“Yes. I didn’t have a choice.” When I say it, there’s a split second of it flashing before my eyes: Melvin coming at me. Bracing my shaking hand on Sam’s shoulder and taking aim. Seeing him end, forever. It’s not as traumatic as it used to be, but it still holds power. “The point is, I’ve been hunted by his admirers, and by the people who hate him, and by others who just get their kicks out of hitting people when they’re down. I understand vulnerability in a way very few people do. So when I tell you I will protect Carol’s identity, I promise you this: I will protect it with my life. Just as you have.”
He takes his time thinking about it. I let him. And I finally see him come to the correct—but difficult—decision. The fight goes out of him, and his shoulders sag. “I’ll ask,” he says. “If she won’t see you, then that’s the end of it. All right?”
“Ask her now,” I say.
“No ma’am. I’ll go to her, but you can’t come with me. I’m not going to risk her life like that.”
I don’t move away from the door. “Then call her. Let me talk to her on the phone.”
“She doesn’t have a phone.” He’s wavering, but starting to get his backbone assembled. “If she wants to talk, I’ll arrange for a meeting somewhere safe. But if she doesn’t agree, and she probably won’t, then you need to accept that and forget all about this.”
“Would you?” I ask him calmly. “If Jeremy went missing, and someone could tell you where he’d gone? Could you possibly walk away and forget?”
He looks away, but I see the muscles corded along his jaw. He’s not going to give me any more.
So I move my chair back to where it was; there are still divots in the thin carpeting to mark the spot. I place my business card in the exact center of his old desk. And I say, “Thanks for your help, Pastor. I’m not the enemy here. If this young woman’s in trouble, I’m on her side, and I would never put her knowingly in danger. If that computer is current enough to have an internet connection, look me up. I’ll put myself on the line for her. That’s a promise.”
I know that he marks the gun I’m wearing as I straighten up; I see the flash of awareness that I could have pulled it, threatened him into spilling her location. The fact I didn’t has to be a point in my favor.
We don’t shake hands. I just leave. I head straight to my car, get in, and call J. B. Hall. She picks up on the second ring. “Gwen? Everything okay?”
“Yes. I made contact with the preacher, and I may have something. You can look at landline phone records, right?”
“Not officially.”
“But realistically?”
“Maybe.”
“I need the destination number of the next call that comes out of Gospel Witness Church. And an address or location, if that’s possible.”
Because the pastor’s comment that Carol didn’t have a phone had come too fast and too emphatically, and the last thing he’d done before I left was dart a quick, unintentional glance at his clunky desk phone. Simple to put together. He is going to warn her.
J. B. says she’ll pull some favors, and I back my rental car out of the church’s parking lot. I don’t go very far, just a block down, and I take a spot in a convenience store space that faces the street. The pastor’s car—a big, white, boxy thing that must be twenty years old—emerges. The pastor uses turn signals; I approve, makes it easier for me. He passes me, and I maneuver out of the lot and onto the busy street in his wake. His car’s going to be easy to follow. It stands out like a shaggy dog in a road full of sleek cats.
We’ve gone about four miles by my odometer when my phone rings. I put it on speaker. “Hey, you’ve got Gwen,” I say. I’m not surprised it’s J. B.
My boss says, “I’m texting you the number he called. It’s a burner phone, though. It’s going to take time to get the data on location from my source; it’s an, ah, extralegal use of legal software. Technically okay, if you squint, but she doesn’t want to get caught doing it either. Not without a warrant.”
“I’m on the pastor,” I tell her. “He knows something. It’s possible he’ll lead me to her.” I tell her in quick sentences about what I’ve learned from Remy’s parents and about the mysterious Carol. I’m still behind the pastor’s car, shielded by two vehicles between us. He drives cautiously and obeys the speed limits. Useful, for my purposes.
“Is it remotely possible this kid ran away with Carol? That he’s living with her and somehow keeping her safe?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “But it’s more than we had. I’ll be in touch, I think the pastor’s coming to a destination.”
He is, but it’s his home; I recognize the car parked in the small driveway as another that had been in the church parking lot—the son’s ride, most likely. That one has a bumper sticker that says UNDER GOD surrounded by the red and blue of an American flag. Makes it extra easy to spot. I park and watch a moment, in case there’s something interesting to see, but there isn’t. Through the handy picture window into the dining room I can see food being set out. Three place settings, so Carol isn’t hiding here.
Something’s making my breath come faster, sweat prickle hot on the back of my neck, and for a second or two I don’t even know what it is.
Then I blink, and I see a house of similar lines superimposed over this one. A normal house on a normal street. A broken exterior wall to the garage with a wrecked vehicle jutting out of it.
My normal house. My normal street in a normal Kansas town.
And a dead girl hanging from a wire gallows in the exposed garage, the day all that ended. All those years spent in that house, living next to a monster, not knowing what was going on under the same roof. Making dinner. Setting the table, just as this woman’s doing.
I flinch and gasp and close my eyes. I have coping mechanisms for these flashbacks, and I use them, slowing my racing heartbeat and gearing myself down from the blind horror and panic that never, ever quit being fresh. I press my shaking hands down on my thighs. Past is past. Put yourself here, now. Feel the air. Take in the smells. Listen. Be here.
The overwhelming sense of being trapped slowly fades. Panic recedes. And when I look again, it isn’t my house, it isn’t my dining room, and the three people sitting down at that table are not my family. There isn’t horror hiding behind that wall, or if there is, it’s not mine to endure.
I check my text messages. J. B. has sent me the number that Pastor Wallace called. I know I should wait for J. B. to get that tracking data; it might—might—send me in the right direction. Or, if he’s told the young woman to run, I might lose her altogether.
On balance, I feel a real and urgent need to act. So I dial the number. Roll the dice.
A woman answers. “Hello?” She sounds young and tentative, and also worried.
“Don’t hang up,” I say. “I’m a friend, Carol. I know you’re afraid. Let me help you.”
I half expect her to hang up, but she seems to hesitate. Then she says, “You’re the one the pastor talked about.” She has an accent, but it isn’t from Tennessee. Sounds more northern states to me. Maybe even as far as Maine or Vermont. “The detective?”