Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(62)

The amusement is all gone when he finally responds. “God help her, then. And you. If you want my advice, Gwen, just let it go. This town isn’t a good place. It never has been. My advice . . . don’t stay here.” He pauses. “I wouldn’t. And I’ve got a badge and the force of law behind me. This town’s sour. Just leave.”

Then the call ends, and I sit with the slowly cooling air blasting over us, thinking. My daughter turns to me and says, “He doesn’t want to even try to help her, does he?”

“I don’t know, sweetie,” I say. “I honestly don’t know what he’s thinking.”



Downtown Wolfhunter River, at 4:00 p.m., is not exactly jumping. Most stores—those few still in business—are already closed down. A few people are on the streets, mostly clustered near the diner we pass on the way to the garage where Marlene worked. I don’t need to look up the name; there’s only one garage—a ramshackle, fairly large place built of cinder blocks. Amateurish hand-painting spells out GARAGE in uneven block letters above closed bay doors. There are a few windows in the place, but they’re covered by graying mini-blinds. An apparently ancient tire special is still in force, from the price painted on the one larger window up front.

“This looks deserted,” Lanny says. The sunbaked sign in the window still says OPEN, and as I check my watch, we’re still an hour before the posted time to shut down.

“Stay here,” I tell her. “Doors locked.”

“Usual drill,” she says, and sounds put out. “I could be your backup, you know.”

In a strange place, walking into what is essentially a cave full of blunt objects and people with unknown motivations . . . no, she can’t. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, call Sam,” I tell her. “If anyone tries to get you out of the car for any reason—”

“Call Sam, yeah, I get it,” she says. “Mom? You’ve got your gun, right?”

“I got it back when we left the jail,” I reassure her. “I’ll be fine. Lock up. I’ll be back soon.”

As I wait outside the SUV to hear the locks engage, I scan the streets. We’re near the edge of town, maybe a couple of miles out to the motel where we were so recently staying. Nothing seems out of place . . . and then I back up and look again.

There’s another SUV on the street. It’s parked near the courthouse, a couple of blocks down, and it doesn’t look like it belongs here, especially this late in the day. Day-trippers to the forest would already be headed home. Those camping out would be settling in. This looks like a rental to me; it’s clean and polished, with dark tinting on the windows that makes it nearly impossible to see in. Could be visitors, I tell myself. But it feels off.

I can’t deduce anything from a car, and turn away. I head for the door, swing it open, and step into dimness that smells of old oil, rust, and mold. I blink. The overhead light is dim in the office area, which is small and plain—a dirty wooden counter, an old 1970s-era cash register bolted in place, a wooden bench under the shaded window. No modern amenities like coffee or water. The jail looked more welcoming.

There’s nobody in view. No bell on the counter either. I step up and lean over; the counter has a doorway out into the shop, which is also dimly lit—not ideal for a place to do precision work. Maybe it’s better with the doors open and sunlight bathing the bays, but I wonder just how often they air this place out like that. It smells like an abandoned building, with a nasty edge of sewer backup.

I’m about to call out a hello when I hear voices. There’s a plain wooden door to my right that must lead out to the work area; I try it, and it opens. I expect a creak, or an alarm chime, but there’s nothing.

Definitely voices. I’m facing a sign on the wall that says WORK AREA—WATCH YOUR STEP, with a jaunty cartoon worker in a construction helmet pointing at the words. It looks as ancient as this place feels. It’s hard to tell where the voices are coming from—somewhere to my left, I finally realize—and when I look that way, I see there’s an office behind the reception area that has another door into the work area. It’s shut now, but light is leaking around the uneven, warped edges.

I head that way.

I stop when I can hear what they’re saying.

“—goddamn girl is talkin’,” a deep, raspy voice I don’t know says. “You said she didn’t know nothing about it. So what’s she got to say to that bitch?”

That bitch has to be me. Goddamn girl must be Vee Crockett. I guess that’s not unexpected, in one sense; either Vera, Marlene, or my involvement must be the topic of most Wolfhunter conversations right now. But it feels alarming.

“No idea,” another male voice says, and it sounds familiar. I’ve heard it somewhere before, but I can’t nail it down. Maybe at the police station. “Damn county idiots wouldn’t listen in, so we don’t know.”

“You never should have let them move her to county, Weldon.”

“I didn’t have a choice! That TBI man, he did it. If I could’ve kept her here, we’d have been done with it already.”

A new voice now. “Boys, boys, calm down. We’re fine. Chances are Vera didn’t say anything that makes any sense anyway, and Marlene knew better than to run her mouth, didn’t she?”