Killman Creek by Rachel Caine
"No," I say. "It can't be. I didn't do that. Sam, I--"
"Is that real?" It's a shout, raw and horrifying, and it isn't directed at me, but I still flinch. He's talking to Rivard. If I turn just a little, I'll be able to see Sam's face. But I can't look. I don't look.
"No, I don't believe that it is," Rivard says calmly. "I believe this is an escalation of their ability to fake evidence. Still, you should know that this piece of artful fakery is out there on the dark web. So far, not many people have seen it, and fewer still understand what it implies." He activates the controls on his sleek, expensive wheelchair, and behind him, the big double doors open. Chivari holds one side. The security man, Dougherty, holds the other. I sit and watch, not sure what I'm supposed to do now, as Rivard turns his chair in a neat half circle. He stops and slowly rotates it back to meet my eyes. "Mr. Sauer discovered that one of Absalom's primary sources of income is making and selling a variety of false evidence . . . such as the falsified video of molestation they used against my son. When you called today, I purchased this particular piece of special-effects artistry from them."
"You . . . you bought it." I don't know what's happening. I feel ill and cold. "Why would you do that?"
"Perhaps I should say I purchased a copy. Because I believe in having leverage against those I don't know, and I don't know you, Ms. Proctor. Or you, Mr. Cade. Absalom clearly created this video with a plan, I believe, to discredit you should you ever decide to come against them. I can stop them by offering to buy it outright, remove it from the market; the price is tremendous, but if you cooperate with me, I will pay it and ensure your safety. In return, here is my price: go to Carl David Suffolk and tell him that I want to speak with him. Tell him that I am willing to offer him a great deal of money to that end. I will give you a sealed message to give him regarding his payment. I believe it will induce him to accompany you back."
"Why? What are you going to do with him?"
"If it leads you to the rest of Absalom, and your ex-husband, what do you care?" he asks me. "I understand you might need a moment. Mr. Dougherty will see you back downstairs when you're ready. Good day, Ms. Proctor. Mr. Cade."
I don't want him to go. I don't want those doors to close. I don't want to be left alone, in silence, with Sam.
The minefield we reached across before, the one we didn't cross, has grown to miles of deadly traps, and I'm afraid to even look at him now. I sit back on the couch and wait for him to say something. He doesn't. The silence is unbearable.
Finally, I say, "Sam, I--"
"We should go." The words are an iron bar, slamming into my stomach, and I can't breathe. "We should find Suffolk. If anyone ever sees that video, you're finished."
I want to tell him that I didn't do it, that I never saw any of Melvin's victims, that I would never have helped him, never. But it sounds weak, and worse, it sounds like lies. Even my own confidence has been shaken by what I saw on that screen. Reality has bent and warped and shifted around me. And I don't know what's true and what's a lie anymore.
Sam walks past me to the door. He doesn't look at me.
I follow.
12
SAM
I can't look at her. Gwen. Gina. Her. After all the horrors we've seen, I thought I knew her. I thought she was . . . someone I could trust.
And now, sitting in the same car with her is hard to take. I want to scream and pull the ejection lever and get the hell out of this, because everything is poisoned and toxic and wrong. The sight of Callie's face has destroyed my world. Last time I saw her it was on a Skype call. I was in Afghanistan, getting ready to fly a mission. She was excited about something mundane--a new job she'd just landed, I remember now. A job she didn't even live to start. I hadn't known my sister, not for many years; we'd been separated when our parents died, adopted out separately. I'd never even seen her until I was deployed. I'd never seen her in real life at all. Only on video screens.
This was another distant picture of her, light from a dead star, and suddenly I remembered how her lips curled when she smiled, and how her eyes shone when she laughed, and how she'd had a cat named Frodo, and I want to kill this woman who's sitting so silently next to me. The one I don't know at all.
We're back in our street clothes, the Rivard Luxe tracksuits left in changing rooms. We have our backpacks, our weapons, our phones. We should be back to normal. We are anything but that.
I hurt all over, and I feel exhausted and wounded. We've left our rental behind--Rivard's security chief guaranteed it would be returned for us, and the damage fees paid--and we're in a Rivard-branded town car, heading for the airport. Not to the huge sprawl of Hartsfield, but to a smaller, more exclusive one: DeKalb-Peachtree. It's the sort of place the Atlanta rich keep their jets and helicopters, and for a moment I miss flying again, the sheer mindless freedom of being up there in the blue. Being a passenger sealed inside a cabin isn't the same.
I could walk away, I think. It's very clear to me, clear enough to touch. I could get out at the next stoplight, hail a cab, get a flight, go anywhere but here. I owe her nothing. Rivard can't touch me. The sight of Callie's unconscious face, knowing what would happen to her in the hours or days after that . . . it's broken something inside me. I thought I was tougher than this. I was wrong.
The only thing that makes me hesitate at the next red light is that it wouldn't be just Gwen I walk out on. There are her kids, too--innocent kids who never did a damn thing wrong, who were born to a killer and don't deserve to be torn apart by the wolves that are bound to come for them. If this video gets out, Gwen won't be safe, not anywhere, not ever. And the kids will be just as endangered. I think about Connor, the quiet, introverted kid who came out of his shell in our hours together nailing shingles on the roof of their Stillhouse Lake house; I think about Lanny, a bright, stubborn girl who hides wounds under armor. Brave kids. Good ones.
You're not their savior, I tell myself. You don't owe them a thing. That's true. I just want to feel whole again. I thought revenge would do it, when I first started all this. Then I thought I was finding something like peace without that bloody price.
Now, I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever be whole again.
I haven't been paying attention to the journey, but I'm dragged out of the dark places in my mind when the car slows down for a barrier. We're at the airport, and then we're through and onto the airfield. I'm familiar with small places like this; when I was a teen, I hung out at one, helping out with repairs and maintenance just so I could be around the planes. Once I was old enough, I built engines. Learned to fly. This place feels, unexpectedly, like home.
It's a little bit of sanity, just when I need it.
I finally risk a glance at Gwen. Her face is as pale and smooth as marble, but I'm struck by the fact that there are tear tracks on her cheek. Damp spots on her shirt collar. She's been silently crying, and it's a rare sign of weakness from her. If she senses me looking at her, she doesn't respond. She stares straight ahead, looking--at least, from her expression--into nightmares.
In that moment, she looks more like Gina Royal than I've ever seen before. All of Gwen's certainty and fierce, hard-won confidence is gone.
The car stops at a private hangar, and I get out. Take a breath of air tinged with the sharp, nose-burning smell of jet fuel and oil. I have that wild urge again to just turn my back, walk away, let my long-nursed rage bleed off into the cool air and start over. That video called everything into question. Everything I thought I ever knew about Gwen, and myself.
But it strikes me, as I hear her door open and turn to look at her, that Gwen is having the same crisis, only hers must go even deeper. All the way to the bone. She looks like she's seen into hell, and hell's leered back.
"You should go somewhere else," she tells me. "You can't trust me, Sam. I don't blame you. I wouldn't know what to think, either."
I ask her, point-blank, "Have you been lying to me? Were you helping him?"
She's violently shaking her h
I look over at the sleek private plane that's waiting for us, a uniformed pilot standing by.
And I say, "For now."
I'm not surprised to find that the interior of the G-7 is top-of-the-line custom work--leather recliners, polished wood tables and trim, original artwork on the walls. Rivard didn't name his company Rivard Luxe for nothing; he clearly likes his comfort. The plane holds, at most, twelve passengers; there are six recliners, and two sofas set facing each other that could hold another six comfortably. The pilot vanishes after telling us the flight time; another uniformed officer from the hangar scans our IDs, in case of emergency, and wishes us a good journey. Then a flight attendant I'm almost positive is a famous runway model boards and shows us menus. We have a choice of steaks from Bone's, or a custom lunch from Cakes & Ale, with dessert from Alon's Bakery. I'm not from Atlanta, but I was stationed close enough to know big-name restaurants.
I order the steak. Gwen just shakes her head. I reach out to stop the flight attendant and say, "Bring her something; she needs to eat." It isn't that I care, I tell myself. It's that she does me no good if she collapses. We're both running on adrenaline and anger and shock right now--well, to be fair, for me it's mostly anger--and that's not a good way to go into a situation that will probably turn out to be dangerous. I don't believe for a second that Rivard sent us because we're convenient. He could--and maybe has--hired others to do this job.
He's sending us because we're expendable. The cost of the best airplane food in existence and the jet fuel to get us there is the equivalent of buying us coffee to him.
My cell phone rings, and I flinch hard enough to pull a muscle. I'm strung too tightly. I hate that Gwen saw it.
"Yes?" I answer.
"Thought you'd want to know, possible sightings of Melvin Royal reported in Texas." It's Mike Lustig's voice on the other end. "You still in Atlanta?"
"Just leaving," I tell him, which at least has the benefit of being true. "Is it credible, you think?"
"Shit, you know nothing's credible until we have surveillance photos, fingerprints, or DNA," he says. "Trouble is, we've got a body in Texas that's surfaced with a similar profile, and it fits in geographically to the reports. Could be him."
I look at Gwen. Can't help the instinct. She knows I'm talking to Mike but doesn't know what it's about. Yesterday, she'd probably have asked.
Today, with the shadow of what just happened lurching between us, she says nothing and averts her gaze.
"Hey, Sam, you still with me? You got any reason to think he's got some support in Texas? Specifically, East Texas, up near the Louisiana border?"
"I don't know."
"Well, can you ask her?"
"Not right now," I say. "Is this recent?"
"Recent enough. Girl was abducted about six days ago. Body dumped in a bayou, found because a gator severed her leg where it was chained to a block. Gave the hunters who spotted her a hell of a shock. Last time she was seen alive was at a shopping center. Her ex liked to pick women off from places like that, didn't he?"
Callie was abducted from a local shopping-mall parking lot. I say nothing. Mike knows Melvin Royal's MO as well as I do.
"This vic had stun-gun marks," Mike says. "Same as most of his victims did. So it tracks. But Texas is a long way off from where we had other reports. Feels like a decoy to me. Not that we aren't looking into it; we are." He's quiet for a moment, waiting for me to say something. I still don't. "You don't sound right. Everything okay?"
"Sure," I say. "Just thinking. You talk to Ballantine Rivard?"
"I called. He's not available, air quotes and all. Got a feeling I'm going to have to go get court paper to open up the pearly gates."
"Don't think you'll get too much even if you do get inside," I say.
"Probably not, but I deal with rich asshole sociopaths all the time. I checked him out: the usual lawsuits for underpayment, improper dismissal, contract violations, that sort of stuff. I don't imagine anybody who runs a company this big has cleaner hands. His son was a damn mess, though."
"Yeah, I know." I'm distracted by the reappearance of the flight attendant with a cart. It's chock-full of ridiculously indulgent, high-priced liquor. "Listen, I've got to go. You be safe, Mike."
"You, too," he says. "You're not doing something stupid, are you?"
"Probably," I say, then hang up.
I order another scotch.
Gwen sticks with water. No ice. I suspect the taste of scotch is now associated with the memory of that video, and now that I think of it, the shimmering taste in my own mouth turns a little sour. I down it in a gulp and hand the tumbler back.
The flight attendant smiles at me without any real warmth and reaches beneath the cart to take out a sealed manila envelope. She hands it to me. "From Mr. Rivard," she says. "With his compliments."
She wheels the cart away, and I look across at Gwen. She sips water and says, "I suppose he likes you better."
Inside the envelope is a file folder. It's full of photocopies, and I glance at each page before I pass it on to her. Carl David Suffolk's Kansas driver's license, reproduced in color, doesn't do him any favors; he's a puffy, pale man with a receding hairline who's chosen to cultivate a goatee to cover up what's probably a weak chin. Beneath the license are his personal details: single, no kids. His bank account balance, which is healthy but not impressive.
The next page is a copy of his employee ID, in which he looks even less prepossessing. He works at a place called Imaging Solutions--copy shop, print shop, something like that. The rest of the file is a list of phone numbers he regularly calls and texts, and most of them have names beside them, as well as addresses. A few don't, which means they're disposable phones. Rivard's also included a list of screen names that Suffolk uses, along with the specific sites that they're associated with. Most are innocuous.
A few raise the hair on the back of my neck. Suffolk visits chat sites that mainly host children and teens. At his age, and childless, it's a pure red flag.
At the very end of the file, there's a handwritten note. It says:
In this envelope I have a sealed message, which I trust you to hand to Mr. Suffolk. It contains the details on payment I will make to him upon his agreement to go with you. If he does not agree, I suppose you should use your discretion.
As agreed, I have made the offer to buy the video from the dark web and remove it entirely. However, there is a significant complication. It seems the video has already been delivered to another untraceable buyer, and that, I cannot control.
There may not be any way to stop the video from seeing the light of day.
I don't like it. Instinctively, something tells me that Rivard is playing us, but I have no idea how, or why. Rich men don't look at people like us as human beings; we're pieces they move, levers they pull to get what they want.
There's a sealed, expensive-looking envelope at the back of the file with Suffolk's name written on it. I strongly consider opening it, but I don't. Yet.
We need a backup plan. So I text Mike Lustig. Hate to ask you for another favor, but what are the chances you can give me some backup?
Mike's reply is, Pretty good, but your debt is earning compound interest, my man. I fucking hate Wichita.
How the hell . . . I stare at his words, then text back, simply, ???
Did you really think I didn't know where you were, Sam? Come on. I've had eyes on you the whole time. How's that Rivard jet? Smooth? Hope so. Had to buy a goddamn economy-class middle seat. Flight out in half an hour.
I don't know whether to be angry that he's spied on us, or relieved that he hasn't kicked us loose. Right now, probably the latter. Where do we meet you?
You don't, Lustig says. After that, I get no response at all.
I don't tell Gwen what Rivard has said in the letter, and I don't tell her about Mike Lustig. I let her enjoy the temporary peace, the expensive steak dinner, the fancy dessert, because I know that when we land, the peace will be over.
And the war may never stop.
13
LANNY
When I asked for the Internet, I really just wanted to check social media, see how everybody was doing. I wasn't going to post or anything, just lurk. Because I was bored.
And then I saw Dahlia's picture, and all of a sudden, I felt something crushing me inside. I missed her so much it hurt. I wanted to call her. I wanted to hear her voice and tell her what's happened, and I wanted . . . wanted all kinds of things, wild things that raced through my head while staring at her picture that made me uncomfortably warm inside. I'd been feeling that way before everything blew up out at our old house, and I'd been trying to figure out what it meant, and what to do about it. Now I think I know. But I can't do anything.
I'm so close. But not close at all.
Connor making fun of me is the last straw, and when I blow up at him, I mean it so hard. I race off to my room and cry into a pillow for a good fifteen minutes. By that time, I still feel wretched and alone, but I also am too exhausted to care. I curl up hugging my damp pillow and stare off into the distance. Outside the window, it's a cold afternoon, and it's chilly in here, too. I turn on the space heater and put on fuzzy socks and climb under the covers on my bed. My lower abdomen is aching. I check my calendar, but it's still a week until my period. I have enough tampons for this time, but I'm going to have to ask Kezia to get me more. I can't ask Javier. God, no. Number fifteen million of things my brother doesn't have to put up with.
It's an hour later when I get up, shuffle across the floor, and pick up the piece of paper that's been shoved under the door. I know it's from Connor, and his sharp-pointed printing makes me smile a little.