When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(44)

Kimberly gestured for the detective to continue.

“When we spoke to the town clerk, Dorothea, she mentioned business around here is seasonal. Spring and summer is super busy with hikers—meaning sure, someone like Jacob or another predator could appear or disappear without anyone taking note. Now, you’re saying you believe at least one of the graves is from the spring. Combining that with the ATV info”—D.D. nodded toward Keith and Flora—“I think that smacks of local knowledge. Who would know where to bury the bodies when the trails are crawling with thru hikers? How to access that area with maximum privacy? And have access to an ATV that doesn’t draw any notice?”

“You don’t think it’s Jacob?” Flora spoke up quietly.

D.D. shrugged. “I haven’t ruled him out. But four bodies, three in one site . . . This is different. This isn’t lone-predator activity—at least not any kind of lone predator I’ve ever heard about.”

Keith nodded vigorously.

“I think we’re back to our first theory,” D.D. continued. “Murder as a team sport.”

“Why the IV?” Kimberly pushed.

“I have no idea.”

“Where’s the closest hospital?” Kimberly asked the sheriff.

“There’s a couple,” Sheriff Smithers offered. “Nothing too close, though.”

“I wouldn’t go straight to hospitals,” D.D. volunteered. “I’d start with people with medical backgrounds. Nurses, EMTs, a retired doctor, even a vet. An IV isn’t that difficult, right?” She turned to the sheriff. “Is that something Dorothea could help us with, being the town busybody and all?”

Sheriff Smithers nodded. “I could ask her.”

“Where do you get an IV?” Keith asked.

“Medical supply company,” said Kimberly. “Online retailer. I asked Dr. Jackson. Tubing, cannula, medical tape, those items are easy to come by.”

“Especially around here,” the sheriff added. “In the mountains we always have some survivalist types, and they keep a fair amount of medical supplies on hand. You know, for the coming plague and all.”

More nodding from around the room.

“All right,” Kimberly said. “This is the plan. Tomorrow, teams of two visit our list of properties. Sheriff, you’re in charge of those efforts.”

He nodded.

“Sergeant Warren—”

“I’ll continue interviewing locals,” D.D. immediately spoke up. She gave Kimberly a measured look, and belatedly Kimberly got it. The girl—whomever it was D.D. had met today, she planned on going back. Kimberly didn’t get it, but she trusted D.D.’s instincts.

“Okay. We need to start running the lists of hotel guests, such as they are.”

As expected, her fellow agents nodded. Crunching massive amounts of data was any FBI agent’s bread and butter, and exactly who Kimberly would want to do the job.

“And, um . . .” She turned to Keith and Flora, then realized she really didn’t know what they should be doing. “Eat more?” she suggested.

“No, thank you,” Flora said.

“I think we should walk around,” Keith said. “Visit stores, other establishments. Team sport, right?” Keith glanced at D.D. “Let’s see if anyone recognizes Flora. Or if her appearance . . .”

“Spooks anyone?” D.D. filled in, with a pointed look at Keith.

“Exactly.”

Kimberly shrugged. They were civilians, so she could hardly give them official tasks. “Scare away,” she ordered.

Then hoped the words didn’t come back to haunt them.





CHAPTER 20





HE’S BACK.

I don’t need to see him to know the Bad Man has arrived. The house tells me. It holds its breath, hunkering down in the growing dark, already fearing the worst.

I sit on the mat in my tiny room, knees tucked against my chest, arms wrapped tight around my legs. I stare at the door, wearing my old summertime uniform that leaves my scarred forearm completely exposed.

The most beautiful thing about me, he had said, as he’d cut the intricate pattern into my skin.

I wonder if tonight I’m the one he’ll come for. Because when the Bad Man visits, someone must pay the price.

I think of the blond police lady who came by this morning. She talked to me. She wanted to know if I was safe. She even held out her bright, shiny cell phone, as if to help. I know phones. I see other people use them. Even young children, their fingers flying across the surface, picking and arranging boxes of squiggly lines that hold meaning to everyone but me.

I don’t understand the shapes. Small kids do. But not me.

Footsteps. Heavy thuds from down the cold, stone-tiled hall. Moving fast, with purpose.

I pull my legs in tighter.

The blond lady said I didn’t have to stay. But she doesn’t understand and I don’t have enough fingers to tell her everything. She and the kind-eyed sheriff are looking for some man who apparently has already come and gone. I vaguely recognized his mean look, or maybe I’ve just seen too many men like him. With expressions that promise pain.

The man in the photo they showed is a bad man. But he is not the Bad Man.

I don’t know how to tell the pretty blond police lady that, any more than I know how to move my lips and work my throat to share the full horror of this place or list the other girls who are long gone but still need me to deliver their names back to their families.