The Shadow Box(60)

My laptop was fully charged. I stared at it for a few moments. It could be my lifeline—I could email Jackie or Sloane or Nate. Depending on their response, I could decide whether I could put my life in their hands. At least I could scan the news, find out where the search for me—or my body—was focused.

I opened my laptop, googled the local paper, and saw my face on the front page. I started to read the article, but something else caught my attention: Sallie Benson had been killed in a boating explosion. I felt complete shock and sadness. I had seen her just a day before my attack. I quickly hit print, then did the same for the article about my disappearance. There were links to previous articles; I printed them as well.

One story mentioned that several Facebook pages dedicated to my case had sprung up. I quickly logged on to my account, glanced at my wall full of hundreds of messages. I searched for the pages mentioned in the news story and saw that there were many—all devoted to finding out what had happened to me, emblazoned with photos of me. I opened the first page, then a second and third—saw photos of me and countless comments. I printed as much of the content as I could.

I debated taking the letter with me, but I decided to leave it. If Griffin or his cops caught me and searched my belongings, they would destroy the letter, and the friend who wrote it might be in danger. Better to leave it here for Jackie or Nate—someone who cared about me—to find if I never returned. They would realize it was evidence of what happened to me.

Just as I slid everything else into my satchel, I heard the cry again. Distant but chilling—the mountain lion or a human? Whatever it was, I worried the sound might wake up Griffin and the neighbors, so I quickly shut the lid to my computer and let myself out the door. I slipped the key back under the angel and darted as fast as I could back to the shadowed shelter of the boulders.

I heard the call again, a wail of despair. An auditory illusion made it seem it was coming from inside our house or one of the other houses along the road. The crash of breaking waves echoed against the rocks, distorted the sound, confusing me in terms of direction. I realized it sounded more human than animal, but then it rose in pitch like the cries of a cat.

Thirty minutes had passed, because here came the patrol car. I walked back into the woods, disappearing into the brush and trees. For a moment I wondered if I should have brought the wild animal mixture—my scent would be fresh, and if search or cadaver dogs were brought back to the Bluff, they could easily track me. Then I realized—it wasn’t that dumb tin of powder that had been protecting me from being found—it was the cougar itself.

The dogs had smelled the mountain lion, and they wouldn’t court danger and death by entering its territory. I headed uphill, across the sacred burial ground, and felt my father with me more than ever. The wind was blowing off the sea, and I caught the scent of salt and seaweed coming from the cove where Ellen’s body had come to rest.

I heard the cry one more time, and when I turned, I saw the headlights of the security car stop halfway down the road. Men’s voices drifted through the night—the guard talking to someone else. Someone on the Bluff was awake—and watching?

I thought of Leonora and what she had said to me. How foolish I had been to show Fingerbone to that group. There was such an air of we must protect Griffin. I was a threat, and protecting him would mean I didn’t surface again, that I be kept from telling the truth. Griffin might not even have to order it himself. Everyone knew what he wanted. And they all had vested interests in his election.

I wondered if I’d been glimpsed on one of the neighbors’ security cameras, and I ducked into the woods and rushed the rest of the way back to my cabin to make my plans. To decide what I should do next.





SEVEN DAYS LATER





33





CONOR


The seven rivers and fifteen ponds in and around Black Hall had been dragged in the search for Claire’s body. The knife had been tested for prints and DNA—no fingerprints, but the blood was Claire’s. The floating foam key chain was confirmed to have come from the Sallie B. The key fit the lock on the hatchway leading into the cabin.

The trash bag found in the Woodward-Lathrop Gallery’s recycling bin contained bloody rags, a black ski mask, and a pair of black leather gloves. Again, the blood was Claire’s. The lab was testing the other items for DNA, but so far nothing had come back.

Black Hall residents had been canvassed; security tapes from alarm companies and video doorbells were being analyzed. An hour into reviewing footage from houses and businesses along Main Street, Conor got lucky. At 5:30 a.m. on the Tuesday after Claire’s disappearance, a black pickup had stopped first in front of the Starfish Sweet Shop, then outside the gallery.

It was first light—the sun had not yet fully risen, yet the streetlamps had already gone off. The pickup had tinted windows; it was impossible to see through either side. Although the windshield appeared to be clear, no camera captured a head-on view.

At each stop, the driver got out. He looked tall, dressed all in black, with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. At the Starfish, he crouched down to shove something into the drain. At the gallery, he opened the recycling bin and inserted the bulging black garbage bag as well as Claire’s shadow box.

Conor ran and reran the footage, looking for identifying characteristics of both the driver and the truck. He enlarged the image of the wheels and tires, and he would show them to Don Vietor, a state police sergeant who specialized in vehicle IDs.