Chapter 38

“Remember, one peep and I’ll gag you.” The man roughly shoved Melender onto a stack of bagged fertilizer. They had driven for what seemed like hours before the vehicle stopped. When he’d hustled her from the SUV to the shed tucked behind a stand of tall evergreen shrubs, Melender had caught a glimpse of a large house a hundred yards away.

A single bulb dangled on a cord, but the man didn’t turn on the light. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through a window set on the wall opposite the door. The lawn equipment and gardening tools had been neatly stacked on shelves and the floor, which had been recently swept. She fervently hoped no eight-legged or four-legged creatures hid in the recesses.

“I’ve got her.” The man spoke into his phone, his back to Melender. “Be here within the hour.” He ended the call, slipping the phone into a pocket and turning to face Melender. He’d ditched the baseball cap upon arriving at their destination.

“Who are you?” The question burst out of her before she’d had time to think.

“John Smith.”

Melender snorted at the absurdity.

The man’s smile broadened. “You don’t believe me.”

“No.”

“They never do.” Smith looked around him, then grabbed a folded camping chair from a shelf. After shaking it out, he sat across from Melender. “I told Quentin you would be trouble, and here you are, stirring up all kinds of trouble.”

Melender straightened, the man’s words sparking anger. “I don’t call trying to clear my name of a crime I didn’t commit stirring up trouble.”

“I suppose if I were in your shoes, I’d feel the same way.” Smith shrugged. “But since I’m not, it’s irrelevant what you think.”

Smith’s words, spoken so causally, warned she was dealing with a man without a conscience. She had encountered her fair share of sociopaths during her imprisonment but never ceased to be amazed at the how they justified their actions. “Are you always this indifferent to truth?”

“Ah, a jailhouse philosopher.” His eyes brightened as he leaned forward. “Whose truth? Yours? My truth is that I want to live my life on my terms. Your truth doesn’t interest me in the slightest.”

“Unless my truth helps you gain yours.”

Smith spread his hands out, palms up, in a as-you-see gesture. In that instant, a long-ago image of Smith popped into her head. If her hands had been free, she’d have snapped her fingers together. “You worked for Senator Johnston. I remember seeing you at one of the Thompsons’ parties.”

Another image clicked into place, and Melender’s heart dropped. Oh, no. Snippets of an overheard conversation during a party at the Thompson house the day before Jesse went missing involving the senator, her uncle, and Smith echoed in her mind.

Something in her face must have alerted Smith to her memories. “You’ve remembered.”

“The map.” More memories clicked into place.

Her captor leaned back. “I knew you would eventually recall that piece of information.”

Melender closed her eyes briefly as the long-ago conversation flooded her mind. “My uncle wanted to get the rights to an old gold mine that straddled the boundaries of Shenandoah National Park. The senator told him a congressional okay to extract anything from the mine on the park’s portion would be a no-go, so you were discussing options.”

“You overheard more than we thought.”

It had been the mention of the Blue Ridge Mountains that had captured her attention. She’d tucked herself into a window seat in the study, the only room closed off to guests during the party, with Catherine Marshall’s Christy as her companion. The long, heavy curtain had hidden her from view when the trio had entered the room. At first, she hadn’t paid much attention to what they were discussing, but when she realized she knew the area in question, she listened more closely.

Now she stared at Smith. “You altered an old map to show the boundaries of the park different so you could tap into a mine purported to still have gold deposits.” Rumors of gold had circulated among the residents of Sudie’s holler for years, but most of the mountain people hadn’t believed the old Shade Mine had anything left. Apparently, Quentin had believed enough to want to steal the rights. “What happened? Did he get access, then discover the gold was a myth?”

“Something like that, but at the time, it seemed very promising.” Smith scowled. “That’s why I was against trusting the system to incarcerate you.”

“What?” A rush of emotion flooded her body. “I never said anything about the map.”

“Not then, but you would have, once you heard about the mining permits.” He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. “You wouldn’t have allowed anything to harm your beloved mountains.”

He was right. Lord have mercy, he was right. She would not have kept quiet once she’d learned about the mining on park land. She knew the park’s boundaries as well as the lines in her grandmother’s face. She would have known in an instant someone had altered the map. Then the further implication of Smith’s words sank in.

“You deliberately set me up to take the fall for Jesse’s disappearance so I wouldn’t say anything about the map and mining?”

“I…” Before Smith could answer, someone knocked on the door. “Come in.” He stood as the door opened.

Melender turned her head to see her uncle step into the shed.

* * *

Quentin avoided Melender,who was perched on a pile of fertilizer bags, her hands wrenched behind her back and her feet tied together with a plastic zip tie. Instead, he focused on John Smith. He’d known John for more than three decades, a man always in the shadows. A man you called to fix your problems. How Quentin wished he’d never called John the night Jesse died. But the thought of Ruby learning what her daughter had done drove him to make a choice that continued to haunt him.

“Quentin.” John consulted his phone. “You cut it a little close.”

“I’m here now.” Quentin didn’t move from his position near the shed door. “Why did you take Melender?”

“I’m just following your orders.” John’s tone held a mocking note.

“I never said—”

“You said she needed to be taken care of.”

Quentin couldn’t disagree, but that was before police dug up his rose garden. “It’s over, John.”

“It is not over.” John pointed a finger at Quentin. “I will not be left holding the bag on this mess. You are in neck deep too.”

“You’re right.” Quentin’s admission sailed right past John, as the other man continued his tirade.

“You’re the one who wanted to make it look like Jesse disappeared.”

Memories of that night flooded Quentin’s senses. He could almost hear Jillian asking why her daddy was crying.

“You’re the one who came up with a plausible tale to spin to throw suspicion off of your other children.” Each word John said twisted the knife in Quentin’s gut.

The coldness of his plan hadn’t seemed that stark to him as he pushed down his grief over Jesse’s death. Jared’s panic and Jillian’s cries had only fueled his calmness. He put out fires constantly in his line of work. Keeping his head in the midst of this family crisis had been second nature. Gazing down at Jesse’s lifeless body in his crib, the story of what might have happened unspooled in his mind until it became what actually happened, supplanting the truth with a more palatable lie.

“You’re the one who suggested putting the blame on your niece.”

He couldn’t have Jillian grow up knowing she’d killed her baby brother by accidentally smothering him with his blue bunny. While his older son had his share of problems, Quentin wasn’t about to let his own flesh and blood go to prison on a drug charge or child neglect. In the end, the decision to sacrifice a niece he barely knew had been easy—it had seemed like the only way to keep what remained of his family intact.

John stared straight at him. “And you’re the one who picked out the burial place for your son.”

A burial place now being disturbed by shovels. Quentin bowed his head. Every word John said pierced his heart, but instead of fear or anger, relief was the emotion that rose to the top. He’d kept company with this secret for nineteen years. Letting go brought a relief sweeter than he’d ever imagined. His phone buzzed. Automatically, he pulled it out of his pocket to see a text from Jillian.

Dad, where are you? You’ve got to come home. Now. They found something in the garden. Won’t tell us what it is, but Mom’s falling apart.

“Bad news?” John’s tone indicated he couldn’t care less if it was.

“No.” Quentin looked at the man as the last vestiges of self-preservation evaporated like the morning mist on a mountain top. He drew in a deep breath to gather the courage to put the unimaginable into words. “They’ve found Jesse.”

“What?” Melender’s voice came out in a whisper. “Where?”

Quentin finally turned to his niece. Strands of her long, blonde hair had escaped her braid and bunched around her face. Sorrow infused his entire body. “They found Jesse’s grave in our rose garden.”

* * *

In the hospital café,Brogan stared at Livingston. He couldn’t quite comprehend what the detective had just told him after Carstairs had stepped away to confer with a colleague. “They found human remains in the Thompson’s rose garden?”

“Yes, but not an adult’s.” Livingston’s mouth settled into a grim line. “An infant’s.”

“Jesse.” Brogan stated the obvious as more pieces of this intricate puzzle slipped into place.

“It seems highly likely.” Livingston’s phone buzzed. “I need to get this.” The detective walked a few steps away and answered the call.

Melender was missing. Jesse’s body had finally been found, just yards from his home. Would everyone believe Melender had buried Jesse’s body in her own backyard? Or would the police try to uncover what really happened that night? Part of him itched to phone Fallon with an update, but he resisted. Finding Melender took top priority.

“Brogan!” Seth approached the table. “Fallon wants to know why you’re ignoring his texts and calls.”

Brogan had texted Seth about the accident while waiting to for the doctor to put in the stitches. Now he motioned for Seth to have a seat, then filled him in on what had happened.

“Melender’s missing?” Seth latched on to what concerned Brogan the most.

“Yes, we’re hoping the tech can clean up the photo enough that we’ll be able to ID her kidnapper and give us a clue as to where he might have taken her.” Brogan fidgeted with his empty coffee cup. “I don’t understand why he’d take her now. Whoever rammed into us already got the information Stabe left for us.”

Livingston returned to the table but didn’t sit down. “Stabe’s dead.”

“What?” Brogan couldn’t believe it. “How?”

“Shot in the head,” Livingston said. “It’s too soon to tell if it’s suicide or murder.”

Brogan jotted the info down in his reporter’s notebook. “Where was he found?

“At his condo a couple of hours ago. The body was still warm, so he hadn’t been gone long.” Livingston tapped his phone against his leg. “You said he called you this morning?”

“Yeah.” Brogan summoned his recall of the conversation. “Stabe was scared, said he thought someone was following him. Also said he didn’t think he had much time.”

“Time for what?” Livingston asked.

“Wouldn’t say.” Not for the first time, Brogan wished he’d kept Stabe talking.

“Did he say anything else?” Livingston pressed.

“Just that he’d left something for me at reception at his law office, and I’d better go get it fast.” Brogan shoved a hand through his hair and winced as the movement pulled at his stitches. Fatigue pressed down on him as if the news of Stabe’s death had released an avalanche and his body couldn’t handle the additional news. The car accident. Stabe’s death. Infant remains recovered on the Thompson property. Melender missing. The only thing he cared about was finding Melender. Please, God, keep her safe!

Carstairs rejoined them. “Sasha’s got the photo ready.”

Brogan rose, along with Seth, and they followed Carstairs and Livingston to the security suite. Sasha didn’t look up when they entered the room with the bank of computer monitors.

“Here you go.” She pointed to an enlarged photo of a man, his features a little blurry.

“Recognize him?” Carstairs asked.

Livingston squinted at the screen. “There’s something about him that looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him.”

“Can you run it through facial recognition software or something?” Seth queried.

“You’ve been watching too many cop TV shows. The Feds have access, but we have to have a pretty high-profile case to ask them for that kind of favor,” Livingston said. “Can you print out a half dozen copies and email me the file?”

Carstairs nodded his approval, then Sasha hit the print button. “What’s your email address?”

As Livingston rattled it off, Brogan leaned closer to the screen. The man’s unremarkable features tickled something in his brain. He’d seen him before. Not recently, but back in his past. He focused his entire attention on the screen and blocked out the conversation around him. An image of a Washington, DC, Christmas party coalesced in his mind. He’d been there to meet his source for the charity story that ended his journalism career. While seeking a quiet place to talk, Brogan and his source had stumbled upon the man who had kidnapped Melender deep in conversation with a senator.

Pulling up the senator’s name from memory, Brogan pointed to the screen. “That looks like Senator Johnston’s former guy.”

Livingston turned to him. “Who?”

“I think he worked for United States Senator Johnston from Virginia. I saw him and the senator talking at a party a decade or so and asked someone who he was.” Brogan concentrated on dredging up more information from the long-ago party.

When Brogan didn’t immediately continue, Livingston prodded, “And did you find out?”

The name came to Brogan in a flash. “John Smith.”

“John Smith.” Livingston narrowed his eyes. “You’re not joking.”

Brogan shrugged. “I know, it sounds like it can’t possibly be his real name. And it might not be, but that’s the name everyone called him.” He once again indicated the photo on the screen. He wasn’t sure how Smith figured into all this, but it looked like the man was trying to erase all evidence related to Jesse’s death and disappearance.

“Hard to believe there are people actually named John Smith, right?” Seth smiled, but it quickly faded.

“We’ll run it through the system, along with the Senator Johnston connection. That might narrow down the search.” Livingston accepted the photo printouts, then turned to Brogan. “Don’t worry—we’ll find her.”

As he followed Livingston and Seth out of the room, snippets of other information he’d gleaned about Smith rose in his mind. The man had a hard reputation for handling all manner of dirty work, including bribes and making people disappear. Brogan prayed they would locate Melender before Smith finished tying up loose ends.