Speak for Me, page 11
part #3 of Amelia Kellaway Series
“Yes, that’s correct, Amelia, after I buried her.”
His eyes drift across the reservoir. He raises his arm and points to an old chain-link fence.
“Over there,” he says.
“You sure?” says Novak.
Rex nods decisively. “I’m certain.”
We walk the circumference, the rain beating down us, trying not to lose our footing on the slippery earth bordering the reservoir. We pause when we reach the rusty chain-link fence. Rex walks on a few feet until he’s under the trees. He clutches the remnants of an old fence line and kneels down.
He brushes his hand over the surface of the ground and looks up at us. “Here,” he says.
*
Sheltered by a canvas lean-to, Blake, Rex, March, and I watch as Novak and the two forensic technicians use small trowels to excavate the site a little at a time. March had the foresight to bring supplies, three boxes of high-protein nut bars and a flask of strong, black coffee, and we sit there sipping the steaming bitter liquid in plastic cups. I can’t face the thought of food though, so the little foil packet lies unopened in front of me.
It’s four in the afternoon and already getting dark. Novak and the technicians will soon need light. I pray they find something soon. We need to make progress.
Suddenly there’s a commotion. Novak yells stop and holds up his hand.
“Looks like they got a hit,” says Blake, standing.
Novak and the two technicians look down at the disturbed earth.
I lower my coffee and get to my feet. “Blake, you stay here with Rex. Laura, come with me.”
We go over for a closer look. I stare into the hole. Looking back at me is the butterfly-shaped bone of a pelvis.
“Is she all there?” I say.
“We won’t know for sure until we dig deeper,” he says, grimly. Novak puts his hand on his hips and looks around the forest. “But, Amelia, thirty-plus years have passed, and what with the grave being so shallow, there’s a possibility we won’t be able to recover every last piece of her.”
Poor Bernetta. Poor Bernetta’s mother. Novak touches my shoulder.
“You’re freezing. Go wait in the car. I can’t have that husband of yours blaming me for you and your offspring’s untimely demise due to pneumonia.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Keep going.”
I tear myself from that heart-wrenching sight and return to wait with the others.
An hour later, they are done and all that is left of Bernetta James is laid out on a bright blue tarp next to the grave. A full skeleton, thank God, including a small, ghostly, hollow-eyed skull. Some remnants of clothing, mainly fragments of a pair of khaki shorts and a yellow T-shirt. A pair of relatively intact thick-soled hiking boots. And a vibrant pink nylon day pack, the contents of which included a water bottle, a disintegrated granola bar, a paperback copy of The Valley of the Dolls, and a Pepsi-Cola bottle opener key fob with a set of house keys on it. The items are a pitiful sight. A stark reminder of how an innocent walk in the woods had turned into a woman’s worst nightmare.
Novak joins us under the shelter. He’s soaked to the skin and covered in dirt. March passes him a bottle of water and he chugs it back in one go.
When he’s done, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stares at Rex. “I hope you’re happy with yourself.”
Rex frowns. “Of course I’m not happy.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Hawkins. You’re lapping this up. All your handiwork on display for everyone to see.”
“That isn’t true,” protests Rex.
But it’s there. The slight pride in his voice. We all hear it.
Novak bares his teeth. “Blake, get this sick fuck out of here before I do something I regret.”
25
It’s after six by the time Bernetta’s body is removed from the site. It’s dark and cold and wet. Miserable conditions for everyone. The team is dispersed around the place, the FBI conversing in their SUV while the SWAT team remain at their posts, eyes trained on Rex, Blake, March, and I as we wait in the lean-to. Novak sees off the body removal van then joins us, somber-faced and tired.
He looks at his watch. “The other site’s an hour’s east of here, near the Fremont-Winema National Forest. Caitlyn McLellan, the twenty-two-year-old. We should get going.” He shoots Rex a hard look. “Any complaints about that, Hawkins?”
Rex shakes his head. “I’m ready to work through the night if I have to.”
“Well, aren’t you just the hero,” mutters Novak.
Rex looks put out. “I gave you Bernetta, didn’t I? Just like I said I would.”
“What you gave us, Hawkins, was the run-around and I don’t want that happening again, do you understand me?”
Rex holds his gaze. “Whatever you say, Special Agent Novak.”
Things are getting tense and I’m grateful to see one of the FBI agents lope toward us. Mike Chamberlain, a Boston native, who led the Sandy Hook body recovery.
“Bad news,” he says, holding his cell phone to his chest. “There’s flooding in Fremont Forest Park. Serious, apparently.”
Novak’s pissed. “You’re shitting me.”
Mike shakes his head. “I wish I was.”
I look at the rain coming down outside the tent.
“Any idea when’s its predicted to ease?”
“They’re saying it could last for days, ma’am.”
“Perfect,” says Novak.
Mike tips his phone. “What do you want me to tell them? Postpone until daylight?”
Novak stands there, thinking.
“Look,” he says. “I know it’s a risk, but I say we go for it.”
I stare at him. “You want to go to Fremont Park while it’s flooded?”
He nods. “We just carry on up there and if the flooding’s too bad when we get there, we pull back and stop for the night.”
No one says anything.
“I agree,” says March.
“Laura, are you sure?” I say.
“Yes, Ms. Kellaway. We might as well go and take a look. It might not be as bad as they say. It’s the only way we’re going to know for sure.”
I turn to Blake and Mike. “And what about you two?”
“I say it’s worth a shot,” say Mike.
Blake nods. “Ditto that.”
I stand there, thinking. “All right,” I say, finally. “We go there and assess the situation. If there’s a risk to life we don’t go in. Understood, Novak?”
He nods. “You’re the boss.”
*
We continue on up the central divide, taking Route 97 for about an hour until we reach an intersection, then head west along a lonesome back road. The road’s sealed but unlit, apart from the periodic flash of the amber reflective markers studded along the shoulder. The radio plays softly in the background, a soulful male rendition of “Amazing Grace,” which only adds to the strangeness of the situation. I stare at the mesmerizing glow of the GPS fixed to the dash as I listen to the words. I once was lost and now I’m found. ’Twas blind but now I see. If anyone else notices the irony, they aren’t saying.
I glance over my shoulder. Rex is dozing, head back on the seat, eyes shut. Blake isn’t being complacent, though. He remains alert, hand hovering close to his holster. I return to the front and stare out the windshield at the black miserable night. I doubt Blake will need his gun. Rex isn’t going anywhere. He wants to see this thing through. I’m not sure whether it’s solely driven by his ego or a genuine need to put things right. Maybe it’s a combination of the two. But what does it matter as long as we get the women back to their families?
Up ahead, a road sign illuminates in the headlights. Sour Bend Falls. Novak turns left and takes a narrow side road. Behind us the other vehicles follow, their headlights sweeping across the line of firs as they make the turn. We continue on for about half a mile, stopping when we come to an overflowing gully.
I peer out the window at the rushing water. “How deep do you think it is?”
“Difficult to say,” says Novak.
Rex points to the window control. “May I?” he says to Blake.
Blake nods and Rex lowers the window and looks out.
“You should be okay if you cross over to the right by the stones. It’s shallow there, you can tell by the angle of the trees along the banks.”
Novak zips up his jacket and pulls on his hood. “I’m not asking for your advice, Hawkins.”
He opens the door and gets out. I watch in my wing mirror as he approaches Mike, who is already walking the length of the bank. Novak grabs a tree branch and checks the depth of the water. They stand there for a moment, hands on their hips, deep in discussion, then head back toward their respective vehicles.
When Novak gets in the driver’s seat, I say, “You and Mike have a plan?”
Novak puts the gear in reverse and looks over his shoulder as he backs the car away from the gully.
“We’re going to try for it. Mike’s going first to see if it’s safe, then the crew’s van, then us, the SWAT team to come behind.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
He nods. “It’s a good plan, Amelia. You just have to trust me.”
Novak parks off to the side, angling the car so the headlights illuminate the gully crossing where Rex suggested. We wait in silence, engine idling, as Mike attempts to make the crossing in the FBI vehicle. I hold my breath as he edges the SUV out a little at a time. But Rex was right, the gully is relatively shallow and Mike makes it to the other side without incident.
Next comes the van. At first everything seems okay as it inches out into the gully. Then, quite suddenly, the van’s nose dips into the water and the back tires begin to spin frantically.
“Stay here,” says Novak, getting out.
He goes around to the trunk, digs inside, shuts it with a thud. I see the beam of his flashlight tracing the ground as he heads left, away from the van. He carries on for about ten yards then stops. He sweeps the light back and forth over the bank then continues left into a thicket of brush and disappears from view. A few minutes later he strides back toward us, the hood of his parka obscuring his face.
“I found another way across,” he says, opening the door. “We can’t take a vehicle because of the trees, but we can walk.” He looks at me and March. “I’ll go ahead with Blake and Hawkins to the site. You guys can catch up when they’ve got the van free.”
March looks concerned. “But, sir, that’s a breach of the security protocol.”
“Oh, I think Hawkins will behave himself, March. He knows I wouldn’t hesitate to blow his fucking head off if I need to, don’t you, Hawkins?”
Rex shrugs. “Like I’ve said all along, I’m here to help, not cause trouble.”
Blake and Rex join Novak outside, and I watch the three of them walk away with a sinking feeling.
“I don’t like this, March.”
“Me neither, Ms. Kellaway. Would you like me to call Mike?”
I turn around to look at her. “You mean go over Novak’s head?”
She nods. “It’s an option. For everyone’s safety.”
I sit there, thinking.
“No,” I say, exhaling. “Let’s assume Novak knows what he’s doing.”
March and I wait a full twenty minutes as they extract the van from the gully by piling rocks and logs under each tire for traction. One of the SWAT team, Davis, I think, lets out a cheer when the van finally takes off and makes it to the other side.
I look at March, who’s swapped to the driver’s seat in Novak’s absence. “That’s us, Laura. You got this?”
She nods. “I do.”
March takes her time angling the car into the gully. As we roll forward, I glance out the side window at the rushing water. My heart lobs in my throat. It looks so deep and wild. Strong enough to lift up the vehicle and sweep it downstream.
March inches out further and water pounds the sides of the car.
“This is the deepest part, Ms. Kellaway,” says March. “Hang on.”
The car rocks from side-to-side. I grab hold of the handle above the doorway to steady myself.
When we are three-quarters across, March says, “We should be good from here.”
As long as there’s not a flash flood, I think. But March is right and I’m relieved when we make it across in one piece. She brings the car to a complete stop on the bank and receives a round of applause from the others who’ve been watching our progress.
She turns to me. “You’re sweating,” she says, smiling. “Did you think I couldn’t do it?”
I return her smile. “I never doubted you for a second, Laura.”
Everyone returns to their vehicles and we carry on up the road to the original body site. But when we arrive, there’s no sign of Novak, Blake, and Rex.
“They’ve gone on without us,” I say to March, irritated. “See if you can reach Novak on his cell. I’ll go and talk to Mike.”
I button my coat to the throat, pull on the hood, and step outside. I’m halfway over to Mike when a shot rings out. Instinctively I duck and cover my head. Another shot follows. Members of the SWAT team run past me. The only thing I can think of is that Rex must have escaped.
“Stay there!” shouts Mike.
But I don’t. I run, too, heading for the woods like everyone else. Thoughts of Novak and Blake rush through my head. I should never have let them go on with Rex alone. I try to keep up with the others, cupping my stomach as I go, but it’s futile, I’m barely at a jog with my useless half-foot. Breathless, I pause by a tree. An intense cramp suddenly hits me. It feels like my insides are being squeezed in a vise. Sweat Jesus. I breathe through it and mercifully it passes.
I hear shouting.
“That way!”
“Target to the left!”
I look around in the darkness and try and make sense of what’s happening. All around me, the woods are alive with thumping boots and cracking branches. Helmet lights bob up and down through the trees like giant fireflies.
I keep going and reach a clearing. The howling wind and rain smashes into me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I consider turning back when I see March in the distance crouched over someone on the ground. My heart falls to the pit of my stomach.
I fight my way toward her through the bitter rain. When I reach her, my hand flies to my mouth. Blake is dead, shot between the eyes. Novak and Rex have been shot, too, but both are still alive, writhing in pain on the ground. I don’t understand. What is Rex doing here? If he’s not the shooter, who is? I hear the crack of another shot in the woods.
I shout over the driving wind, “What the hell is going on, Laura! Who’s doing the shooting?”
The shooting stops. I hold my breath waiting for more but there’s nothing. Something catches my eye to the left. It’s Mike emerging from the woods. A wave of relief washes over me—he’s still alive.
He holds up his phone when he reaches us. “Recognize him?”
It’s a photo of man’s body, clearly dead, flashlight illuminating his lifeless face. March and I look at each other.
Finally, I nod. “That’s Randy Miller. One of the victims’ brother.”
26
I first met Randy Miller a year ago when March and I had been deep in the investigation stage of the plea deal, trying to track down all of Rex’s possible known victims. There had been a hotline set up, which had produced thousands of tips, most of which turned out to be nothing. But one, a note about a nineteen-year-old local woman named Karen Miller, caught my attention. Randy Miller, the woman’s brother, had phoned it in.
When I dialed the number to return the call, the man who answered sounded drunk.
“Randy Miller?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m calling about your sister.”
“You got news about Karen?” he said, thickly.
“I’m just following up on your call.”
There’d been a pause. “I don’t like talking on the phone. You best come see me.”
March and I took the hour-long drive to Redwood, a small town just outside of Bend. When we arrived, I was surprised to see the address was for a return veterans drop-in center. The center was located in an old weatherboard house with a pretty porch set against the boundary of a park. We were shown into the lounge area by a clerk, where a bunch of men were playing cards.
“Randy, you got people,” said the clerk.
When the man with the mop of blond hair turned around, I immediately saw the reason for his slurred speech. Part of his jaw was missing.
I introduced myself. “I’m Amelia Kellaway, and this is Special Agent Laura March.”
He stood up. “There’s a place out the back where we can talk.”
Randy showed us to a small room with sloping ceilings which looked like it doubled as a library. On the left side near a small window overlooking the backyard, two large bookcases overflowed with thick, doorstopper novels. Wilbur Smith. Stephen King. Tom Clancy. Stacks of well-thumbed magazines about motorsports, fishing, boating, and hunting filled the lower tiers. I suspected most of the reading material was donated and made a mental note that when it came time for me and Ethan to move, I would find a similar veterans drop-in center in my area and put my unwanted books to good use.
March and I took a seat on the old paisley sofa by the window while Randy Miller sat in the wooden chair opposite.
He glanced down at my cane. “Which foot?” he said.
“Right. Partial amputation. Lucky they could save what they did.”
He grunted and nodded. I tried not to look at his twisted jaw, but its grotesqueness was compelling and I was fascinated with it the same way I was when I first saw my own foot after the operation.
“Unexploded ordinance. Ramadi,” he said. “My jaw shattered into a million different pieces. But I can drink, chew, and talk so I’m grateful. That’s more than some guys get.” He wiped a smidge of saliva edging from the corner of his mouth with his thumb and continued. “So you want to talk about Karen?”
I nodded. “Tell us more about the circumstances of her disappearance.”
He looked at me. “This fucker, Hawkins whatever, you think he could be responsible?”
