“All the way to Westhaven, to look for Samantha Lindsay’s car.”
“Odds’re ten to one she’s shacked up with somebody.”
“I don’t know, Wayne. Apparently it’s a deviation from a long-established pattern.”
“Well, good luck, kiddo. And think about what I suggested. A personal appeal from you to Newberry wouldn’t hurt.”
Rho didn’t reply. She remained where she was, listening to his footsteps slap along the pier. There was a burst of music and laughter as the door of the restaurant opened and shut, the clatter of feet on the stairs, the echo of voices in the parking lot. Engines started up, gravel crunched under tires, and then the sounds faded as the vehicles drove away. Then the night grew quiet, except for the lap of waves and the faint percussive beat of the band playing inside Tai Haruru.
A personal appeal. Wayne was being naive if he thought that would work with a man like Guy Newberry. Now that she knew his real purpose in striking up an acquaintance, she recognized his type: insensitive, egotistical, determined to get what he wanted, no matter what the cost to others. He’d push ahead with his book, and the town would suffer. Her own fragile emotional balance would be thrown off, maybe never recover. Already she was dreaming of that night in the canyon in full horrifying detail. How long before she began dwelling on it during her waking hours?
You already are.
She pressed her fingertips to her temples, shook her head. The gesture did nothing to stem the flow of memories that picked up where her dream had left off.
She’d given Heath Wynne’s body over to the medics and was standing paralyzed in her bloody shirt when Wayne drew her aside. “Don’t fall apart now, kiddo,” he had said. “Get moving and don’t fuck up the scene. We’ve got to find out how many more people are here — dead or alive.”
She took a deep breath, nodded, and followed him up the embankment to the driveway. Other deputies were entering the small shingled house where earlier she had come upon three bodies — Claudia, Mitch, and Eric Blakeley, she would later learn. Still others were moving toward a geodesic dome set some distance away in the trees. Wayne turned on a flashlight, told her, “Cover me.” She took her .357 from its holster and they continued along the rutted dirt track.
About fifty yards deeper into the canyon they came upon a rough board shack with what looked to be a couple of sheds behind it. Wayne held up his hand for her to stop and moved slowly toward the shack’s door. She readied her weapon as he flattened against the wall, reached for the knob, flung the door inward. After he shone the flash around the interior he said, “Nobody.”
She let her breath out slowly, motioned at the sheds. He nodded and started toward them. She followed, hands slick with sweat on the grip of her gun. Abruptly Wayne stopped, hearing the same sound she did.
It was only a whimper, but so laden with terror that it might as well have been a scream. It came from the far shed, and Rho hurried toward it, ignoring Wayne’s grunt of protest. He caught up with her, and had his flashlight ready when she opened the door.
The shed was actually a sleeping place, with two child-size bunks on the wall across from the small high window. The bottom bunk was bare except for a thin mattress. Rho went over and peered into the top bunk. A sleeping bag was bunched there, and it shook as the whimpers intensified.
She motioned Wayne back, put her hand on the bag. The shape inside it stiffened. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe now.”
No response, not even a breath.
“Don’t be afraid. We’re here to help you.”
A small sob.
“I want to take you out of here. Is that okay?”
Louder sobs now.
“Will you sit up for me? So I can help you?”
It was at least fifteen seconds before the bag moved and the child sat up. A girl, maybe five or six years old. Matted brown hair, big eyes made dark by terror and swollen by crying. Bloody scratches and tears on her cheeks. Mouth working, ready to cry out.
Rho reached for her, lifted her from the bunk. Wayne held out his arms, but before she could hand her over, the little girl burrowed against her, locking her arms around her neck and her legs around her waist in an unbreakable hold. She remained that way as Rho carried her down the canyon to safety...
Chrystaclass="underline" Before
Friday, October 6
11:57 A.M.
What’re those things? Oh my God — Bernhard’s shack and the kid boxes. It’s all coming back now.
Bernhard built them for when the grown-ups partied, so us kids could sleep there and not get in the way. Tiny bunkhouses, one pink and one blue. Gray now.
The grown-ups partied a lot — and hard. They had white Christmas lights strung in the trees and stereo speakers mounted on poles. Nobody from outside got invited, except for Jude and Leo, and that was on account of Leo and Bernhard being tight from way back. Come to think of it, nobody but us ever came to the canyon.
Loud music. Weird food experiments. Running around in the woods after dark. The smell of weed. Ghost stories in the kid boxes. And Bernhard.
We called him “uncle.” He paid us more attention than any of our folks did. He was supposed to be some kind of inventor, had his lab hidden way back in the canyon where it gets real narrow. But he wasn’t no inventor, that was just a story the grown-ups made up for us. What he was doing back there was cooking meth.
Jude told me the papers said Bernhard was who the killers were after, the others were just innocent victims of a drug deal gone bad. But the papers got it wrong. Leo and her were in on the dealing, and the Wynnes were bankrolling Bernhard. The stuff in the papers, that was a whitewash on account of the others came from good families.
What’s a good family, anyway? People with money and college educations, like them? People who stick together through all kinds of shit, like me and Leo and Jude? People who have a good time together, like us kids and Bernhard?
The cops found Bernhard dead in his lab. Prefab shed like you buy at a lumberyard. He wouldn’t let nobody go near it, had barbed wire strung so thick across the path, you wondered how he got in and out.
There’s the path. I could—
Don’t do it, Chryssie. Fast in, fast out.
But it’s so quiet here. There’s nobody around. Nobody’s been here since it happened.
Dammit, the time I spent on this place is the only time I remember being a kid — and I didn’t remember it at all till I came back here. Bernhard was a big part of that. I got a right to see where he died.
Monday, October 9
Early Morning
When Rho entered the substation at ten minutes after midnight, Valerie — who had stayed late to field any phone calls concerning Chrystal Ackerman — handed her two message slips and began to explain what they were about before Rho could read them.
“Detective Grossman said to tell you he and his partner are at the Sea Stacks if you need him. They contacted the Clark County, Nevada, department about Ackerman, and they’re cooperating. They’ve already located her apartment from the personal phone number the Mercedes’ owner gave you. Took a run by there and spoke with the manager, who said when Ackerman moved in two years ago her mother was living with her. The mother was sick, and the manager hasn’t seen her in months, assumes she died. Ackerman lived quietly, and the manager and other tenants didn’t really know her. Your contact at the department down there is Detective Ronald Stevens.”
Rho glanced at the slips, saw they contained an abbreviated version of what Valerie had just told her.
Valerie was scowling now. “Can you imagine it? Having phone sex in an apartment you shared with your mother?”