When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(37)

“Now then,” Bill is saying, “these dashed lines are hiking only. Stay clear, not just because you don’t want to be running anyone over, but because most are too narrow. You could a hit a tree, really ruin your day.”

“The ATVs look pretty hardy to me,” Keith says. “What if we wanted to do a little off-trail exploration?”

“Oh, the machines are tough, all right. And this time of year, you don’t have to worry about mud. But you get off the trails and you start destroying plant life. People don’t take kindly to that. Besides, underbrush is dense in these parts. Bushes, mountain laurel, smaller trees. You can get stuck or lost plenty easy.”

“We’re actually staying over by Niche, but I didn’t notice any rental companies over there.”

“No, sir, we’re the only providers in the area.”

“So, if we wanted to rent the ATV for the day, explore closer to our hotel?”

Bill eyes Keith suspiciously. I stay quiet, studying the map and wishing it made more sense. I may have grown up in the woods, but I never used any kind of guide to roam my own backyard. I simply headed out, following deer paths, animal trails. I never knew where I was going, and yet I never felt lost. The more I roamed, the more the woods were my home.

By contrast, this overhead view of a mountain range, with solid lines for ATVs and dashed lines for hikers and curved lines for grade, seems like an overly complicated maze, designed not to show the way, but to get everyone hopelessly lost. I finally pinpoint Niche, then identify the dashed line indicating the trail we’d hiked up yesterday to the first body. How far up the dashed line we’d gone, how far off the trail the first body was, let alone the others, causes me a second round of confusion.

“What is this ATV trail?” I ask abruptly. I’d found a solid line that seems to be following some ridge above where we’d found the bodies. I study the map’s scale again, trying to understand distance from one point to another.

“That’s Laurel Lane. Some pretty views in the spring,” Bill offers. He looks at me, then Keith, then me again. There’s no way he hasn’t heard about the discovery of bodies in the woods yesterday. And given the location of the Laurel Lane trail in relation to the search efforts . . .

“We’re part of the taskforce,” I give up. “We came in with the FBI yesterday to assist with the search.”

Beside me, Keith nods.

“You don’t look like FBI.”

“I’m a computer analyst,” Keith volunteers. “I have experience calculating search areas.”

Bill grunts, seeming to accept Keith’s job description. Then his gaze goes back to me.

“I’m a victim advocate,” I say.

“A victim advocate? For bones?”

“Everyone needs a voice.”

Bill arches a brow.

I lean forward, whisper quietly. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, we found another grave yesterday.”

Bill appears intrigued in spite of himself.

“You ever travel Laurel Lane? Roar along on your ATV, enjoying a sunny day? Ever imagine what was in those woods? How close you might’ve passed to those poor dead bodies, each and every time?”

Bill swallows thickly.

“Hiking with a corpse is tough,” Keith speaks matter-of-factly. “The taskforce has been discussing it, and most likely the killer used some mode of transportation to haul the bodies to the burial sites.”

“How . . . how many girls?” Bill asks roughly. He drops his voice. “I heard a dozen.”

“Do you know this area?” I ask.

“Yes, ma’am. Like you said, been on that trail many a time.”

“Could you get a truck on that path?” Keith asks.

“Too narrow. And like I said, the underbrush is thick along there. Not to mention, some times of the year, all rutted up. Be a risky trip.”

“How busy is this trail?” Keith points to Laurel Lane.

Bill shrugs. “This time of year, weekends are our bread and butter. But weekdays are quieter. You never know, though. Daytime,” he ventures, “would be tricky for, um . . . well, what you’re talking about.”

“The ATVs have headlights for nighttime rides,” Keith says.

“Not the best, though. After dark, most riders wear headlamps, or you can clip on additional lighting. If you were going off trail, you’d definitely want some assistance.”

Keith takes the map. His gaze is thoughtful, as if all the squiggly lines speak to him. Clearly, he doesn’t want to give away too much information regarding the location of the graves, and yet there’s plenty the map alone can’t tell us.

“It looks like Laurel Lane is part of a whole network. You can access it from a number of different trails. How do locals do it? Trailer in the ATVs to one of these parking areas, then take off?” Keith asks.

“You can,” Bill agrees. “But plenty of folks just head out their front door. There are dirt roads not on this map, which connect with the ATV circuit. Some locals even have their own personal paths they’ve bushwhacked, leading to the network. Four-wheelers are popular around here. Lots of people own ’em, and they want to just take off, not be messing around with trailers.”

“You could trailer us in, though?” Keith asks.