Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake #4)(80)

I have to remind myself that if they have the phone, if they turn it on, I can track him.

I check. It’s off.

I have a flash of Remy Landry’s mother baking cookies for a son who doesn’t come home to eat them, and my mouth goes dry, my skin cold enough to show gooseflesh. No. That’s not going to happen. Not to us.

“We should go home,” Lanny says, but she doesn’t mean it, not really. Our home’s been made toxic by the men who broke into it. By the shotgun blasts in the drywall. By memories. She’s imagining walking into a place without that lingering damage, and the reality would be very different. Neither of us could feel safe there now.

“J. B. will help us,” I tell her. And I pray that I’m right, because if she can’t, my next call has to be to the FBI. That’s a trigger I’m deeply afraid to pull. If the FBI gets officially involved, good things can happen . . . but so can bad. Ruby Ridge. Waco.

Connor and Sam could get caught in a very deadly crossfire.

“But what if they—”

“If they can get free, they will. And God help anybody who gets in Sam’s way of protecting Connor.” I’m trying to believe that. Trying to make her believe it. And it works, a little; the insistent, choking pressure inside recedes enough that I feel like I can breathe again. I look down and check the gas gauge; it’s an automatic thing born of living out in the country. We’ve got plenty.

But it comes to me in a sudden wave that although my SUV burns a fair amount of gas, that RV must burn a hell of a lot more.

And all of a sudden, I know how we’re going to narrow down our search area. There can’t be that many gas stations near a cult compound.

“It’s going to be okay. I promise,” I say, and for the first time I actually think it might be true. She doesn’t answer, but she nods and closes her eyes. She looks exhausted, too, poor kid. I’m not tired at all. I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again, at least not until I have my son and Sam back safely.

I call Kezia and tell her about my gas station idea; she likes it, and says she’ll start working on it by phone, and send the information on to the TBI and state police. And, God willing, that won’t turn out a total disaster. I can’t stop it. But I can try to make contingency plans.

The drive to Knoxville takes a torturously long time, and inside my brain a horrible litany of the abuse that my boys could be suffering loops over and over and over, and I have to keep my hands firm on the steering wheel so they don’t shake. It feels like a relief when I spot the office building in the distance, and I park and hustle the girls upstairs. My key card gets us inside the plain, solid door, and we step inside the large open-plan office. Lots of desks, and some of them are occupied with people doing computer work; for some of J. B.’s investigators, that’s the only kind they do. For others, their desk is just a place to type up reports and take calls.

I don’t even have one, officially. I just claim one of the desks without a nameplate whenever I’m here, which isn’t that often. That’s the agreement I have with J. B.

Her office is a glass box near the back in the corner; she has all the blinds raised, and she sees me coming. She meets us halfway and gives me a hug. “Hey,” she says. “How are you?” She shoves me back to take a good look, and shakes her head before I can try to lie. “Never mind. I know how you are. Lanny, hi. And I recognize Vee Crockett, of course.” She would, from Wolfhunter. Her glance toward me clearly says she has no idea why Vee’s with us now, and I don’t try to explain. “Hey, girls. Why don’t you go back there to the break room and grab some snacks while I talk with Gwen?”

Lanny hangs back for a second until I nod, then takes Vee back in the direction that J. B. points. I follow J. B. to her office, and wait until she’s closed the door and lowered the blinds before I sink into a chair. She leans against her desk and crosses her arms.

“I’d ask how in the world Vee Crockett figures into this, but that’s probably not important right now,” she says. “You need help, and not just moral support. Right?”

I nod. The suffocating pressure is closing in again. I want to be Badass Gwen, the woman she hired, the one who fights everything, all the time . . . but I’ve got no one to fight. I suck in a deep breath and say, “I need Carol.”

J. B. doesn’t move. “I put Fareed and Cicely on that after your bail hearing.”

“And the case?”

“Dropped as of twenty-seven minutes ago. I checked. You’re no longer out on bail. You’re a free woman.”

“That’s a relief,” I say. “Fareed and Cicely?” They’re top operatives for J. B. Fareed is an absolute master of all levels of the internet; he can trace anyone, anywhere, anytime if they’ve ever so much as glanced at a computer. And Cicely is a little pocket dragon of a woman J. B. hired away from a top bail bondsman. Cicely is dangerous. And expensive. “Thanks.”

She waves that aside. “Fareed got nothing, which wasn’t too much of a surprise, as careful as this woman is. But Cicely hit the ground running. She had a theory that Carol might not chance public transportation again, not even a bus, so she went to domestic abuse shelters first. Carol has visible bruising and they don’t ask questions.”

“And?”

J. B. gives me a smile that makes me remember what hope feels like. “She found her. Cicely’s sitting on the place; so far, Carol hasn’t tried to leave it. She probably feels secure for now, but that shelter has a network that could get her out of Knoxville quickly and quietly, anytime she wants it.”