, had gotten away. But surely that wasn’t the same cult that Carol meant. As far as I knew, it hadn’t been recruiting openly like this one.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I can’t get her to tell me much yet.”

“She’s still with you?”

“Yeah. My plan was to get her information and then let her leave in the morning. Buy her a plane ticket and get her somewhere safe.”

“Maybe it’s the connection, but I’m hearing a silent ‘but,’” Sam says. I love talking to him. He’s always either just a step behind or a step ahead. I never have to wait for him to catch up. “You don’t believe her.”

“Not entirely, no. I’m afraid that she’s too good at playing the victim.”

“Do you think she had something to do directly with Remy’s abduction?”

“Maybe? I think there’s a whole lot she hasn’t said. Which means I can’t really afford to put her on a plane and have her drop completely out of sight. I don’t know what I’m going to do, exactly. I’m going to sleep on it tonight and decide in the morning.”

“I wish we were home together,” he says. “And I wish you weren’t on your own with this.”

“You’ve got my back.”

“Always.”

I let a beat go by. “How are they?”

“Sleeping,” he says. “And in the morning they’ll be missing you as much as I do.”

“Tell them I love them,” I say, and I hear the warmth flooding my voice. “And I love you too. Be safe.”

“Love you, Gwen. Be safe.”

I’m about to card back into the hotel room when I hear footsteps. I look up and toward the end of the hall where the elevators are; I’ve asked for a room close to the stairs, even though that’s also the one with the most risk of break-ins, because it presents a fast escape if necessary. I’m being paranoid, of course. There’s no way her cult could have traced us here.

Unless they have a car in addition to the RV. No. I’d have noticed. One thing I never am: complacent.

I relax when I see two uniformed police officers. Both African American women. They are walking briskly in my direction. I nod toward them, but I don’t get a nod back. They head for me with laser purpose.

One of them says, “Back away from the door, ma’am.”

They both put their hands on their guns.

I’m still wearing mine, and all of a sudden it feels more like a hot red bullet magnet than a means of defense. I don’t know what’s happening, but I do as they say. I back up against the far wall. I put my hands up above my shoulders, key card still in my right hand.

They turn me to face the wall. I don’t resist, because I’ve looked over their gear and they look utterly authentic. And very, very tense. “I’m armed,” I tell them. “Shoulder holster, left side. I have a carry permit in my wallet, but it’s in the room.”

“Keep your hands flat on the wall,” one of them tells me, and I feel my gun being tugged free. “Okay. Hands down and behind your back.”

“You’re handcuffing me? What did I do?”

“It’s for your safety, ma’am.” The handcuffs click on, and I instinctively pull against them. It hurts.