Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake #4)(81)

“You’re sure about this?”

“It’s Cicely. She’s never wrong.” J. B. raises eyebrows at me. “What do you want to do? Please don’t say abduct Carol; I’m not risking it. And I don’t think you’ll get her to come with you willingly this time.”

“I’m not trying to,” I tell her. “I just need a conversation. She can point to the exact location and what we’ll be up against when we get there. Carol’s the key to getting Connor and Sam back safe.” I have a brief, dizzying moment imagining what might happen if Carol won’t talk to me. What would I do then?

It occurs to me that I could put a tracker on her. Maybe in a zipper pocket of her backpack. That way, if everything fails, if I have to trade her for my son’s life . . .

I flinch. I can’t. I can’t. I won’t betray Carol to the people she fears, even after what she pulled on me. She was just trying to survive then. To protect her own child.

The thought I’ve been trying to avoid brings me up short, and I ask J. B., “Does she have a child with her at the shelter?”

J. B. cocks her head to one side, still unreadable. “Why would you ask?”

“Because I think when she ran from the cult she was pregnant,” I say. “The men who came to my house were looking for her and a child. I’m sure they want to shut her up, if she’s got information that could link them back to Remy’s kidnapping. But they want that child just as much.”

J. B. sighs and looks down. Her shoulders angle forward. “Cicely says there’s a child with her, three or four years old. A boy.”

Carol must have retrieved her child from whoever was keeping him for her. She’s planning to get out of town as soon as the heat dies down. A domestic abuse shelter is an absolutely perfect place to hide.

“If it comes to that . . .” J. B. shakes her head. “Maybe you have to tell them where she is.”

“I can’t.” I say it softly, but it feels heavy in the air anyway. “I won’t turn her or her son over to them. I could never live with that. Everything I know about this cult tells me they see Carol as nothing but a walking incubator, and her son . . . They’d raise him to believe as they do. If Vee’s right, I’ve seen video of one of their old compounds. J. B., it’s . . .” I can’t put into words the wave of slow horror I feel. I remember that nightmarish house in Wolfhunter, and what Sam told me of the women out at Carr’s compound. I can’t condemn Carol back to living hell, or her son.

“I know,” she says. “You were never going to make that bargain, Gwen. That’s why I like you.” She pushes away from the desk. “Come on. I’ll drive.”

We leave Vee and Lanny at the office, over their protests; I don’t want the girls anywhere near this. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Carol’s desperate. She might be armed . . . I certainly am, and I’d do desperate things to protect my children. I don’t want Lanny and Vee in the line of fire. They’re parked on a sofa in the break room with a pizza and a stack of movies, and a stern warning to stay put. And J. B. assigns someone to watch them too. Trust but verify. I remember Lilah Belldene saying that, and I shake my head.

Dammit. She was right.





The domestic abuse shelter sits in a neighborhood that was once residential, now rezoned for commercial purposes; most of the original houses have been demolished or significantly renovated, but the one J. B. points to as we drive by it looks like the outlier. It’s a large place, at least four or five bedrooms; at one time it was probably a showplace. Now it’s showing its age and is in need of a good coat of paint and roof repairs. There’s no sign on it except a small one that says NO SOLICITORS. The front door looks normal enough, but it’s painted metal. I’m sure it’s solid. Bars on all the windows too.

“The main entrance is in the rear,” J. B. says. “Cicely’s in a neighbor’s yard watching it. How do you want to do this?”

I don’t want to lie to the people running this place. That would be the easiest way in; I could walk right up and tell them a horror story. It would even be true, just not current; being married to Melvin has given me that, at least. But I’d feel foul doing it. As J. B. smoothly turns the corner, I say, “Did you get back the bail money you put up for me yet?”

“I did,” she says.

“Will you loan it to me? At bank rates?”

Her eyebrows raise, but I can’t say she’s really surprised. “Automatic deduction from your paychecks,” she says. “Are you sure? Absolutely sure?”

“I am,” I say. “But I’ll need it in cash. She won’t take a promise.”

J. B. heads for the nearest bank branch. In twenty minutes we’re carrying out a small bank bag with $50,000 inside, and I put it in my shoulder bag. J. B. doesn’t ask again if I’m sure. She just drives me to a house that sits across the fence and at an angle to the shelter house; this one is vacant, with a FOR RENT sign in the window. We park and walk around to the backyard, which is as devastated as the front—dry grass and dead bushes, and junk left piled in the corners by a leaning shed. I don’t see Cicely West until J. B. heads straight for her, because she’s chosen a spot near the junk pile and is wearing clothes that nearly match the weathered gray paint on the shed. She’s sitting in a folding chair and draped with a camouflage blanket. All the comforts, and I still can’t spot her until we get within fifteen feet and she raises a hand. She rises, folds her chair, and leans it against the shed. She folds the thin camo blanket into a tight square and tucks it into the messenger bag hanging by her hip.