The neighbourhood looked completely different in the creeping morning light. The houses – at least the ones Darby could see from the living-room window – appeared nearly identical in structure to the one she was standing in, the only difference being the choice of exterior colours. The flat land lying underneath the eggplant-coloured sky looked naked and vulnerable.
Sheriff Powers sat in one of the four high-back maple chairs arranged around the circular table inside Karen Decker’s rental home – Melissa French, to everyone in Fort Jefferson. He’d put on his uniform before coming here. Noel sat across from him, his legs crossed and his hands folded on his lap, his expression grave. The clock hanging on the wall near the wood stove ticked off each second. It said 4.46 a.m.
‘Okay,’ Powers said, staring down at the table, where he’d placed his hat. His face was pale, and the hand moving back and forth across his thin lips wasn’t steady.
The sheriff had just returned from the chamber, shrine, whatever, secreted behind the walls in the heart of the home. When Noel called him, he told the sheriff to make sure he brought a few high-powered flashlights with him.
When Powers saw what lay beyond the steel door, he recoiled in horror, just as she had.
Noel, though, had taken in the horror with a cold eye, his adrenalin already having been spent by what had happened outside, the way the man had screamed, like someone who’d had the most precious thing in his life ripped from him. Was it the Red Ryder? Who else could it be?
‘Okay,’ Powers said again, and laid his palms flat against the table, as if they were aboard a ship that was heaving against stormy tides that refused to relent. He kept blinking, no doubt trying to wash away the images of the mummified remains of two young women, possibly teenagers, sitting upright in a sea of candy wrappers and empty soda cans and Hi-C juice boxes that went up past their waists. The girls had been gagged and bound with rope and duct tape and handcuffs. One of them had a noose wrapped around her throat.
‘I’ve never …’ Powers didn’t complete his thought. He turned his head to Darby, who was standing with her arms folded across her chest, her shoulder leaning against the wall near the living-room window, where she had been looking outside at the snow and thinking of Coop. ‘What about you? Have you ever seen something like this?’
Darby shook her head. ‘Not inside the centre of someone’s home,’ she said, her gaze flicking toward the wall off the kitchen, near the back door. The two girls were behind it.
‘And you’re sure someone was watching you?’ Powers said.
‘We didn’t see him but we definitely heard him,’ Darby said.
‘Twice, you said.’
Darby nodded. They had told the sheriff about what had happened outside and what they had heard in the bedroom, on the Fisher-Price baby monitor. She hadn’t examined it beforehand – hadn’t stopped to consider that batteries were still in it and the monitor was turned on and working. She knew she had made a mistake, maybe even a critical one, but there was no point in wishing for a different outcome.
Sheriff Powers said, ‘And you have no idea who this person is?’
Well, Sheriff, we think he’s the Red Ryder – you know, the infamous serial killer from the late seventies and early eighties who killed thirty-two people and then decided to retire. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Oh, and incidentally, the kitchen chair you’re sitting in belongs not to Melissa French but to Karen Lee Decker, one of the Red Ryder’s victims – one of two women who survived. That’s right, she was living right here in your town because she was convinced she’d found the Red Ryder.
Darby shook her head. Powers looked to Noel, who did the same.
She was about to ask questions about who had built the house and request a list of missing persons but stopped herself. She had no jurisdiction here – absolutely no authority. Noel could offer support services and lab resources, but that didn’t mean the sheriff had to say yes.
Powers leaned back in his chair and placed a hand on the table. ‘What’s the FBI’s interest in Melissa French?’ he asked.
Noel didn’t look to her, kept his attention focused on Powers. She and Noel had discussed at length what they would tell Powers before calling him.
‘We don’t have one,’ Noel said.
‘You, sir, are not a good liar. And you –’ Powers swung his attention to Darby. ‘Are you going to stick to your story about Melissa French? That you have no idea who she is?’
‘I’ve never met her, and Coop never mentioned her name to me,’ Darby replied, which was true. ‘I hadn’t heard her name until you mentioned it when the three of us were sitting inside your truck.’
The sheriff’s cold smile was full of irony. ‘And why is it that I don’t believe you?’
‘Because you have trust issues that stem from childhood?’
‘Here’s what I think,’ Powers said. ‘I think the two of you are working on something together. I think you, Dr McCormick, for reasons you can’t or won’t tell me, decided to break into this house in the middle of the night.’
‘I didn’t break in,’ Darby said.
Powers snapped his fingers. ‘That’s right,’ he said coyly. ‘You told me you conveniently found a house key underneath the welcome mat by the front door.’ He smiled. ‘Then you went upstairs, where – again – you conveniently found a hidden entranceway located behind a bookcase.’
‘That’s what happened.’
Powers drummed his fingers on the table. ‘It’s all so wonderfully convenient, don’t you think?’
‘I think you’re forgetting the fact that the remains of two young women are buried behind the walls of this house,’ Darby said.
‘That fact is front and centre in my mind, Doctor.’
‘I called you,’ Darby began.
‘And Agent Covington,’ Powers said. ‘My guess is he arrived here well before I did. Am I right?’
‘One hundred per cent. In case you forget, one of his agents – my friend – is missing.’
The sheriff looked at her, confused at her choice of the word ‘missing’. Looked at her as if he wanted to say, Don’t you mean dead?
‘This key,’ Powers said. ‘May I see it?’
Darby’s eyes shifted to Noel, and the sheriff said, ‘See, that’s what I’m talking about right there. You need his permission, ’cause he’s the one pulling the strings on this.’
The sheriff rose to his feet, the chair skidding behind him. His hair, thick and black and parted razor sharp on the side, was damp. Darby saw beads of perspiration on his smooth forehead, and his cheeks were rosy with anger.
‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want no part of it,’ Powers said, but there wasn’t much strength in his voice – a good sign. He didn’t want the nightmare that had been thrown into his lap. He might be willing to accept outside help. ‘Right now, I’ve got the remains of two women sitting in a home in my town.’
Noel cleared his throat. ‘Sheriff, we can offer you the services of our lab and our –’
‘I’ve had just about enough of your help.’ The man’s jaw trembled with anger.
Darby didn’t blame him. Two interlopers had come into his town and dumped a big, steaming pile of shit on him. Powers was, first and foremost, an administrator; he always had to be mindful of figures when it came to allocating resources. Two sets of remains, maybe more, found inside a hidden room inside a hidden chamber hidden behind a bedroom-wall bookcase – it was a forensics nightmare that, even if done correctly, would take at least a week of people working in shifts around the clock. That kind of overtime probably wasn’t in the man’s budget, which meant he had to go hat in hand to whoever controlled the purse strings and beg for money. That wouldn’t go down well come re-election time – unless Powers identified the remains and found the killer.
And he would have to do all of this under a media microscope. This kind of story, with all its grisly details, gave reporters wet dreams.
Powers said, ‘An agent of yours is dead, and for that I’m truly sorry. I’ll extend you every courtesy so you can find him and bring him home. But, as for what happened here, behind these walls? Me and my people will take care of these girls, make sure they get the respect and treatment they deserve. Now get out, the both of you.’