Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(90)

Mrs. Pall rattles the sliding doors back and holds out a set of clothes. They’re ruthlessly folded into perfect squares. I can’t say I’m surprised. She probably knows how to fold fitted sheets too. “These should fit,” she says, and thrusts them into my hands. She’s gone before I can summon up a thanks, for which I’m actually relieved. I shake out the clothes: a pair of jeans shorts. A faded T-shirt, rust red. A jean jacket to match. No shoes included. I wonder if they’re relics of her own younger years, but they seem newer than that, and she doesn’t seem the sentimental type.

I hand them to Vee. “Okay, let’s get that jumpsuit off,” I tell her. “Try these on. There’s a closet over there if you’re shy, but Connor and Sam will be gentlemen about it.”

They’ve already walked over to the other corner, in fact, and are looking out the heavily curtained window at the street. Vee nods, and under the cover of the blanket, she unsnaps her jumpsuit and wiggles it off. Lanny hands her the shorts, and she gets them on, then reaches for the T-shirt.

I send a text to Fairweather telling him that I need him to get to Sparks’s house as soon as possible. I debate putting more into the message, then text, ELLIE WHITE IS IN WOLFHUNTER.

That will bring him fast.

Lanny pauses and looks at me. “What is that?”

“What?”

“That noise?”

I listen, and at the very edge of my hearing, there’s an irregular thumping sound. Something with a metallic edge. It sounds familiar, but I’m not quite sure.

I’ve heard something like this before in the house, but Sparks said it was some kind of maintenance work being conducted. Surely it’s not the same thing.

“Maybe it’s that girl,” Connor volunteers from across the room, but he doesn’t turn. Vee’s getting up from the couch by then and discards the blanket. The shorts are too large, and sit loose on her hips; they’re not flattering on her, but they’ll do. The tee is a little tight, but it works. So does the jacket she pulls on. Her laceless shoes and socks are still prison issue, but unremarkable.

“What?” I ask my son. “What girl?”

“Ellie,” he says. “Maybe she’s here.”

I freeze. Is she? Did I completely misread Sparks? Not that the man isn’t eccentric, and Mrs. Pall isn’t terrifying. If he is involved, maybe he’s on the phone right now with the corrupt local police. Maybe all of us are sitting in the jaws of a trap that’s about to snap closed.

The hammering could be Ellie White trying to get our attention. Oh God.

I slide the doors back. I can’t tell where the sound is coming from. Somewhere in the basement? Down the other hall? I try to follow it, but I only get as far as the stairs. I can’t tell where it is.

Everyone has followed me, which I didn’t intend . . . even Vee, who’s crowding in against Lanny. Lanny has an arm around her shoulders. Vee no longer looks like the empty, defiant girl I met at first; she’s scared, vulnerable, and my responsibility.

“Sam,” I say, “text Javier, Kez, and Prester. Tell them we’re in trouble in Wolfhunter, and we may have evidence that Ellie White is here.”

That’s when Sam says, in a very calm but urgent voice, “Gwen.”

I turn.

Hector Sparks is standing in the doorway of his office. I hadn’t heard his door open. Mrs. Pall is standing in the opening to my left that leads to what I believe is a dining room. I have the eerie feeling we’re caught in a cross fire . . . and yet neither one is armed.

“Ms. Proctor, I don’t know who you’re referring to,” Sparks says, “but there is no Ellie White here.” He sounds sorrowful, and utterly unbothered. “What you’re hearing is, I’m afraid, the washing machine. If you’ll go with Mrs. Pall, you’ll see what I mean.”

Mrs. Pall says, “If you’ll follow me, please?” and leads us through the formal dining room—a gleaming table, lots of chairs, I don’t spare any attention for it—and off to a small room off a neat, glistening, magazine-clean kitchen.

There’s a washing machine, and it’s shimmying back and forth. It’s off-balance. Mrs. Pall reaches out and opens the top; the load spins down with shaking thuds until it finally stops.

The house is silent.

“I’m afraid the sheets sometimes clump to one side,” she says. “And the machine is old. I’m sorry for the disturbance; I’m sure that seemed very, ah, significant to you.” Her dry tone suggests I’m hysterical for even suggesting it. “You’re completely free to look around, of course. I wouldn’t want Mr. Sparks to think I wasn’t assisting you in your investigation.” The weight on the word is brisk and unmistakable. “Whoever this Miss White is, you won’t find her here. As Mr. Sparks said.”

Funny thing is, I believe her. And yet there’s something wrong here. I can smell it.

Sparks has followed our little entourage, and as we gaze at the quiet washing machine, he says, “Ms. Proctor. I deeply apologize. I was discussing a very private client matter. I couldn’t compromise that confidence. I see you’ve found young Vera. That’s very well done. My dear Vera, you’ll be safe here. I can promise you complete protection. If you’ll follow me . . . ?”

We do, back to his office. Sparks listens to Vera’s story, and I’m deeply relieved to see that the story of what Marlene Crockett knew seems completely new to him. And disturbing. He sinks into his chair, staring first at Vee, then Sam, then moving his gaze to me. “You’re telling me that you believe this poor kidnapped child might actually be held in Wolfhunter? By Chief Weldon and Mr. Carr?”