When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(52)

“That’s the mayor. Mayor Howard. I won Business of the Year five years back. He presented the award.”

Keith and I exchange looks. To judge by Bill’s expression, he hasn’t heard of the tragedy at the mayor’s house yet.

“Are you and the mayor close?” Keith asks.

Shrug. “We know each other, of course. I think he’s a good mayor. He and Martha have done a lot to boost business in our community. Ten years ago were lean times. We suffered compared to towns like Dahlonega, which offers up old-time charm but with the benefit of spas and wine tasting and gold mine tours. Gotta say, I wasn’t sure if my own business would make it. But Mayor Howard poured a lot of money into fixing up the Mountain Laurel, took it from a historic inn to a luxury getaway for newlyweds and business execs. Then he got Dorothea, the town clerk, to put together a whole new website for the town, not to mention launch all these social media platforms. Once a month she goes around to the local businesses, has us produce candid photos to lure in more tourists. Speaking of which, want to pose?” Bill produces his cell phone, eyes us hopefully.

“No, thank you.”

He shrugs, pockets his phone. “Well, to answer your question, the mayor has done right by our community. Lots of people coming here now. Good for the economy. Good for the locals.”

Keith and I nod, make our goodbyes.

Per our deal, Keith gets to drive today. Which puts me in charge of navigating, but also, more important, keeping an eye out for surveillance cameras and booby traps. Already, we’d identified a ridge line running along part of the property line, and a gully along another stretch, which make for natural defenses.

That leaves us with another six options, so of course we’re going with the seventh—parking just off property on the ATV trail, then hoofing it in through the woods. Keith has his compass app and can’t wait to use it.

I spy the first impediment almost immediately after we dismount the ATV. Barbed wire, running willy-nilly through the trees. It’s old and rusted, but still plenty sharp. I have a Leatherman tool in my pocket. I inspect the tree branches above us for surveillance cameras, then the bushes around our knees for motion-sensitive game cameras. I discover two almost immediately. Walt Davies is just as paranoid as I suspected.

I indicate with my hand to keep walking. We make it another fifty feet, to a place where a thick bush obscures all from view. Several clips of the Leatherman later, and we are through the first obstacle.

We walk in silence, Keith staring at his app to determine direction, while I take point. I half expect a hidden net to snatch us up, or the ground to open into a pit of spikes, or even some old bear trap to snap off one of our limbs. Instead, we get closer and closer, sweat trickling down our foreheads, soaking our shirts. I don’t have a backpack like Keith, relying once again on the myriad of pockets in my hoodie and cargo pants. Unfortunately, the day is too hot for such layers and I quickly envy Keith and his high-tech wicking fabrics.

I abruptly stop, hold up a closed fist. As if we’ve been doing this for years, Keith immediately pauses, drops low. I point through the trees, where we can now see the first outbuilding.

Old, weathered barnboard, rotting at the base, a slapdash roof. The windows are so caked with dirt that it would be impossible to see inside even if we were standing up close, let alone from this distance.

The building appears neglected. At the sight of it I’m struck by déjà vu, though I’m not sure why. Like the mildewed cellar where I was once held, there is something sad about this place, something abandoned.

I can imagine girls being held in this building. I can imagine bodies abandoned beneath those decaying floorboards. I can picture this being the last thing someone like Lilah Abenito ever saw.

The distance from Walt’s place to the grave sites is less than six miles. Easily traveled by an ATV, with three trails connecting his property to Laurel Lane.

Except . . . why dump the bodies off his land when he has so many private acres to work with? Land where he can obviously control access and limit the chance of anyone randomly stumbling upon his handiwork?

I feel like I understand something, but not enough. Which, of course, is why we are here.

I resume my inspection of the perimeter where the woods thin out then give way to the hodgepodge collection of structures. I spy four or five spotlights; I would guess they’re motion sensitive, but not terribly effective given the mid-morning sun. What I find interesting is that the lights appear new, with clean metal brackets attached to walls that clearly were erected decades ago.

I pause, tilt my head to the side. I can hear the rumble of an engine, followed by a distinct grinding sound.

I turn wide-eyed toward Keith just in time for him to nod his agreement. “Wood chipper,” he murmurs.

“Great. How fucking Fargo of him.”

Keith shrugs. Philosophically? Fatalistically? It occurs to me this is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and considering how I’ve spent the past six to seven years, that’s saying something.

I can’t make out any more cameras or signs of life. With the noise across the way offering cover for our approach, I step from the woods and onto the property.

No snarling dogs charge around the corner. No alarms sound shrilly. No bullets fly by my head. Just the sound of the wood chipper, deep and throaty as it shreds the next . . . something.

My heart is racing. We probably should’ve left a message for D.D. Or last wills and testaments for our loved ones. Too late now.