He stopped, then settled again in his seat. Shannon crouched down beside him, stopped when she saw the moonstone.
Is this yours? she said, picking it up.
He nodded. She stood up and shook the whiskey off it. A drop struck the candles flame. It sizzled and died.
Its a moonstone, said Clyde. The travelers stone it protects those who cross water when the moon shines.
His gaze moved from the wet black candle wick to what lay beyond the window.
You cant trust water and you cant trust fire, said Clyde. And out there? That lakes ablaze.
Franklin J. Merrifield drifted awake from a profound, distressing sleep. What followed was the slow realization that he was not in his cell. He could smell rain, grass, trees, earth. The last time he smelled those smells was on that final shackled walk from the courthouse.
The only sound he could hear was rain hitting glass.
Glass?
He waited for his eyes to adjust, for shapes to form, for light to filter in, but the darkness was absolute. His heart started to pound wildly. His head felt strange, like it was overstuffed with packing materials; foam or twisted-up pieces of brown paper. His body felt solid, weighted down. His jaw was clamped shut. When he opened it, he felt the skin on his lips tear. He could taste blood.
He had just one question:
How the fuck did I get here?
2
Special Agent Ren Bryce was sitting in Mannys Bar on 38th and Walnut in Denver.
It has been six months since my last alcoholic beverage.
She was five beers down.
Until tonight.
It was six months since a shooting at the Rocky Mountain Safe Streets Task Force, when a serial killer called Duke Rawlins had taken the lives of two of her friends and colleagues, and her boyfriend of one year, Ben Rader.
She picked up her cell phone.
Dont.
She put it down, slumped back in the bar stool, closed her eyes.
What if that had no back on it oh my God I am so fucking hammered imagine falling off a bar stool hitting your head and dying what a way to go appropriate Jesus.
She opened her eyes, and picked up her phone again. She went into Album.
Dont.
She found a photo of the boyfriend she had yet to call her former, her late... Ben Rader. The Late Ben Rader.
Tears filled her eyes. In the photo, Ben was cooking, smiling at her over his shoulder. He had a beaming smile, and was one of the most beautiful men she had ever known; short, tanned, dark-haired, fit.
You look so young.
A man as handsome as Ben Rader could have relied on his looks, developed nothing more than his body, but Ben developed a soul that radiated kindness.
I loved watching you cook Jesus youre dead now youre fucking dead this is so screwed up dead Jesus and you only look about eighteen you are so hot were no I cant do past tense are are are amazing arms steady grip strength of all kinds love love love gone gone gone stop stop stop.
She still had his texts; they felt like a weight in her phone that she was always aware of, but could never remove.
Cant imagine ever sending another loving text filthy text miss-you text to any other man I dont want a stranger in my bed I dont want another man in my head.
Her cell phone rang. GARY flashed on the screen.
No way.
Her boss, Supervisory Special Agent, Gary Dettling.
Yeah hey Gary Im in Mannys yeah the bar where the serial killer who killed our friends picked up one of his victims yeah what is that telling you what is it telling me who fucking cares have you been drinking Ren yes Gary two beers and Im about to leave...
She let it go to voicemail.
Gary left a message, and followed it with a text.
She let it go to voicemail.
Gary left a message, and followed it with a text.
Call me CARD
Shit.
Three months earlier, she and Gary had joined the North West Regions Child Abduction Rapid Deployment team CARD. There were sixty members in the country, split across five regions, ready to deploy at the invitation of local law enforcement to help in the crucial early stages of a child disappearance or abduction. Though an invitation was welcome, it wasnt a requirement when it came to a child of tender years, twelve years old and under, the FBI was automatically involved, whether there was an interstate element or not.
Ren called him back.
Breathe speak slowly breathe speak slowly enunciate.
Hi, Gary sorry I missed you.
Get a good nights sleep, said Gary. Were He paused. Where are you?
Um... On my way home.
From a bar?
From a bar.
Pause. Were booked on a six a.m. flight to Portland, Oregon, heading for the town of Tate. Missing twelve-year-old boy: Caleb Veir, last seen by his father at seven forty-five this morning when he left the family home to take the fifteen-minute walk to school.
OK. Say as little as possible.
Pause. Ren
See you at five. Ren hung up.
Step away from the phone.
She put it on the bar, picked up her beer and drank the last of it. She ordered another. She checked her watch.
Ugh Denver airport five a.m.
Denver airport where memories flew at her like razors, where she had welcomed Ben, kissed him, hugged him, seen him off. Denver airport the last place she was before she drove home to find out that he had been killed.
She looked back at his photograph as she waited for her drink.
Thats it. Life over.
I should have taken more photos.
Her stomach turned.
You were an asshole to him that night anyway just delete it you were always an asshole to him he loved you and you were an asshole.
She started to cry.
Get your shit together you stupid bitch go home just go youre a mess everyones looking at you you mess.
She stood up, pulled on her coat, paid for the drinks. She walked into the cold night, and her stomach spasmed, her throat constricted.
You fucking loser again fucking asking to enrage Gary you self-destructive I can still get five hours sleep yeah whatever whatever Im still here Im still alive no one died yes they did you asshole yes they did fucking die.
She started to walk toward her Jeep.
Shiiiiiit. My CARD team Mac is at the office. Fuuuck.
Ren pulled up outside the Livestock Exchange Building where Safe Streets had the fourth floor. She put the Jeep into park, paused until her eyes could focus.
I cant believe I drove here of course you drove you dont give a shit a bit late to care now you loser youre going to die.
She grabbed her phone, scrolled through iTunes, picked a song from the filthy rap collection, and put in her earpods. Since the shootings, it was her routine any time she walked into Safe Streets alone: she didnt want to risk hearing the banging door she heard that evening, which she found out later had been the door to the basement where Bens body had been thrown after Duke Rawlins shot him dead.
As she walked toward the building, a car door slammed behind her. She didnt see it, couldnt hear the footsteps behind her. She jogged up to the door, stood in front of the keypad.
Jesus could everything just be in focus.
She punched in the wrong code.
Shit.
She tried a second time, punched in the wrong code again.
Fuuuck.
Just as she was trying a third time, she saw the silhouette of a man reflected in the glass.
Oh oh oh fuck.
She pulled out her earpods with her left hand, went for her sidearm with the right.
Ren! Dont fire its Cliff! Its me!
Ren turned around, weapon raised, then quickly lowered. Jesus Christ, Cliff. You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.
Jesus Christ yourself! And you have never looked so deadly. Cliff James was her big-bear buddy and colleague. Finally, he said, after all these years, youve heard my girl voice...
Its over, said Ren. She smiled and opened her arms.
Cliff came up to her, arms wide. He paused. Hey, pretty lady have you been crying?
Possibly...
He recoiled a fraction. Oh, oh, no. And drinking. He glanced back at Rens Jeep.
I know. I know, said Ren. But keep it coming with the hug.
Cliff hugged her tight, kissed the top of her head.
Ren looked up at him. I need my CARD laptop. Im flying to Portland with Gary in the morning.
Aw, Jesus, Ren...
I know, I know. I know I know I know.
For someone who knows a lot of things... Cliff reached around her, punched in the right code, pushed the door open. Ren stepped out from under his arm, let him put his foot inside the door. He dangled his car keys in front of her. Why dont you tell me where that laptop is, go wait in my car, and let me take the lady home.
Aw, maaaan. Im a loser.
You are, Renderland, you are. But nothings gonna change my love for you.
Ren grabbed his arm, squeezed. Then she watched how he took the stairs slower than he used to and she felt a pain in her chest.
You instinctive knight-in-shining-armor with your own burden of grief to deal with.
Cliffs wife, Brenda, whom he adored, had passed away from cancer just two months after the shootings at Safe Streets.
Everywhere I turn...
Ren looked around the foyer.
Leave.
She stepped inside.
You come here every day why are you doing this now youve been drinking this will be a shitshow dont.
She walked ten paces in, stared at the basement door.
Bang... bang... bang... bang... bang.
And the sensation struck, the sensation that terrified her, like she was being drowned in a rush of cold air or water or something that she wouldnt rise above, that she couldnt breathe through, something she would succumb to. She sucked in a huge breath, and another, and another.
And then Cliff was back, and he had taken her in his big arms, and he had held her tight as she shook. She looked up at him, still holding on, her eyes wide. How did it all come to this?
I dont know, Renheart. I dont know.
Its like someone took a slash hook to our lives.
3
Ren was settled into a dark corner of a dark restaurant in Denver airport by four thirty a.m. She ordered coffee and a pineapple juice. She popped two Advil.
Somebody fucking shoot me. Ugh. Do some work. My brain is fried. Do something easy.
She opened Safari.
Fuck, the light.
She dimmed the screen and googled the town of Tate.
Tate, Oregon, nestled in the Willamette Valley, fifty miles south-east of Portland, fifteen miles east of Salem, home to 3,949 residents.
The first images were of a quaint, well-kept town, built around one intersection, its most prominent building a two-story red-brick family restaurant with Buckys written in red cursive at a jaunty angle on the front.