19
Antebellum Inn
9:00 p.m.
Jo paced the sidewalk along McIntosh Street. She hadn’t smoked a cigarette in ten years. There was no way to describe how badly she’d needed one or how good it felt to draw the smoke into her lungs right now.
She’d coughed and choked a couple of times on the first one, but the second one was going far more smoothly.
LeDoux sat on the back steps of the inn watching her. He was determined to keep an eye on her. She wanted to leave and he was having no part of it. It wasn’t that she had some luxurious hotel room of her own. She didn’t. Her Celica had been her room on wheels until she’d ended up here with him. This was what she’d wanted—wasn’t it? To hook up with someone involved in the investigation, determine if she could trust that someone, and then spill her guts.
And she’d hit pay dirt. Not only had she latched onto a federal agent—okay, a former one—but also he was the uncle of one of the victims. He had the cop smarts and the emotional involvement. Was that not everything she could have hoped for and more? If she was completely honest with herself, she would admit that at some point over the past twelve or so hours she had decided she could trust him. It was all good, right? Serendipity or whatever?
Yet they were getting nowhere.
And LeDoux grew more suspicious of her by the hour. She might have spent the past eighteen years avoiding other humans but she could still read them pretty damned well.
The only good thing that had happened was Conway getting his. She paused, closed her eyes and drew deeply on the cigarette. She smiled as she released the smoke. Oh yes. The bastard had gotten his. Bled out like a stuck pig. Whoever killed him—still felt like LeDoux thought it was her—she had done it right. In the chest, probably got the heart or close anyway. And the gut. Oh yeah, he’d felt that one before he sucked in his last breath.
The problem was, with him dead she couldn’t exactly interrogate him the way she’d planned. Jo had imagined all sorts of ways to torture him to extract the information she needed. Now that wouldn’t happen.
Maybe Madelyn had killed him. She may have figured out who Jo was, the same as Jo had recognized her. Was she tying up loose ends for the man in charge? Maybe the blonde who’d dyed her hair red eighteen years ago was the man in charge.
Jo stopped her pacing for a minute. Chain-smoking those two cigarettes had given her a buzz. Damn. She stared up at the moon through the massive trees shading the street. When she’d reached college she had never smoked a cigarette in her life. Cancer sticks were for idiots. That had been her opinion. But the minute she was released from the hospital all those years ago, she had made her brother stop at a convenience store and buy her cigarettes. He’d argued, but he’d felt so sorry for her he hadn’t been able to refuse her request.
She’d smoked for almost eight years. Smoked, drank and tried about a dozen other ways to erase the memories from her brain. None of it had worked.
Not one fucking thing she tried. So many times she’d wished she had died in that damned box. She and Ellen would both have been better off. Ellen would never have had kids and a husband to leave so devastated. All the others, too. Half the ones who’d survived had committed suicide within five years of being found.
Jo had only considered checking out two or three hundred times.
Finally, one day she’d decided the whole broken and grieving process was too fucking complicated and time consuming. She’d made up her mind to put the past behind her and never look back. Maybe she could have succeeded if Ellen had killed herself back then. But that didn’t happen. Ellen had continued to intrude into her life whenever she found herself too close to the edge. She would cry and whine and plead and Jo would listen, occasionally make a sympathetic comment and feel a little guiltier about what happened.
Now Ellen was dead and Jo was back in this damned place.
The definition of insanity, of stupidity or maybe both.
Jo threw the cigarette butt into the drain and shoved the lighter and pack into her back pocket. Reclaiming a bad habit wasn’t going to get her through this. Neither was all the alcohol she wanted so desperately to consume right now.
Conway was out of the way but Houser—Martin, she called herself now—was still out there. Obviously their partnership or whatever the hell it was had still been operational. Was Houser the one who ran the show or did she report to whoever orchestrated whatever the hell this was?
Apparently, they had changed their MO or extended their hunting ground out of the Southeast. There had to be a reason why no similar abductions occurred for all those years before Tiffany and Vickie were taken. And by God, Jo had searched for them. Not a single day passed without her scanning news feeds and other sites a good reporter learned to search. She hadn’t found even one set of abductions that matched the MO of the ones like hers in the past thirteen years—until she came back to Milledgeville two days ago.
What had suddenly changed? For one reason or another, he or she or them had gone back into business. If they had merely changed their MO so completely during the past thirteen years that she couldn’t spot it in her searching, why the sudden about-face?
The concept was unreasonable, illogical.
LeDoux was on his phone now. She couldn’t hear enough of what he was saying to gauge who might be on the other end.
She’d answered all his questions. She’d told him everything—well, almost everything. She hadn’t told him the one thing she had promised Ellen she would never tell anyone. And she hadn’t gone into the explicit details on any of it. Only the basics. They had discussed various motives for the abductions. Potential perpetrators—unsubs or unknown subjects, he called them.
They both agreed the motive was likely one of two things: behavioral trials of some sort that involved drugs—though she couldn’t say for sure they had been drugged other than for purposes of sleep—or maybe for sick gladiator-type games involving nudity and violence for the purposes of selling on the deep web.
She’d read plenty of articles about the bizarre things people did for money. The internet was loaded with people who wanted to watch violent sex, violence period. There were even people who would pay another person to do bad things to them. Seriously bad things. There were those who bought body parts to eat. Others who sold body parts on the black market.
The world was a sick, sick place with some seriously demented people hidden behind their masks of normalcy.
Like Miles Conway.
“Bastard.”
She turned to the man still watching her. With only a couple of streetlamps and the ambient lighting around the inn she couldn’t really tell what was on his mind but she felt confident there was about to be a battle. He was a former FBI agent—a big-time profiler. LeDoux would be accustomed to doing things his way.
He knows what he’s doing, Jo.
Deep breath. Get it over with. Her Celica sat next to the curb on the street. She could leave if she wanted to. No one could stop her from doing whatever the hell she wanted. If he tried, well then there would be a battle for damned sure.
She marched up the small parking lot, stalled a few yards away from the steps where he sat. She would just tell him how it was going to be and that would be that. He looked at her and she looked at him and the uncertainty and worry she saw there shifted something inside her. No. No. No. She would not let this get personal.
Dredging up her wavering resolve, she announced, “I’m through talking. I’ve told you everything you need to know. I need some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He stood and descended the three steps, tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Give me five minutes. I think you’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”
She’d seen him on the phone while she sucked down those two cigarettes. Had no idea who he’d been talking to. Didn’t give a shit. And still, she said, “Five minutes and then I’m gone.”
Maybe she owed him that. After all she’d used him to a degree. Planned to continue doing so as long as things didn’t get too complicated. Hear him out and take it from there. Fine. Okay. She followed him around the pool and into the cottage where they’d had sex last night.
A means to an end? Desperation? Stupidity?
Who knew? What she did know was that she needed a change of clothes. His scent was all over these. But to change clothes she’d have to get her bag from the trunk, and then he’d know she didn’t have a room. She’d slept in her car the first night after she arrived. Motels, no matter how low rent, typically wanted ID. It was another of those trust things. If no one knew where she was no one could find her. That’s the way she liked it. She’d spent the last half of her life living that way. She imagined she’d spend whatever was left doing the same.
He closed the door behind her and gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat.”
“I’ll stand. I’m not staying long.”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “If—” he sat down at the table “—Martin and Conway were in this together, as you believe, then you may be in danger.”
“Now that’s a good one.” She shook her head. “I’m not staying here—in this room—with you. I have my own place. I like my privacy.”
“The chief called me while you were taking a smoke break. They’ve confirmed that Conway’s killer was female.”
Jo snorted. “Really. It took them all this time to figure that out? I took one look at his position on the bed and the silk scarves used to tie him to the bed and figured that out.” If it had been a man, Conway would have been lying ass up so that his dominant partner could enter him from behind.
“They found a blond hair.”
Jo stilled. Now she got it. “So you think it was me? Didn’t we have this conversation already?” She shook her head. “So yeah, I drove over to Macon, fucked the guy, stabbed him a couple of times, took a shower, gave his hard drives a bath, and then drove to Mickey D’s for your breakfast. I’m that cold and calculating. Couldn’t you tell when we were screwing last night?”
“The chief wants you to submit a hair sample for comparison.”
The first hint of fear slithered through some errant crack in her defenses. “Not no, but hell no.” She folded her arms across her chest. “No way.”
“I shouldn’t have let you go in there with me. This is my fault. He wouldn’t say where they found the hair. Could’ve been on the carpet. When the cops first arrived, to protect you, I told them that you were my girlfriend and you stayed in the car. I doubt they’re going to believe me when I tell them I lied.”
Shit. “Tell him to get a warrant and he can have his hair.”
“The bottom line,” he offered, “is you’re here. You’re involved somehow and maybe someone is trying to set you up. Hailey Martin comes to mind. Think about it—you and Ellen were the first two abductions like Tiffany’s and Vickie’s. Maybe you were part of it all along or maybe you’re reenacting what happened to you. These are the scenarios the task force will consider.”
“First,” she argued, “Martin-Houser—who knows what her real name is?—couldn’t have known I was here before today. She didn’t have time to set me up. Second, I can prove when I left Texas.”
“Having proof when you left home helps,” he said. “As for the trace evidence found at the Conway scene, Martin did touch your hair.”
Jo’s throat tightened as the memory flashed through her brain. “She was just being a bitch.”
But she could have taken a hair. No way. She couldn’t have put it all together that quickly. Not possible. That kind of premeditation took time. Besides, Conway was already dead when she and LeDoux visited Martin.
Jo’s money was on the scenario that Martin killed Conway—tying up loose ends.
“Maybe the chief needs to ask Ms. Martin for a hair sample. Did you tell him that?” Jo’s heart started to pound as she waited for his response.
“I did. I provided her address and her connection to Conway. He’ll have someone at her door first thing in the morning.”
So maybe LeDoux did have her back. “Thanks.”
He ran his hand through his hair, exhaled a weary breath. “My niece is missing. As best we can estimate she’s been missing six days now. I need to find her. Soon. I need to find her alive. To do that I need all the help I can get. My gut tells me the person who took her is somehow a part of or involved with what happened to you eighteen years ago. For that reason, I need you safe. I need you close.”
He looked her in the eyes then. “I need your help.”
The faces of all those other women who were dead because she had kept silent all these years floated in front of her eyes. How could she keep doing that? She couldn’t. Jo nodded. “Okay. I’ll stay, but you keep that chief off my ass.”
“I can do that for a little while anyway.”
“I need to get my bag from my car.”
“I’ll go with you.”
She hesitated. “You worried I’ve got another body in the trunk?”
He smiled. “You have no idea the things I’ve seen.”
Actually, she did. She doubted many people had spent as much time researching missing persons as she had. She had perused story after story and image after image. Whether it was for money or pure sadistic pleasure, it was never pretty.
He followed her to the street. She opened the trunk and grabbed her canvas overnighter. “See.” She waved her hand. “No bodies. Just a spare tire and tire iron.”
He took the bag from her. “Good. I was really hoping I hadn’t slept with a killer.”
His words, spoken offhandedly, echoed through her. She decided not to correct him on that one. Knowing that truth wouldn’t help him find his niece.
When they were back inside the cottage, she set her hands on her hips and gave him the ground rules. “I’m not sleeping with you again. I’ll take the couch.”
“I’ll take the couch.” He tossed her bag onto the bed.
“Deal.” She wasn’t above taking the man’s bed. How often did she get to sleep on such a luxurious bed complete with down comforter?
Never.
“Tomorrow we’ll lay out a strategy.”
“You have a plan?” She reached into her bag for the nightshirt she’d packed.
“No. But I will by morning.”
“Is your sister doing okay?” She’d come outside and talked to him once while Jo was pacing the sidewalk.
“She’s terrified. Tomorrow she and the other girl’s mother are making a public plea at the task force press conference.”
Jo’s mother had done that. Her brother, too. So had all the other parents from all the other victims she’d tracked down. In this situation it wouldn’t help. Probably never did. Really. “If your niece was taken by the same people who took me, she’ll be back.”
“How can you be sure? You said there’s always one who dies. The other girl, you said.”
“Yeah, well, you never heard about the other girls for a reason. They were never reported missing. They were nobody. Homeless or...just invisible.”
Jo had concluded that it was planned that way. The one who died was always the one no one would miss, no one looked for. Did they take steps to ensure the other girl was always the ultimate victim?
“Why did you stay silent all this time?”
Jo blinked, shaking off the thoughts. She’d wondered when that question would be tossed at her. The edge in his voice told her he was thinking that if she and the others had come clean long ago they wouldn’t be here now. His niece and the other freshman wouldn’t be missing.
Maybe he was right. But things looked different from this side, especially eighteen years ago.
“We were scared. Brainwashed. We did as we were told.”
“But something changed your mind.”
“Ellen, the other girl who was with me, killed herself less than a month ago. She left two little kids and a younger sister behind. It’s enough already. We shouldn’t have waited so long...”
“What about the body of the other girl?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know.” She grabbed her bag and headed for the bathroom. “Good night.”
She closed the door and stared at her reflection in the mirror. If she was lucky he hadn’t heard the lie in her voice. She closed her eyes to block the images that flashed one in front of the other in her mind.
Of course the body wasn’t found—they buried it where no one would ever look.