

# Never Coming Home

By: A.R. Wise

A Lincoln Pierce Mystery

Copyright 2015

Cover by A.R. Wise

Original photo sourced from iStockphoto.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person for free, that would be fine. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# Arthur

He liked to make them wait. It gave them time to get scared.

He kept her in a locked room, tied to a four poster bed with a frame made of aluminum rods. She was lying on a single mattress fitted with a heavily bleached sheet. The walls of her prison were grey, with brown splotches on the wall that might be old blood. A single incandescent bulb hung from the ceiling, its abrasive white light seeming to vibrate in the nearly featureless space.

"Hello?" she called out while looking up at the camera in the corner. "Anyone there?"

She was cold. Her lips had taken on a blue tint, and Arthur wondered if she was shivering from fear or just the chill.

She was older than most of the others. Blonde and thin, with large blue eyes that might've been pretty except for how they bulged, a victim of how gaunt she was. Her teeth were too large for her mouth, like a corpse with receding lips. When she smiled, he cringed. He hated this one.

Arthur sat at his desk in the unfinished cellar, in front of three computer monitors, and watched the camera's feed. The gentle hum of electronics surrounded him as the soft glow of the screens provided his only light.

The prisoner grew restless. She struggled on the bed and yelled out curses as she pulled at the ropes holding her down. "If you're going to do something, then do it already."

'That's good,' he thought as he watched her. Soon he could get started. He was already wearing his surgeon's mask and apron. The mask pressed tightly against his salt-and-pepper beard.

He anticipated the look of fear in her eyes when he finally opened the door and revealed himself, the scalpel in hand. He took out two plastic gloves from the box on his desk and saw that he was running low. He slipped the gloves on, snapping them at his wrists as he pulled them taut.

She kept screaming, and started to writhe so much that the rope chaffed her wrists. He wanted to give her more time to struggle, but the wait was excruciating. He hoped she would bloody her wrists. That would heighten his pleasure.

He perused the internet as he waited, but then he moused over to a folder labeled 'Betty' that was on one of his external hard drives. He let the cursor linger over the file, intent on leaving it closed. The contents were forbidden. A self-imposed ban to protect himself from his darkest side. His heart raced at the prospect of opening the file and exploring the contents. He wanted to see the pictures and articles detailing the crime that'd come to dominate his sleepless nights for nearly a decade.

The anniversary was coming up. Just a week away. Surely that warranted a peek.

No. He wouldn't open it.

The girl screamed so loud that the speakers on his computer crackled. The camera feed took up one of his monitors, and he watched the prostitute as she writhed in her bindings. He watched her wrists, hoping to see a trickle of blood, but there wasn't any. She wasn't scared enough yet. She wasn't trying hard enough to get free.

He turned down the volume on his speakers and minimized the camera feed. Now her cries were muted by the soundproof wall behind him as he stared intently at the file named, 'Betty.'

He double-clicked the file, and the computer asked for a password. His finger trembled as it hovered over the first letter of the code. He frequently reviewed the material contained within, but never before meeting with one of the girls. That was too dangerous. He knew it was a mistake, but today he did it anyway. It felt like he was honoring the girl whose death had started it all.

He opened Betty's file.

Seconds later, Betty Kline's face stared out at him. It was from her yearbook, and seeing it caused his heart to flutter and his muscles to tighten.

He didn't need to read the articles about the crime, or examine the police account, or peruse the evidence. Just the sight of Betty's smiling visage brought it all back. He remembered everything about the day she died.

His prisoner slammed herself up and down on the bed, breaking his momentary daze. The aluminum posts clattered on the concrete, which finally earned his attention. He stood back up, retrieved the scalpel, and then walked over to the door that led to her prison.

He tried to forget Betty's eyes, but her picture was burned into his memory. He wanted to go stare at her again. That cherubic face, with her lush, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and her dimpled cheeks on full display as she grinned. Those baby blue eyes. He wanted to touch her again, or smell her hair, or kiss her, or wrap his hands around her neck.

The meth addict tied to the bed would have to suffice.

"What the hell?" asked the prostitute when he entered, dressed in his surgeon costume. She looked more annoyed than afraid.

He showed her the scalpel, which inspired her to scream out for help before he closed the door behind him. "This is going to hurt," he said in a purposefully rough and gravelly voice.

She cursed at him and twisted on the bed, fighting to get free just like he'd told her to, but she wasn't a gifted actress. He knew she was only in it for the money, like most of the girls that came before her, but usually he was able to look past that fact and enjoy himself. Not tonight.

He couldn't stop thinking about Betty.

"I'm sorry," he said as his posture deflated. "I can't do this. Not now. I'm sorry."

She stopped struggling and looked at him with a weary expression as she asked, "You sure? I'm not giving back the money."

Her wrists still weren't bleeding. They were barely red. She wasn't scared at all.

"That's fine." He walked over and started to undo the ropes that held her down. "Go ahead and put your blindfold on and I'll drive you back to where I picked you up."

"You think you could drop me off at the corner of Broadway and Pine instead? I got some things I need to do out that way." She rubbed her wrists. The forced fear she'd exhibited moments earlier had evaporated as she stretched and then rubbed her weary muscles.

"No," he said as he moved over to untie her feet. She was in a t-shirt and panties, with her thin, bruised legs exposed. Her flesh was covered in goose bumps that caused her stubble to poke out like pins that scratched him as his arm brushed against her. "I'll drop you off in the same place I picked you up."

"Fine." She was annoyed with him, and pulled her foot away from his grasp after he'd untied her. She picked up her pants and wormed her way into them before grabbing the black blindfold he'd given her when he picked her up.

Their meeting had been arranged online. They didn't know each other's real names. She didn't know where he lived, or anything about him other than that he had sadistic desires. He'd instructed her to be afraid when he 'raped' her, and that there would be choking involved. This wasn't the sort of transaction that could be made with regular prostitutes, and required him to find willing participants in the deep web, a part of the internet most people live their entire lives without ever knowing anything about.

The anonymous drug addict in his basement was standing in the room blindfolded, waiting for him to lead her outside. "Let's go," she said, her tone weary and carrying what he assumed was an accusatory edge. She hated him. She was in control.

He looked at her neck, and his right hand twitched.

"Are we going?"

He shushed her, and then moved close enough that their bodies touched. She was startled by his approach, and flinched before asking, "Did you change your mind or something?"

He shushed her again, and then moved in for a kiss. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine there was someone else here with him, but her dry, chapped lips destroyed the illusion. He was disappointed, but decided to continue. There was no stopping this now.

He thought of Betty.

He put his hands on her throat, which she'd expected. She charged extra for choking, and he'd already paid. She squirmed and put her hands on his wrists before asking, "Should I fight?"

He didn't answer before squeezing. He could feel her pulse through the gloves, but this was tantamount to sex with a condom, and he was hungry for more. He stopped, and she staggered backward, smiling as she said, "That was nice."

That was the worst thing she could've done. It wasn't supposed to be nice for her. That's not what this was about. He pulled off the gloves and threw them to the corner. He needed to feel her skin against his hands as she earned her money. Next, he reached over and took off her blindfold. He wanted her to see this coming.

His attack was sudden and violent, causing his victim to fall backward onto the bed. The flimsy aluminum frame jostled and then failed. The front legs bent, and the mattress fell forward so that they were at an angle as he straddled her. He gripped her throat hard enough to cause her to involuntarily struggle. She squirmed and thrashed, but then forced herself to calm down because this is what he'd paid her for.

Just a little pain.

A couple minutes of pain bought for a few hundred dollars. These transactions happen far more frequently than the average person would ever guess.

It can take anywhere from five to twenty seconds for a person to fall unconscious from lack of blood to the brain. He knew where to place his hands to restrict blood flow through the carotid arteries. He'd done this so many times that he'd become an expert.

Most of the women he paid to choke assumed he would do it during sex, but that wasn't what he enjoyed. He liked to cause them to pass out, and then he would masturbate over them before they regained consciousness.

This time would be different.

This time he wouldn't let go.

The prostitute lost consciousness, but he kept his strong hands on her throat, restricting blood flow to her brain. Each second felt orgasmic as he kept his grip tight. He could feel her arteries pulse as her body desperately tried to force blood past his hands. Would he kill her? It'd been years since he'd succumbed to his demons – years since he let one die. Every second that passed brought her closer to death and him closer to a release he'd tried to pretend he didn't crave.

He wasn't tamed like they thought, but a wild beast feigning normalcy, craving release.

She was unconscious now, and this was the moment where he had to decide whether or not to give in. If he released her, then she would wake up shortly after blood returned to her brain. She would be groggy, but unharmed, and he could drive her back to the alley where he'd picked her up. They could go their separate ways, their transaction complete.

Or he could finish the deed.

He kept his hands over the arteries, restricting blood flow, and then gently rubbed his thumbs over her windpipe. If he wanted to kill her, there was nothing she could do to stop him. Her life was in his hands.

He felt like a child at the edge of a pool, staring into the deep end and daring himself to jump. All he had to do was act.

His heart thundered as he stared down at her. This life in his hands, waiting for his judgment.

He pressed his thumbs harder against her windpipe, and a guttural groan escaped the woman as he applied more pressure. Her visage changed as her mouth gaped wider and her tongue stuck out, rigid as he squeezed. Then came the 'pop' as he crushed her windpipe. She began to shake. The point of no return had come and gone, and now all that was left to do was finish the deed.

It wouldn't be quick. Strangling a person never is. It's a long, laborious project in which the offender must keep constant pressure to prevent oxygen from entering the victim. He also needed to keep the arteries from supplying blood to her brain, to keep her from waking up and fighting back. Her body lurched beneath him, but she never regained consciousness, and soon her lips turned blue as her eyes became bloodshot.

Next came the most satisfying part, as he felt the pulse in her neck ease, and then stop. He kept his hands wrapped around her throat for longer than needed before finally releasing her. He stood up, frightened by what he'd done, but undeniably aroused.

He backed away from the corpse, and out of the room. He looked behind him at the computer screen where Betty Kline's smiling portrait stared back, the details about the crime that ended her life sitting there waiting for him to enjoy again.

He trembled as he sat back down at the computer, excited and fulfilled. He felt no sadness for succumbing to the demons that he'd kept hidden for so long. Instead, he began to smile as he stared at the dead whore on his basement floor.

He'd forgotten how good this felt.

Arthur walked back over to her, took off his pants, and pleasured himself while staring into the prostitute's bloodshot eyes.

# Chapter One

A handsome man in a tailored suit sat at the bar, sipping a martini so cold it frosted the glass. His large hand delicately held the stem, and when he set the drink down he placed it on the lacquered bar instead of the coaster provided.

"I'm not an alcoholic," he said to the young man standing beside him. "I'm just drunk all the time."

The brute in the loose-fitting, department store mockery of men's wear wasn't amused, and his frown barely moved as he said, "The boss wants to see you, drunk or not."

"Your boss," said the man at the bar, pointing with two fingers up at the man sent to retrieve him. He winked and added, "Not mine."

"Are you going to make this difficult?"

"My plans for the afternoon were pretty simple. You're the one making things difficult."

The enforcer nodded towards the drink and said, "Pay for that and let's go."

"You hear that music playing? That's Etta James singing about watching her lover walk away with another woman, and how it hurts so bad that she'd rather go blind than see it." He winced as if the music had the power to physically hurt him. "Now tell me, fellow, what could your boss possibly have to say to me that's more important than letting her finish?"

"Song's winding down."

The man at the bar smiled and conceded the point with a lackadaisical nod. He repeated the phrase as if in appreciation, "Song's winding down, but I've still got a martini and a cigar, and there's always more songs."

"You're starting to get on my bad side, Mr. Pierce."

"Yeah? Well then we're on equal ground. Considering how little we like each other, maybe it's best we go our separate ways." He looked pleased with himself as he put his fresh cut, unlit cigar in his mouth and grinned. A new song came on before he had a chance to get out his lighter. "You hear that? What'd I tell you? There's always another song. Who's this? Otis Redding?"

The man with the slicked back hair and lazy excuse for a beard reached into the inside pocket of his brown blazer and took out a thick billfold packed with cards, cash, and torn edges of paper. He took out a five dollar bill and tossed it on the bar before glaring back down at the man he'd been sent to retrieve. "Let's go."

"Five dollars? What dive bar slums are you rotting away in that you've got it in your head a quality martini costs five dollars? And haven't you ever heard of a tip?"

The enforcer took his wallet back out and grumbled as he got a few more dollars.

"Keep digging," said Mr. Pierce. When the enforcer glowered at him, he shrugged and said, "Blame the economy."

After taking out five singles, the enforcer began to get angry. He threw the money on the bar and the bills splayed out and nearly fell off the opposite side before they got caught in a ring of moisture left behind by the martini.

"Now let's talk about a tip."

"Give me that. It's mine now." The angry stranger took the martini and then dumped it in the rubber mat that was meant to catch any spills the bartender made while mixing drinks. The enforcer's knuckles were scarred, probably from beating up a hundred other men his boss had sent him to visit. "You're done, let's go."

"And here I thought this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"You thought wrong. Now get up before I get nasty." The enforcer was young but strong, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest. He could easily best the middle-aged drunk at the bar if he needed to.

"Get your money," Mr. Pierce said as he finally stood up from the stool and took out his money clip. He slid a twenty from the tightly folded bills and set it beneath the coaster. The enforcer picked up his wet dollars and shoved them back into his wallet as Mr. Pierce lit a cigar.

Lincoln walked to the entrance of the bar, where the afternoon sunshine was muted by amber glass. He puffed until the flame blackened the tip of his Churchill. Thick, pungent smoke filled the air as he waited for the other man to finish putting his money away.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Bentley."

"You've got a name like Bentley and you're wearing that mockery of a suit? Hurry up and stuff that lunch money back between the Velcro so we can get on with this. I've got things to do."

"It's not Velcro," said Bentley as showed Lincoln his wallet before stuffing it back into the inside pocket of his blazer, causing the front to bulge out even more than his ample chest already did.

"You've got an A-Class name with D-Class sensibilities, kid. Take that out of there." He walked over to the young enforcer and reached in for the wallet. When Bentley resisted, Mr. Pierce hushed him and took the wallet out anyhow. "See this library book you call a wallet? Don't ever put this in your coat pocket again. It bulges out like a third tit. Put that wallet in your pants with your keys and your phone, and not in your back pocket. Look at this thing. What are these?" He flicked the strips of paper poking out from the top of the wallet.

"They're receipts."

"Receipts? From when? No, don't even answer that. I don't care. All you need is your license, a credit card, and cash. The rest of this should stay at home. If your wallet's thicker than your phone, you're doing it wrong." Lincoln noticed a gold chain poking out from beneath the enforcer's collar. He pointed at it as he said, "And don't wear a necklace when you're wearing a tie. What's the point of that? Didn't your mother teach you how to dress?"

Bentley laughed and said, "My momma always said never trust a dapper man because all they're dressing up is their demons."

"Oh I'm sorry, is your momma the new authority on being a man?"

Bentley was without a comeback, and only frowned.

"I didn't think so. If you want people to take you seriously then you've got to be the one to start."

"Start what?

"Start taking yourself seriously. Are you even listening? No one in this whole world gives a shit about you until you make them. Except maybe your momma. But do yourself a favor and stop listening when she tells you how great you are as she's tucking you in at night."

Bentley practically growled his answer, "I don't live with my momma."

"No? So it was you who picked out that dime store cologne you took a bath in?"

Lincoln Pierce opened the door to Pearl Street and the sunshine momentarily blinded him. The tourists were out in force, their arms loaded with bags of knick-knacks they'd bought at the outdoor mall. The air was crisp, although it'd lost the early morning chill.

"Dan warned me about you," said Bentley as he followed behind Lincoln.

"What sort of warning did he give you?"

"That you could be a difficult person to like."

Lincoln snickered. "Me? That's rich, especially coming from someone in your line of work."

"You don't know anything about me."

"You work for Daniel Barr, right?" asked Lincoln. "And judging by those penny loafers on your feet, you're not concerned with impressing anyone. That means you're either low-level and don't know any better or you're lazy and couldn't care less. Mr. Barr's not the sort of man who surrounds himself with corner hustlers, but he needs a certain amount of muscle. My guess is he threw a couple hundred bucks your way to leave a shitty job as a bouncer at a strip joint and come work for him. Then you had to dig in your closet to pull out the last thing you wore to a funeral. Am I right, or am I overestimating?"

Bentley didn't answer, but Lincoln's comment had clearly stung. The young man walked silently beside Lincoln as they headed west. They weren't far from their destination, but the blazing sunshine on the warm fall day still had long enough to make them uncomfortable before they reached the office. The ground floor of the office building was taken up by a restaurant and a tequila bar, and they had to walk between the two businesses to get into the wide, open lobby that looked up at the glass walls of the second floor offices. From there they passed the elevators and took the stairs up to where Mr. Barr was watching from behind the glass walls. He was short and stocky, with black hair that still looked wet from the product that kept it in place. Daniel Barr was the type of man who wore pinky rings as thick as knuckles, and tipped everyone who would accept the money. His smile was never a good indicator of what he was really thinking.

"You're late," said Mr. Barr as he held the door open for Lincoln and Bentley, smiling like always.

"Considering I never wanted to see you again, I figure I'm getting here ahead of schedule."

"Lincoln, that's no way to talk to one of your oldest, dearest friends."

"You're right," said Lincoln as he walked into the office. "I'll keep that in mind the next time I see one."

"What did I tell you, Bentley?" asked Mr. Barr as his associate came in after Lincoln. "Is he a world class asshole or what?"

The office was empty except for them. It was the weekend, and the fabric-walled cubicles that stretched the length of the second floor were dark, abandoned by their employees. During a weekday this office would buzz with telephone conversations as Lincoln's sales force plied their wares, but on this Sunday he was forced to meet with the man he'd hoped to never hear from again.

"Why are you here, Dan?" asked Lincoln as curls of smoke rose from his cigar.

"You want to get right to business?" asked Daniel as he walked over to the large conference table that preceded the cubicles. This was where the office manager would meet with the salespeople each morning to discuss goals and recent successes. There were two closed offices near the conference table, but the vast majority of the time everyone was on the phone in their open cubicles, which was referred to as the 'salesfloor.'

"I was enjoying my day before now," said Lincoln as he sat at the conference table across from Daniel. "I'd like to get back to it as soon as possible."

"Enjoying your day," said Daniel with a smarmy grin and a sarcastic roll of his eyes. "Drinking yourself to an early grave is what you're doing."

"I'll get there in my own time." Lincoln slid an empty coffee cup closer to him so that he had a place to flick his ashes. "Let's cut to the chase. What do you want?"

"Two things," said Daniel as he leaned back as far as the office chair would allow. "First off, I wanted to let you know that I've rented the space across the hall from you." He pointed through the glass wall behind him. There was a hallway that separated Lincoln's area from another similar office that had formerly been rented by a real estate company. It was now vacant, and had been for a few months.

"The whole thing." Daniel pointed from the front of the building to the back.

"What for?"

"I couldn't pass up the chance to have an office on Pearl Street. The food around here is outstanding." He rubbed his pudgy hand over his dress shirt, and his pinky ring clacked against his pearlescent buttons. "And your operation is a moneymaker if I've ever seen one. I want to help you make the most of what you've got here."

"I'm not looking to expand."

"Sure you are. You just don't know it yet." Daniel turned to face Bentley. The young enforcer was still standing, his arms crossed as he leaned against the glass wall separating them from the hallway between the offices. "Bentley, did Mr. Pierce tell you what he does for a living here?"

Bentley shook his head. "Nope."

Daniel turned back to face Lincoln, smirking with his wormy lips. "He's a damn genius is what he is. He's practically printing money on the backs of little old grandmas. Isn't that right, Lincoln?"

"No, that's not right." Lincoln flicked his cigar, sending a wide hunk of ash into the cup.

"It all started with some sweet old lady he knew who used to knit things for his daughter. Hats, gloves, scarves, that sort of thing. People loved them. They kept asking where he bought them. Lincoln convinced the lady to sell her stuff online. He got a friend to help her set up an internet store, and before you knew it she was moving more than she could make. That's what got our friend here thinking, because that's the kind of shark he is. Wheels always turning in that head of his. He decided to quit his old job and live off the money he made helping people sell stuff online and to gift shops around the country. All they have to do is sign away some of the profits to Lincoln, and he handles the rest. Isn't that right? And last I heard, you were up to a thousand clients. Am I right?"

"We've got more than four thousand now."

Danny whistled and shook his head in appreciation. "Damn, that's incredible. And to think it all got started with a little girl's cancer." He looked over at Bentley and said, "Lincoln asked me for a cash infusion to get the ball rolling and to help with some medical bills, and now he's living the good life as his army of grannies knit their fingers bloody. It's a crazy world we live in."

"You run little old ladies like a sweat shop in here?" asked Bentley.

"No," said Lincoln. "This is a sales office. We build the sites and take the orders, and the little old ladies stay home with their grandkids and knit. It's a win-win."

"With certain parties winning a little more than others," said Daniel with a wink. "Am I right?"

"We do a lot more than sell knitted gloves these days. Everyone who works with me makes a good living. I'm not taking advantage of anyone," said Lincoln.

"No, of course not. I'm sure you're earning your cut down at the bar."

"What does this have to do with you renting the office next door?" asked Lincoln as he grew tired of their conversation.

"I like your business model, and I want to duplicate it..." Daniel wavered his hand and squinted. "With a few tweaks of my own."

"What for?" asked Lincoln. "I have trouble believing you want in on the Etsy craft market because you're passionate about knitted booties."

"I can be passionate about anything when untraceable transactions are involved."

Lincoln sat up straighter as he sensed the reason Daniel had insisted on the meeting. "You can't launder money online. There's a virtual paper trail a mile long."

"That's not true anymore, my friend. I've got my fair share of cash friendly businesses that help my clients keep their books in order, but when you funnel too much money through those kinds of places you run the risk of a stakeout. There's nothing the IRS likes more than an excuse to send out a suit with a calculator to spy on people like me. Your thing here though, it's got potential. Some of the guys I work with figured out a way to use online currency to make everything nice and neat for us. They can send in a hundred orders from a hundred different locations in a matter of seconds if they want. Trouble is, they need to have something to spend the money on that doesn't raise red flags." Daniel reached into his pocket and produced a pair of knitted gloves that he tossed onto the table. The gloves slid across the slick top and stopped at the side of Lincoln's cup. "Recognize those?"

Lincoln looked at the hand-made gloves with the distinctive pattern of waving lines and snowflakes. "You bought a pair of Barb's gloves?"

"It's insane how much she charges for those. Thirty bucks! And it can take up to a month for them to ship out," said Daniel. "It's almost like she's an artist in demand. I'm no economics expert, but I know a little something about supply and demand. If something like that became popular, there's no telling how high she could drive her price. And if all we're shipping out is empty boxes, then she doesn't even need to step up production."

"You can't be serious," said Lincoln. "You're going to drag a bunch of little old ladies into a life of crime? I don't think so."

"They don't have to know a thing about it. You're the one who handles the sales and shipping. As far as they're concerned, nothing has to change at all. We can transfer a few hundred of your current accounts over to the new sales group across the hall and no one has to be the wiser about what we're..."

"No way," said Lincoln as he emphatically shook his head. "Not a chance. The people in this office aren't getting dragged into your world. I told you when we started this that I wasn't going to have anything to do with your business. Sorry, Dan, but you're going to have to find someone else to take on this little scheme of yours."

"This is happening, with or without you," said Daniel. "The same investor who paid for you to open this office is renting the space across the hall, doing the same thing you're doing here. Now either you help us put it together right, or I'm going to have someone else try to fumble their way through it, and if they screw things up then you're going to be implicated right along with the rest of us. Before you know it, you'll have the IRS knocking on the doors of all those little old ladies working for you. Imagine how betrayed they're going to feel when they find out the nice man who convinced them to let him handle the sales side of their business is actually a mobbed-up drug peddler laundering money with their hard work. That's not what you want, is it?"

"A drug-peddler, huh?" asked Lincoln, his annoyance bordering on fury.

Daniel raised his hands as if in surrender. "Hey, I'm not saying that's the line of work I'm in, but some of the folks I deal with have got their hands in all sorts of things. I'm the money man. That's all. I don't ask questions about the people who give me their money. But if the IRS comes snooping around, I guarantee they'll link all of us to whatever shady businesses my friends are associated with. That might include drug dealers and mob guys. You never can tell."

"Never can tell, right. Why the hell are you doing this to me?" asked Lincoln. "I haven't done anything but make you money."

"I know, and now you're going to help me make some more. Listen, pal, I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't have to. There are some changes happening around here that I've got to be proactive about. Some of my other money laundering outfits are closing shop, and I've got to come up with some new fronts real quick. This is my best option right now. I'm not asking for charity out of you, Lincoln. You'll get a cut."

"I don't want your money."

"Of course you do," said Daniel with confidence. "That's why we're friends."

Lincoln's cigar smoldered between his fingers as he glared across the table at Mr. Barr. He tried to think of a way out of this, but couldn't come up with anything. If Daniel wanted to start an identical business across the hall, Lincoln couldn't stop him, and the fact that they were linked would be hard for the cops to overlook if things went bad.

"Why don't we come up with a new business model? Something completely different from this one. That way we're not dragging anyone in who doesn't deserve it."

"If you can come up with something, I'd be willing to entertain it. What were you thinking?"

Lincoln shook his head and looked down at the cigar. "I don't know, but I'll figure something out."

"Then we'll move ahead as planned until you do. My nephew will bring in the office equipment next week. I want him to spend time with you. You can mentor him a little. You know, like you used to do back before you opened this office." Daniel looked over his shoulder at Bentley and then back at Lincoln. "It'll be good for both of you."

"You're his nephew?" asked Lincoln.

Daniel answered for Bentley, "He sure is. He's my little brother's oldest, and he's looking to join the business. Isn't that right, kid? His dad sent him to me to try and shape him up a little. I figured, who better to help him out than the famous Lincoln Pierce?"

"I don't do charity cases."

Daniel laughed and then said, "He's not a bad kid. He's just got no direction in his life. I want Bentley to manage the new office for me, and I want you to teach him the tricks of the trade. You two can be my little used car dealership."

Lincoln looked puzzled.

"I got me a Bentley and a Lincoln," said Danny, amused. "Next I'll hire some Asian kid named Mitsubishi and we'll be set." He laughed heartily at his own joke. "Benny'll be here bright and early Monday morning, and he's going to keep me up to date with how things are going. Don't disappoint me, Lincoln. I've got some associates who are real interested in getting this operation up and running fast. I'm looking forward to working with you again."

"That makes one of us," said Lincoln as he stamped his cigar out on the top of the conference table.

# Chapter Two

Lincoln popped a breath mint in his mouth and then knocked on the door of his daughter's apartment. He bit into the mint and was checking his breath when the door opened.

"Hey dad." Darcy answered in a hurry and turned her back to her father as she headed to the kitchen. There was a juicer on the counter and a slew of vegetables beside a glass of green, pulpy liquid.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

Lincoln entered and closed the door behind him. "I just wanted to check in on you."

His daughter smirked and said, "Between you and mom dropping in on me every few minutes, it's like I never moved out. Do you want a juice? I can make another."

"No thanks, that looks like the Jolly Green Giant's Hershey squirts."

Darcy paused while holding the glass and gave her father a disgusted sneer. "Thanks for that, Dad." She set the drink back down on the counter without taking a sip. "Did you come over just to make me lose my appetite?"

Lincoln walked over to the couch in his daughter's modest apartment and looked at the variety of exercise magazines that littered the coffee table. Darcy had fallen into the cult of exercise, a victim of self-improvement like her mother before her. She was fit and trim, with ceaseless energy that kept her moving at all times. She was a stark contrast to the sick little girl who'd spent the majority of her childhood in and out of hospital beds.

"I missed you. That's all."

Darcy eyed him suspiciously. "And it has nothing to do with me skipping the cancer resource meeting?" She guessed correctly.

"Mark called," said Lincoln. "He was worried about you."

"Tell him I'm fine. Never better." Darcy took a drink of her juice and then slipped a pill between her lips. She cringed as she swallowed. She never had an easy time taking medicine. Lincoln used to have to hide the pills in her food. The familiar orange prescription bottles were at the back of the kitchen counter, a grim reminder of his daughter's ongoing battle. "I couldn't get out of work. I promise to be there next week."

Lincoln decided to change the subject, and glanced over at the guitar in the corner of the living room. "How's the band doing?"

"Better than ever, actually," said Darcy. "We're going to be finishing our EP soon."

"Are you sticking with the name?"

"Yes," said Darcy, annoyed that he was still intent on convincing her to change the name of the band. "Everyone likes it but you."

"It's not that I don't like it," said Lincoln as he looked at the logo of her band plastered on the face of the guitar. 'The Murder Betties' was an all-female rock group comprised of Darcy and some of her friends. "I just think it's morbid."

"Most people don't know where the name came from," said Darcy. "It's like Pearl Jam, or Led Zeppelin. Who knows where they got their names? And the more awareness we can bring to the case the better. Maybe if they ever find out what really happened to Betty, we'll change our name."

Lincoln pointed to a poster that Darcy had framed on the wall. It was from the first show that they headlined at a local bar, and featured a milk jug with a missing person notification on the side for Betty Kline, a reference to the real life disappearance of one of Darcy's former schoolmates. "You don't think that's a little morbid, all things considered?"

"That's an old poster," said Darcy. "We don't use that anymore. Don't worry, Dad, we're being respectful and everything."

"I still wish you'd change the name. Every time I hear it I think about that poor family."

"Then become a private investigator like you always said you would and go solve the crime," she joked. "Because until they find out who really killed Betty, we're keeping the name."

"If I did that could I get you to come hang out with me from time to time? It feels like I never see you these days."

Darcy groaned and rolled her eyes as she drank some of her putrid juice concoction. She glanced at the clock on the microwave and then made a gulping sound before wiping her lips and setting her glass back down on the counter. "It's getting late. You should probably go."

"Why?" asked Lincoln. "Expecting a boy to come over?"

"Not exactly," said Darcy, cagey as she grabbed a rolled up yoga mat from beside the couch and set it on the counter by her purse.

"Are you late to something?"

"Sort of." She paused and looked apologetically over at her father. "You should probably leave. Mom's coming to pick me up soon. We're going to yoga together down at the Rec Center."

"Oh, okay," said Lincoln, crestfallen. "You're right. I'm the last person your mother wants to see. How's she doing these days?"

"Good, I guess. Nothing new to report."

"Is she still seeing that bald lawyer?"

"Gabe? No. At least I don't think so. He moved out to Colorado Springs."

"Good riddance," said Lincoln as he twirled his car keys around his index finger. "That guy was a slimeball."

"No he wasn't, Dad. He was nice. He was good to Mom."

"If I didn't teach you to never trust a lawyer, then I did you a disservice, kid, and I'm sorry for that."

Darcy looked over at her father with an exasperated frown and then pointed at the clock on the microwave. "You'd better leave unless you want to talk to Mom."

Lincoln held up his hands and dipped his chin in retreat. "You're right. I'm leaving. How about a kiss first?"

Darcy went over to her father and hugged him before pecking his cheek. "I'll see you soon. And if you talk to Mark, tell him I'll see him at the next meeting for sure. Oh, and Dad, the trick is to take the breath mint right after leaving the bar instead of waiting till the last second. You smell like Peppermint Schnapps."

"Good to know," said Lincoln, chagrined. "I'll keep that in mind."

Lincoln closed the door and stepped back out onto the concrete landing that led to the stairs. Darcy's apartment complex was near the college, and most of the tenants were students, as evidenced by the plethora of football logos plastered on windows and balconies around him. He'd been against the idea of Darcy getting her own place, but his ex-wife had convinced him it was the right move. Darcy needed to go on with her life, and step away from the protective shell her parents had built around her.

He walked briskly down the concrete stairs, twirling the keys to his Mercedes as he went. Darcy's apartment looked out onto a pond, and Lincoln decided to drive around to the other side and park again, facing the stairs that he'd just come down. He was listening to Muddy Waters as he waited, and watched as a pair of ducks waddled their way into the water and splashed around, dunking their heads and then shaking themselves dry.

Ellen arrived, oblivious to the spying eyes of her ex-husband across the pond. She was wearing an exercise outfit, with a tight crop top and pants that revealed everything anyone ever needed to know about the shape of her lower half. Her long blonde hair was tied in a ponytail, and her skin was tanner than Lincoln remembered. Despite what he might've secretly hoped, she looked good. Divorce suited her just fine.

He watched her jog quickly up the stairs, taking them one at a time as if the climb was part of an exercise routine. Darcy answered the door, and then they both went back down to the car, laughing about something Lincoln wasn't privy to. He ducked lower in his seat, afraid they might see him as they got into Ellen's car. Soon they were gone, leaving him alone to watch the ducks splash around in the pond.

"Where to next?" Lincoln asked himself before starting the car. He wasn't sure where to go, and lingered in the parking lot for a while longer, listening to Muddy Waters as he tried not to think about his ex-wife.

* * *

Lincoln Pierce hadn't dreaded a Monday morning in years because he hadn't worked a regular job for that long, but he was becoming reacquainted with the idea as he waited in line for a coffee before heading to the office. "Give me the biggest size you've got, and fill it all the way to the top."

The barista worked fast and had the frown and patience of a coffee-addict on the wagon. She was an example of a common denizen of Boulder, overestimating her own self-worth and convinced she was the only one in the room who mattered. Her tip jar was overflowing with bills handed over from people who must've felt five dollars was too little to pay for a cup of coffee. Lincoln didn't share that opinion.

"Fancy meeting you here," said a familiar voice from behind Lincoln.

"Bentley," said Lincoln as he saw the young man in line. He took out his money clip again and turned to the barista. "I'm paying for his too. What are you having?"

"Just coffee, same as you."

Lincoln paid the girl behind the counter and watched as she 'harrumphed' her way through the apparently arduous task of pouring yet another cup. Bentley thanked Lincoln for the coffee, and then headed over to the counter with the cream and sugar. He sweetened his coffee while saying, "I'm not used to being up this early."

"You and me both, kid. I hardly ever go into the office these days. It runs just fine without me. Better even." Lincoln studied the young man's attire and asked, "New suit?"

"Yeah," said Bentley, a little ashamed. "I told my uncle what you said and he took me over to a tailor on Spruce." He shot the cuffs and asked, "Do I get your approval?"

"No, but the suit's nice."

"Uncle Danny made me promise to listen to whatever advice you gave me." Bentley reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to take out an ultra-thin wallet. "He told me you used to get paid the big bucks to advise corporate folks. And that you were like a motivational speaker or something. He said that you could teach me a few things." He picked up his coffee and they headed for the door.

"That was a long time ago," said Lincoln as they went out onto Pearl Street and then walked towards the office. "If you're hoping to work for your uncle, there's not much I can teach you. I don't know a lot about his line of work."

"He doesn't want me involved in that side of things. He wants me to help get this business rolling, and then move on to do something else that's legitimate too."

"Hate to break it to you, but what he's planning here isn't legitimate either. This is a money laundering scheme he's setting up."

"Eventually it will be," said Bentley, "but not at first. He wants everything above boards at the start."

Lincoln sipped his searing hot black coffee and winced. "What did you do before your Uncle got his hands on you? Did you go to college?"

"For a couple years, but I dropped out. I'm more of a hands-on sort of guy. You know?"

"Yeah sure," said Lincoln, disinterested, as if already giving up on his attempt at small talk with the young man.

"I thought I'd get stuck working for Uncle Danny as a bookie, but he said I'm better suited for the big leagues, not the small time stuff."

"Is this the big leagues?" asked Lincoln as they arrived at the front doors of the office building. "My agent forgot to tell me."

"Not this," said Bentley. "This is a stepping stone for me."

"Is that right? My business is just a stepping stone?"

"I didn't mean it that way," said Bentley. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah, you've got your sights set high. That's not a bad thing." Lincoln stopped at the top of the stairs, in front of the glass door that opened to his office. Bentley paused on the stair below, looking up as Lincoln continued, "Just remember the people in here are working hard at a job they do for eight hours a day, five days a week. The last thing any of them want is to have a person floating around who looks at their jobs as a 'stepping stone.' That's a sure fire way to make people feel like garbage."

"Understood," said Bentley.

Lincoln looked over at the identical staircase that led to the office on the other side of the hall. The vestibule below was open for the first two floors, with dual staircases on either side that led to office doors that faced each other. Beyond the vestibule, the offices widened until separated by just a single hallway. All of the walls were made of glass, allowing everyone in the offices to see what was going on across the hall from them. The space across from Lincoln's side was gutted, with wires hanging from the ceiling and the carpet ripped out to reveal the cement floor.

"You're going to be managing the crew we hire over there, right?"

"As far as I know, that's the plan."

"And my job is to make sure things move along smoothly?"

"And to teach me how to be a good manager," said Bentley.

Lincoln held the office door open for Bentley, inviting him in as he said, "Don't get your hopes up. I'm not a miracle worker."

"Bossman," said a Latino man wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with a heavy metal band's logo. He was overweight and had shoulder-length, curly black hair that, if it could talk, would be screaming for a shampoo and comb. "What're you doing here?" He was walking out of the break room with a massive coffee cup that dwarfed his chubby hand. The side of the cup had a ruler on it that measured his level of attentiveness depending on how much coffee was left inside.

"Hey there, Hector," said Lincoln as he set his hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm just popping in to see how things are going. Have they had their morning meeting yet?"

"Not yet," said Hector before looking over at Bentley. "Who's the new blood?"

"This is my friend, Bentley," said Lincoln. "Bentley, this is Hector, our resident computer genius."

"You're too kind," said Hector as he reached out to shake Bentley's hand.

"Hector handles IT, and web design, and all the other stuff that might as well be magic as far as I'm concerned. Bentley's going to be managing a crew across the hall for me."

"No shit?" asked Hector. "I heard they sold that space. What sort of business are you opening over there?"

"No clue," said Lincoln, following up with a quick laugh and a long sigh. "But I'm sure I'll need your help setting up the computers and everything, if you're up for it."

"Of course, Mr. P., but you'll have to hurry up and let me know what you need because I'm going on vacation next week."

"Oh yeah? Where're you headed?"

"Arizona," said Hector. "It's actually more of a work vacation." They walked over to the conference table together. "My IndieStarters campaign got funded."

"What's that?"

Bentley answered before Hector could, "It's one of those crowd-funding sites, right?"

"Yeah, that's right," said Hector as he sat across from Bentley while Lincoln sat at the head of the table. "I started one to fund me taking a trip down to the border. I take videos of myself driving through the checkpoints on I-10 in New Mexico and Arizona. I know my rights, and those checkpoints are illegal as all hell."

"What checkpoints?" asked Bentley.

"They've got checkpoints all up and down the highway where they pull you over and ask all sorts of questions. They're trying to nab border-crossers, but it's illegal search and seizure. Last year I took some videos of myself getting in fights with the agents out there, and some folks convinced me to go back and do it again. I set up the IndieStarters campaign to see if I could drum up some money for it, and in no time I had people from all over the country sending me donations."

"They'd better be careful getting their good name mixed up with a radical like you," said Lincoln, jibing his friend.

"They aren't that stupid," said Hector with a laugh. "Most of the donations are anonymous."

"No kidding?" asked Lincoln as he sat up straighter, taking interest. "Random people just gave you money for that sort of thing?"

"Yeah," said Hector. "If you can get enough attention, you can get cash from all over the world."

There were other salespeople beginning to arrive at the office, meandering between their desks and the break room as they waited for the morning meeting to start.

"And they're all anonymous donations?" asked Lincoln.

"Some of them are, but not all," said Hector. "They pay to reach different donor levels, and they get something for each level they reach. I can show you how it works if you want."

"I'd like that," said Lincoln, and he looked over at Bentley with a raised brow. Perhaps this could prove to be a better money laundering scheme than anything Daniel Barr had planned.

# Arthur

There's a shocking amount of blood inside a human body. It needs to be drained before a corpse can be dealt with.

The prostitute was strung up in his basement, nude and upside down, nylon rope tied to her feet and looped through a hole he'd drilled into a support beam above. He anchored the rope with free weights, and then slit her carotid to let the blood gush down into the drain on the cement floor.

The rope creaked as the body made slow, partial revolutions. Her hair was soaked and still dripping, the ends nearly reaching down to the drain. Arthur sat at his computer, taking orders and setting up shipments. Every now and again he would look back at the girl, but his sense of excitement about the murder had faded. Now all she represented was a chore that had yet to be finished.

He would have to dispose of the body before it began to rot.

A fly buzzed by him, and he swatted at it uselessly before it zipped away. This wasn't a good sign. It didn't take long for flies to lay eggs, and that would initiate the first stage of rot that would cause his entire house to stink if he didn't hurry up and deal with the body.

Making a person disappear in the mountains of Colorado isn't difficult, but he didn't want to get sloppy. He couldn't just dump her out in the wilderness whole in the hopes of nature taking care of the remains. There were too many avid outdoorsmen hiking through even remote areas. Someone might spot the sun-bleached bones of his victim. Arthur would have to cut the prostitute up and deposit her in pieces around the state. He was determined to do this right. He wanted to make a fun trip out of it. This was a good time of year to see the leaves changing around Colorado, and a drive down to Pueblo would be a welcome retreat. Along the way he could sprinkle bits and pieces of his victim, but he would have to crush some of the bones first.

Many of the bones in the human body are identifiable, even from a distance. He would have to pulverize the hands, feet, skull, and ribs.

A sledgehammer was propped up against the wall, waiting for the grisly task.

Arthur sighed and got up. He walked over to the hanging body while putting on a pair of yellow rubber gloves that were designed to protect the wearer from caustic chemicals. He grasped the dead prostitute by her ankles and then slid his hands along her stubbly legs, the gloves squeaking as they descended. He did it again, as if massaging her, and squeezed tightly. Blood oozed from the wounds in her neck like he was getting the final bit of toothpaste from a tube. Some of her blood had started to clot, and fell in globs that plopped against the drain like chunks of cottage cheese. He used his boot to force the bits through the drain, grimacing as he did.

He moved on to her buttocks, then abdomen, and got to her arms. Her fingers had already started to turn purple from the blood pooled there. She was still fresh enough that rigor mortis hadn't set in, but she was starting to get stiff. He strained to get her arm up to her waist in an attempt to drain the blood. It didn't seem to be working, and he decided on an easier approach. He released her arm and walked over to the workbench nearby. As he retrieved a knife, her stiffened arm slowly descended back to the position it'd been in before. To someone unfamiliar with the early stages of rigor mortis, it might appear that she was still alive and intentionally moving her arm slowly. He returned and pulled her arm forcefully down before sticking the tip of the knife into her wrist and then slicing up along her forearm. The pooled blood flowed easily out, and he spun her to do the same to her other arm.

"I think that's about as good as it's going to get," he said as he inspected her. The body was a grotesque caricature of what she'd been in life. Her formerly gaunt appearance was now even more exaggerated by the draining, leaving her as little more than a skeleton with barely any musculature left to prop up the flapping, wrinkly skin.

He used a hose to wash the remaining blood down the drain, and then untied the rope. She fell hard, like a stiff board, striking the cement head first and then barely crumbling before the rest of her slammed down, splashing water up against the drywall box in the center of the basement that had once been her prison.

Arthur hefted the sledgehammer and then walked back over to the body. He pressed his foot down on her left wrist, and raised the hammer up above her hand, the head facing the ground. He squinted, wary of smashing his own toes, and then moved his foot back up her arm a little. He sent the hammer's head down like a medieval warrior driving a sword through a felled opponent, and the prostitute's delicate fingers crushed beneath the weight. He would have to do this several more times to mash the bones up, and then he would have to do the same to her other hand and her feet. After that, he would sever them and stick them in a weighted bag to be thrown into the reservoir. He would poke holes in the bag, to entice fish to nibble at it. This way the meat could be eaten while the tiny fragments of bone would drift away. No one would ever identify a sliver of white bone found on the shore as human. They would surely mistake it for a piece of a fish or other animal.

Dealing with the head would be more time consuming. He'd have to extract the brain, mash it, and then demolish the skull. There were too many parts of a human skull that were instantly identifiable, even when broken apart from the rest. Even a child could recognize the orbital socket, nasal cavity, and teeth as human. He couldn't leave anything to chance. He had to crush the skull to dust.

Arthur had studied serial killers since a young age, although for many years he refused to label himself as one. He'd made mistakes, but refused to be defined by them. He convinced himself that his sexual appetite wasn't linked to a desire to kill, and that the prostitutes he'd formerly strangled had been accidental deaths.

Something changed in him with his most recent kill. The dam finally succumbed to the pressure building behind it for years. There was no denying it anymore. He enjoyed killing; he would do it again; he was good at it.

# Chapter Three

"Here's what I'm thinking," said Lincoln to Daniel Barr as they stood in the gutted office. It was after hours, and the salespeople had gone home. Lincoln had spent several hours meeting with the salespeople who worked for him. They appreciated his time, and he was a good motivator. His employees loved working for him, and pleaded with him to come in more often. He promised he would, and then stayed late with Bentley to iron out the plan to present Daniel.

"We want to make the new office a hub for a bunch of crowd-funding projects. I've got a guy who knows the business already, and he can help us get things rolling here. I want this to be separate from my other crew, but my IT guy can work for you as a consultant. Other than him, there's not going to be any overlap."

"Whoa, wait," said Daniel. "Crowdfunding?"

"Yeah, we looked into it," said Bentley, "and it's like the whole thing was designed purely for money laundering. People can donate however much they want to a campaign anonymously, and as long as we're following through with the project there's no way for anyone to know it's not on the up and up."

"What sort of projects?" asked Daniel.

"It can be anything," said Lincoln. "There're campaigns for people suffering an illness, and some for programmers looking to make a videogame."

"There are artists and painters," added Bentley. "Anything you can think of, pretty much."

"I don't want to hire on a bunch of artists," said Daniel, discounting the idea already. "That's a headache I don't need."

"That's not what we're going to do," said Lincoln. "What I had in mind was more of a private investigation company." He felt like a child campaigning for an expensive Christmas present. He was nervous, and undeniably excited by the prospect of finally delving into a career he'd dreamt of since he was a child.

"I like that idea even less," said Daniel with a laugh as he looked back and forth between Bentley and Lincoln, surprised they would even bring up such a ludicrous idea. "Cops hate P.I.s, and the last thing we need is to get the law looking at us sideways."

"Hear me out," said Lincoln. "The internet's full of urban legends, conspiracy theories, and missing person cases that people are obsessed with. We can set up crowd-funding projects with the goal of investigating them, and then put up websites to detail our progress. The best part is that the hard work's already been done for us. We can collect what the police know, and then compile what other sites have already reported. If we pay someone to put the information together, then we can pass it off like we're running an actual investigation. There'll be no need to involve a bunch of people, and no way for anyone to accuse us of not actually following through with the project."

Daniel's brow furrowed and his lips pursed as he thought about the proposal. He didn't look convinced.

"We'll set up a test site to run through the process," said Lincoln. "The first campaign will be legitimate, although you can feel free to throw some money our way if you want to see how it works. If it goes like we think it will, then it's a win for everyone."

"Are you on board with this, Bentley?"

"Yeah. I think it'll work."

Danny chewed his lower lip, considering the idea. He still didn't look convinced, and Lincoln was certain he would turn them down, but then Danny simply shrugged and said, "All right then, I'm willing to give it a shot. How much money will you need to get things rolling?"

"We'll work up the costs for the start-up and send it over to you," said Lincoln.

"What's the first one going to be?"

"The first cost?" asked Lincoln. "Probably the..."

"No, not the cost," said Daniel. "What's your first case going to be? Have you found a good one yet?"

"I've got something in mind," said Lincoln. "It's a case that already earns a lot of web traffic, and we're coming up on the ten year anniversary."

* * *

"Hey Dad," said Darcy as she opened the door for her father. "Two nights in a row, huh? What are you doing here this time?"

"I had something I wanted to talk to you about. Is this a good time, or are you headed out?"

Darcy was wearing a tight black dress with see-through lace sleeves that extended up and over her cleavage. Her hair was in a bun with a curl dangling down over the left side of her face, and she was putting on an earring as she welcomed her father inside.

"No, I get dressed up like this so that I can sit at home alone. What do you think?"

"Where're you going?"

"Out with a friend."

"On a date?"

"None of your business."

"Who is it? Humor me."

Her shoulders dropped as she groaned. She looked over at her father with a weary expression. "Did you come over for something other than to interrogate me?"

Lincoln walked in and closed the door. He felt like an intruder as his daughter continued to get ready. She was walking back and forth, muttering about how she couldn't remember where she'd left her keys. As she passed Lincoln, he smelled her perfume. She used the same as her mother, and the scent brought back memories that'd sadly become tainted and bitter. "I've got something I'd like to talk to you about."

"Ever hear of a phone?"

"No need to get snarky."

"Sorry, it's just that I'm in a bit of a hurry, and you've got a bad habit of showing up unannounced lately." She must've noticed her father's sad expression, because she walked over to kiss him on the cheek and apologize. "Don't give me the puppy dog eyes. It's not like I don't want to see you. It's just that I don't need to see you every day. What's up this time?"

Lincoln snickered and tilted his head as he said, "I came up with a scheme to convince you to come and see me every day."

Darcy laughed, but then saw that he was serious. "What are you talking about?" she asked while continuing to get ready.

"I want you to come and work with me."

She halted, gave him a quizzical stare, and said, "You can't be serious."

"I'm helping out with a new project that I thought you'd be interested in." He walked over to the poster on the wall and pointed at the missing person picture. "I want to investigate the murder of Betty Kline, and I want you to help me."

"You can't be serious. Dad, I was just joking about that. Are you seriously going to become a private investigator just to get me to change my band's name? Is this some sort of midlife crisis or what?"

"Midlife crisis? No. It's just..." he struggled to explain his goal to her. "There are a lot of people who want to know more about the murders. I'm going to set up a crowdfunding site to pay for me to check into the case. We'll go to the crime scene; maybe interview some people involved. The anniversary is coming up, and I thought we could use that to get more attention."

"I've got a job."

"Right, I know, but I thought you might want to quit and do this instead."

"I'm not quitting my job. Look, Dad, this is an interesting idea and all, but I'm not going to just up and quit my job. That's crazy. And don't you need a license or something to be a private investigator?"

"Not in Colorado, and you don't need to worry about the money. I'll make sure you keep a steady income."

"It's not just a steady income I'm looking for. You were the one who taught me to find something I enjoy doing and do it for a living in case the band never takes off. I'm trying to do that. I know I'm not making much money now, but I'm learning a lot, and hopefully I can use that experience to open my own restaurant one day. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Well yeah, of course, but I thought..."

"I think it's awesome that you're doing this," said Darcy as she fiddled with her earring. "You used to tell me how you wanted to be a private detective when you were a kid, so I'm happy for you. But I've got to start planning for my life too. As much as I hope the band takes off, right now there's not much hope in making a living at it. I need to stick to my guns at the restaurant."

"You're right," said Lincoln in defeat. "I didn't think it through."

"You should still do it though," said Darcy in an attempt to rejuvenate her father's waning enthusiasm. "I think it'd be good for you to start working on something like that." She walked over to him and straightened the lapels on his jacket like a parent preening a child before church. "You're always happier when you've got a project to work on. I hate it when you're listless. I know Mom feels the same way."

"Listless, huh?" Lincoln grunted and moved towards the door. "I should get going. Don't let me keep you from your date. I love you, sweetie."

"Dad, wait." Darcy took him by the hand to keep him from leaving. "Why don't you give me a call in the next couple days to let me know how it's going? I've always wanted to find out what really happened to Betty." It felt as if she was doling out her attention like charity, which made Lincoln feel ashamed of his blatant attempt to convince her to spend time with him. "Maybe we can get together for coffee soon and you can tell me what you've found out. How's that sound?"

"Sounds good," said Lincoln, smiling faintly. "I'd like that."

Lincoln left Darcy's apartment and walked slowly back to his car, contemplating where to go next. It was getting late, and he hadn't eaten. He considered going to a restaurant, and ran through a mental checklist of which ones served the best martinis, settling on a choice between a local Japanese-Italian fusion place and a bar that happened to serve decent nachos. As he was debating where to go, he glanced back up at his daughter's apartment and saw the vague suggestion of her shadow against the blinds as she continued to get ready.

He was reminded of her first date, when she was seventeen. She'd been wearing a purple dress with a white sweater, and her blonde hair had just started to grow back after chemotherapy. Her mother made her wear a babushka. She looked like a little old Russian woman.

Darcy had started dating much later than her friends due to the illness that'd stolen away much of her childhood. She'd been worried that no boy would ever want to go out with her because of how sick and frail she'd become.

Lots of fathers dread the day their daughters go on their first date, and they threaten to wield shotguns and scowls to greet boys who dared come to the door. Lincoln hadn't felt that way, and when Darcy was healthy enough to go on her first date he cried after saying goodbye. He cherished his daughter's joy, excitement, and nervousness as she waited for the young man to pick her up. It was one of a thousand experiences he'd been afraid her leukemia would steal.

The ducks splashed in the pond behind him and he turned to regard them with a smile. The male dove beneath the water. His orange feet wiggled in the air as his girlfriend waited beside him. He came back up and shook his iridescent-green head violently before diving back down again as the female swam lazily away, glancing back as if wondering when he would come along with her. The male came back up, shook the water off his head again, and then promptly dove back under as the female got farther and farther away.

When Lincoln looked back up at Darcy's window he saw that the light had been turned off. He knew his daughter would be coming down soon, and he hurried to get in his car. Instead of starting it, he sat there with the window rolled down and waited. When she didn't come down, he took out his phone to waste time by looking at a social media site. He saw a post that his ex-wife had put up an hour earlier. It was a picture of her in a black dress and a caption that said, 'Headed out for a night on the town with one of my favorite people.'

Lincoln realized that his ex-wife and Darcy were meeting up. His daughter wasn't going out with a boy. The person she was meeting, who she didn't want to reveal, was her mother. They were both trying not to let Lincoln know how much time they spent together. They were afraid it would upset him.

Darcy came down, her heels clacking on the cement as she rushed to her car. She was oblivious of her father as he watched. She'd grown into such a beautiful young woman, but he would always remember the little girl she'd been.

He remembered the nights at the hospital, when she would cry herself to sleep as her parents struggled to think of a way to help her forget the truth that those tubes and needles constantly reminded her of. All those beeping machines, and whispered conversations with empathetic but painfully honest doctors. Her bright blue eyes dimmed by pain, and her blonde hair lying in clumps in the shower drain. Her lonely sobs when she thought she was alone, and her forced smiles when she knew her parents couldn't stand the pain.

Darcy survived her battle with cancer, and blossomed into a stunning, intelligent, and kind woman. Lincoln hadn't come out of the struggle unscathed, and neither had his marriage. In some battles, there are unexpected casualties, and the fight can rob a person of everything they have, leaving them battered and broken.

Darcy drove away, leaving Lincoln alone in the parking lot staring at the pond, watching a mallard search for his mate.

Listless.

# Chapter Four

"Are you coming in today?"

Lincoln's world was still spinning ever so slightly as he laid in bed. It was always easier to wake up still drunk than hung over, but he was teetering dangerously between the two.

"Hello?" asked Bentley after Lincoln forgot to answer the question.

"Yeah, I'm here." Lincoln held the phone to the side of his sweaty head and clenched his eyes shut to help alleviate the sense of rotation that turned his stomach. "You're at the office?"

"I'm here with Hector. I've got the furniture people delivering the desks and computers later today, but we were hoping to get going with the IndieStarters campaign while we're waiting."

"Uh-huh."

Bentley wasn't sure how to respond, and waited for more. When Lincoln stayed silent, Bentley asked, "Is that all right by you?"

Lincoln glanced over at the nightstand, searching for the alarm clock that'd mysteriously gone missing. His watch, phone, and keys were on the grey wood surface along with a napkin that had a phone number written on it. Women would frequently insist on giving him their numbers, but he never called them. The clock was on the floor, upside down, and he reached out to straighten it and check the time. It was still before ten, but not by much. He didn't bother putting the clock on the nightstand, and dropped it back to the floor.

"You guys get started. I'll be in later."

"All right, boss," said Bentley.

Lincoln checked to make sure the call had ended before tossing the slim phone over to the empty side of the bed where it zipped across the designer sheets. He tried to go back to sleep, but it wasn't any use. Eventually he forced himself up to assess the damage. He stood, teetered, and then walked over to inspect himself in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. He was wearing an undershirt and boxers, and the suit pants he'd been wearing the night before were neatly folded on top of his dresser. He didn't remember getting home, much less meticulously folding his pants and hanging up his jacket. He was reminded of waking up drunk at his house before the divorce, and how Ellen would fold his clothes and have water and an aspirin waiting for him.

For a moment he entertained the idea that Ellen was here, ready to care for him, but the reality of his loneliness was apparent everywhere, from the empty martini glasses on the dresser to the pile of clothes in the corner. He had a habit of treating his suits with a delicate hand and then simply tossing the rest of his clothes into a heap. His father had taught him a man needed to take care of his outward appearance, which was a lesson that'd taken hold in Lincoln. In his opinion, the classic line about not judging a book by its cover applied strictly to books.

He forced himself to throw up in the shower and used his toes to push the chunks down the drain. The vomit had a pink hue. By the time he was out of the shower and dried off, he felt like a new man, or at the very least he could pass for one. A few squirts of expensive cologne combined with a generous swish of mouthwash, and the evidence of the night before was washed away.

"Looking good, pal," he said to himself after straightening his tie. He burped, and the distinct taste of gin flooded his nostrils. He got himself another capful of spearmint mouthwash, swished, and then swallowed a little, confident that would do the trick.

The buzzer rang, alerting him that someone was waiting on the street to be let in to the building. He went to the intercom, hit the button, and asked, "Who is it?"

"Hey Dad, it's me."

"Darcy?"

"Do you have any other kids you need to tell me about?"

"What're you doing here?"

"Are you going to let me in or not?"

"Of course," said Lincoln as he buzzed her in. He glanced at his living room, ashamed of the mess. He started to quickly clean up, gathering up trash to stuff into an already over-stuffed garbage can. He put away the Tanqueray and the olives that he'd accidentally left out of the fridge the night before, and then swiftly sprayed air freshener. By the time Darcy made it down the hall to knock at his door, his apartment looked nearly presentable. The majority of the trash had been cleaned off the Brazilian Walnut floor, and the air smelled like a bevy of chemicals that did a fair job of mimicking flowers.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" asked Lincoln as he opened the door for his daughter.

She came in, wearing a simple t-shirt and shorts that she somehow managed to look great in, as if a fashion designer had tried to make his model look casual but failed to mute her natural beauty. Her hair was in a ponytail, and her sandals clapped on her heels as she walked. "I had the day off, and I thought I'd swing by to check on you. It smells like you had a fart party in here and tried to hide it."

"A fart party? What?"

"There's so much air freshener in here it's hard to breathe." She coughed and waved her hand in front of her nose as she grimaced.

"Weren't you the one telling me how I should call before showing up at your apartment?"

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked and peered down the hall towards the bedroom. She whispered excitedly, "Do you have a girl here?"

"No," said Lincoln as if the notion was offensive. "Of course not."

"Of course not? Like it'd be that weird for you to have a date over?" She was teasing him, and then pointed at one of the pictures on the wall of Lincoln, Ellen, and Darcy from before the divorce. "I guess this might make it a bit weird. When are you going to take down the pictures of Mom? I doubt any date you brought here would like to see pictures of your ex all over the place."

"What did you come over for?" He wasn't trying to rush an answer out of her, or attempt to shame her for stopping by. He was genuinely curious why she'd come.

"I kept thinking about what you said yesterday, about Betty Kline, and the project you're starting."

"Oh really?"

"I think it's interesting, and I wanted to see what you've got going so far."

"Are you thinking of helping?" asked Lincoln, excited that his ploy might've worked after all. He missed spending time with her, and was jealous of the attention Ellen was getting from their daughter.

"I'm not going to quit my job, and I don't have a lot of free time, but I figured I could help out where I can."

"That's great news," said Lincoln. "As a matter of fact, I was just about to head out to the office to help get things set up. Want to come with?"

"I'd love to," said Darcy, and her honest smile warmed Lincoln's heart.

He searched for his keys, and as he was doing so he felt the familiar twirl of alcohol's lasting effect on gravity. "Hey, you know what? My car's been giving me trouble. Do you mind driving?"

"Sure, no problem."

He went into the kitchen and got a couple aspirin that he swallowed dry. He coughed as the tablets scratched their way down his throat. He forced a smile, hiding his discomfort, and said, "All right, let's go."

* * *

"Bentley, this is my daughter, Darcy. She went to school with the victims."

"Oh really?" asked Bentley as he shook Darcy's hand. "Were you friends with them?"

"Sort of," said Darcy. "Betty and I knew each other, but we weren't really close. I stayed over at her house for a slumber party once. Not very many people were friends with Devin. He was a pretty quiet kid."

"It's awful what happened to them," said Bentley. "Hector and I have been researching the case all morning. We've got the IndieStarters campaign ready to go, but we haven't published it yet. We need to come up with money levels, and what we're going to give donors. Here, let me show you what we've done so far."

The office furniture hadn't been delivered yet. They were working on Hector's laptop on a foldable card table. Hector had wheeled over his massive office chair from across the hall while Bentley was sitting on a metal folding chair that was speckled with paint.

Lincoln began to read through the site. The first section of text was off to the left-hand side of the web page with pictures on the right. Betty Kline's yearbook photo was first, and Lincoln recognized it from the milk carton photo Darcy's band used in their flyer. Below that was a photo of a wooded area beside a stream.

THE CRIME

Ten years ago, two 13-year-old children, Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt, disappeared on their way home from school. Police discovered evidence of a struggle and one of Betty Kline's shoes near a stream along the path the children walked to get home, but there were no other clues, and no one reported seeing anything unusual.

Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt were missing for three weeks before a hiker discovered a horrific scene in the foothills near Boulder, Colorado. Police found what appeared to be evidence of a satanic ritual, and enough blood to lead them to believe at least one of the missing children had been murdered there. When DNA tests came back, the blood was revealed to belong to Devin Harcourt, and shortly after he was declared dead, despite the lack of a body. Forensic evidence suggested the boy had been strung up in the shed, bled, and then cut into pieces to be disposed of.

Betty Kline was never found, although most people assumed she was murdered along with Devin. The evidence of a satanic cult was overwhelming, and Betty's older brother, Trent, was the main suspect, although police struggled to pin him to the crime.

Local churches worked with the media to bring attention to what they insisted was a dangerous rise in occultism in the Boulder area. Trent Kline's fascination with vampirism and his bizarre lifestyle were scrutinized, leading many to assume he was responsible despite his alibi. The case received national attention, and the media descended upon Boulder. Despite the Kline family's pleas to be left alone, the police acquired a search warrant for their home, and a box containing what police called 'keepsakes' was found buried in the backyard. Trent had kept Betty's other shoe as a token along with the murder weapon.

Despite the lack of bodies, Trent Kline was tried as an adult and convicted of the murders of Devin Harcourt and Betty Kline, but he continued to plead innocence. He committed suicide in prison, and used his own blood to write the word 'Innocent' on the wall.

The murders of Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt were officially solved, and the case closed, but new evidence has appeared that might exonerate Trent. Which could mean the murderer is still at large.

The site featured a picture of the shed where Devin's blood was found. Hector had pixelated the photo due to its graphic nature, but it could be clicked on to reveal the details. The shed, which had formerly been part of an abandoned home on private property near a hiking trail, was splattered with a shocking amount of blood. The floor was soaked, and the walls were covered with graffiti drawn with blood. A variety of satanic symbols covered the walls, and there was a nylon rope dangling from a hole that'd been drilled in a joist above. Police theorized that Devin Harcourt had been dismembered in the shed, and that the killer had performed some sort of ritual sacrifice there.

The next section was preceded by a picture of Trent Kline dressed in orange prison garb. His formerly long, black hair had been cut short. He looked scared, weary, and pale.

Darcy grimaced at the sight of Trent Kline and said, "Why don't we find a picture of him that doesn't make him look like a serial killer in training?"

"That's the best picture I could find," said Bentley.

"It's a mugshot. Everyone looks bad in a mugshot," said Lincoln.

"But any support you're going to get from crowdfunding is going to come from people who think Trent's innocent. You're not doing yourself any favors by using photos that make him look bad."

"The guy didn't take very many good pictures," said Bentley. "You should see some of the crazy stuff he stuck up on social media sites. He used to drip blood out of the corner of his mouth in most of his pictures. I guess it was some sort of prank he liked to pull. There're even some family photos like that. He must've snuck a blood capsule in his mouth or something."

"This picture's fine," said Lincoln as he pointed at the screen. "Our goal isn't to prove he's innocent. Our goal is to find out the truth." He scrolled down to read the next section.

THE CASE AGAINST TRENT KLINE

The accused killer of Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt earned infamy for more than the crime. Trent was well-known by his peers for his alternative lifestyle. He referred to himself as a real-life vampire, and bragged about drinking blood and participating in pagan rituals. He wore dark clothes, dyed his hair black, and clashed with authority figures.

Families were already on edge following a deadly school shooting in Littleton, Colorado, less than an hour drive from Boulder, and Trent Kline's odd nature caused alarm even before his sister's disappearance. Trent's principal and counselor met with his parents to discuss his behavior, and his parents agreed to take him to a psychiatrist. This was one week before Betty and Devin disappeared.

On the day of the disappearance, Trent claimed he'd met a friend at a local mall, and video surveillance corroborated his story. Police weren't sure about the exact time Betty and Devin were abducted, but the last witness to see them alive said they'd left school grounds at around 3:45. Devin's house was approximately a thirty minute walk from school, and his mother went searching for him when he didn't arrive home, leading investigators to assume the abduction occurred sometime between 3:45 and 4:15.

The high school that Trent attended let out students at the same time as his sister's middle school, but Trent ditched his last class on the day in question, giving him time to go to the mall before heading home. Security footage caught Trent entering the mall at 3:36 and leaving at 4:47. There were no records of him purchasing anything. Trent claimed he met his drug dealer at the mall to buy marijuana, and that they went through an 'employee only' exit to smoke outside. The dealer in question refuted the claim.

The prosecutor in the case developed a theory that Trent knew where the cameras in the mall were, and that he hoped to use the time-stamped video as an alibi. After arriving at the mall, he went immediately to the unrecorded employee-only exit and then ran through an adjacent neighborhood to intercept his sister and Devin Harcourt on their way home from school. Trent supposedly murdered them both at the scene and hid their bodies so that he could collect them later.

During the trial, the prosecutor introduced a video he'd made of a teenager running the same route, proving that Trent could've made it from the mall to his sister's middle school and then back before 4:47, and that it wouldn't draw attention from possible witnesses to see a teenager running around at that time of day. This, combined with the discovery of the shoe and murder weapon buried in the Kline's backyard, sealed Trent's fate. Despite a flimsy motive (the prosecutor claimed Trent was angry over his parent's insistence that he meet with a psychiatrist), Trent Kline was convicted of the first-degree murder of his sister and Devin Harcourt. The prosecutor sought life without parole due to the aggravating factor that Trent had laid in wait and ambushed his victims, but the defense attorney successfully got that charge knocked down due to a lack of proof and because the timeline of events presented by the prosecutor didn't allow the defendant time to wait in ambush.

Trent Kline was charged with two counts of first-degree murder. No aggravating factors were included, and he was sentenced to twenty years in prison with no possibility of parole. He committed suicide three months into his sentence, and never learned about the evidence that surfaced years later that might've exonerated him.

For many, Trent Kline's case was an example of the court and local law enforcement rushing to judgment in an attempt to close a case that'd brought negative attention to the area. For others, Trent Kline was a monster, and potential serial killer, who was stopped early in what might've become a deadly legacy.

Hector and Bentley included a photograph of the Boulder Valley Mall, and a map that detailed the route Trent supposedly ran the day of the crime. There was also an excerpt from Trent's journal that showed drawings of satanic symbols. Beside the journal was a police photograph of similar symbols drawn in blood on the walls of the shack where it was believed Devin Harcourt was slaughtered.

EXONERATION OF TRENT KLINE

Two years after Trent Kline was convicted of the murders of Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt, new evidence came to light that corroborated Trent's claim that he'd met a drug dealer at the Boulder Valley Mall on the day of the incident. The man he said he met, Grant Hedland, was caught and convicted for dealing methamphetamine at the mall, in the same spot that Trent had accused him of dealing two years earlier.

During Trent Kline's trial, Grant denied meeting the accused on the day of the disappearances. The defense argued that Grant was lying to protect himself, but the dealer's refusal to corroborate Trent's alibi was damning, and made the prosecution's timeline plausible.

After Grant's conviction (in which he pled down to misdemeanor charges and received six months in prison), he continued to deny meeting with Trent Kline on the day in question, although he did admit to dealing marijuana to him multiple times, refuting his statement to the contrary during Trent's trial. This reinvigorated interest in the murders, and members of the Kline family sought to reopen the case in an attempt to clear Trent's name.

Devin Harcourt's family maintained their belief that Trent was responsible for the murders. They refused to cooperate with the Kline family, and requested that details about Devin's death be kept out of the material being produced to bolster interest in the campaign. The Kline family obliged, and the majority of the literature they produced focused on the abduction and murder of their daughter, Betty, as well as the rushed conviction of their son.

The case again earned national attention, but this time from the music community rather than mainstream news outlets. Heavy metal and punk bands united to bring awareness to the case, claiming that Trent Kline's unusual lifestyle was what ultimately led to his conviction.

However, the fact that a knife with traces of Devin Harcourt's blood on it and Betty's shoe had been found buried in Trent Kline's backyard was impossible to overlook. This led many to believe that Trent took part in the murders of Devin and Betty, but someone else assisted in the abduction of the children. The possibility that Trent had an accomplice has become a widely believed theory, but with no evidence to back it up the police have been reticent to reopen the case.

The real killer could still be out there. Our goal is to discover the truth, once and for all, and give Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt the justice they deserve.

"Wow," said Lincoln. "You got all that done this morning?"

"Hector did most of the work."

"Like always," said Hector as he reclined in his leather seat, smiling as he rested his oversized coffee cup on his belly.

"What's the next step before we launch?" asked Lincoln.

"We could launch right now if we wanted," said Hector. "We've got to decide on our donor levels, and maybe dress up the site a bit, but that's just cosmetic. I was thinking of getting photos of the scene of the crime as it looks today."

Bentley navigated to a new section of the site showing different amounts of money. "You can donate anywhere from five dollars to as much as we want to charge, and for each level a donor reaches they'll get the items in that section and all the ones below it. For what we're doing, we don't really have a lot to offer people. Hector said that it's not important for the lower levels, because we can just say that we'll put the donor's name on the site and give them access to our blog, easy stuff like that, but once we get into the higher tiers we need to come up with something good to offer people."

"I could help with that," said Darcy.

Lincoln looked over at his daughter, surprised and intrigued. "How so?"

"When The Murder Betties played that gig in Denver, we met all sorts of bands who were interested in the case."

"The Murder Betties?" asked Bentley.

"That's a band I'm in," said Darcy. "We got our name from this case. We started out with the name, 'Who Murdered Betty', but eventually it morphed into 'The Murder Betties'. We played a show in Denver with a bunch of other bands who wanted to bring awareness to the case. I'm sure I could make a few phone calls and get some of those bands to donate stuff."

"You're in a band?" asked Bentley with a bit more interest than Lincoln was comfortable with. "What do you play?"

"The bass," said Darcy with a bashful smile. "And I do some back-up singing."

"Really? Do you ever play around here?"

"All the time," said Darcy. "If you want I can..."

"All right, all right," said Lincoln, interrupting them. "Back on target. We can take any help we can get, but I think it's important that we keep the investigation as neutral as possible. Everyone agree?"

"Of course," said Bentley.

Hector nodded and then took a drink of coffee, but it was clear that Darcy had reservations. She looked at the others and then said, "Trent got railroaded. He was innocent. You guys know that, right?"

"We're going into this like we aren't sure of anything," said Lincoln. "We're starting from zero and adding it up from there."

"Then there's no way I can get those bands to send you free stuff for the donors," said Darcy. "Not if there's a chance you're going to come out saying that Trent was guilty. That's bullshit."

"We're going to be fair and honest, no matter what," said Lincoln. "If that means your friends won't support us, then that's on them."

"They're not going to want anything to do with a site that's trying to pin the crime on Trent."

"Were you his friend?" asked Bentley.

"No. I met him once or twice, but I didn't know him. He was a freak, there's no doubt about that, but the way the Eversprings Church got the media and the police to focus only on him is a joke. The whole 'Satanic Panic' thing, and how people blamed the music he listened to..." it was clear she was frustrated as she scowled and shook her head. "It was bullshit. His dealer even admitted that he lied. There's no way that Trent could've gotten from the mall to the scene of the murder and then back again while also meeting with his dealer. Boulder Valley Mall is pretty far from the middle school. Have you guys made the walk?"

"That's the sort of thing we want to try," said Lincoln. "But we're going at this the wrong way if we're not at least open to the possibility that Trent did it."

"As long as you're not convicting him just because he was a weird kid," said Darcy.

"Of course not." Lincoln returned his attention to Bentley and the computer as he asked, "What's the next step to get the ball rolling."

"I have to call my uncle to get a credit card from him that we can use to set up the site and the accounts associated with it."

Lincoln took out his money clip, removed a credit card, and tossed it on the table. "Here, use this one. I don't want your uncle's name on this campaign. This is our thing for now. And use my cell number as a tip line until I can set up something better. Or better yet, use an online phone service and have it routed to my cell. Hector, do you know if we can get crime scene photographs and that sort of stuff?"

"Sure," said Hector as he sat upright, causing his reclining office chair to snap up again. "That shouldn't be hard." He scrolled the mouse and brought the page back to the picture of Betty Kline, a youthful 13-year-old with a dimpled smile and auburn hair. "We can put more pictures on this page, or we could set up a whole other part of the site with all the photos."

"Darcy and I can take a drive over to the mall and look around. Then we can try and take a trip back and forth between there and the middle school."

"All right," said Bentley as he held Lincoln's credit card and tapped it on the edge of the table. "I've got to stay here to wait for the office equipment to get delivered, but I can work on figuring out some things to offer our donors. I'll see what I can come up with."

Lincoln looked around at their group and smiled. The office space was unpainted and bare, and the only light came in from the windows and a bulb hanging from a loose wire high above, but he felt the burgeoning of a long forgotten excitement that starting a business gave him. "I can't wait to see if the four of us can figure out what really happened to Betty and Darrin."

His daughter corrected him, "Devin."

"Right, Devin. Sorry. Anyhow, I'm looking forward to what we can accomplish."

"It should be interesting," said Bentley.

"Think about it this way," said Lincoln, changing his tone as the project began to excite him. "Every single day there're people who get up and go to a soul-numbing job they hate, where they work their butts off for a corporation that looks at them as nothing more than cogs in a machine. We all know people like that. Hell, some of us used to be people like that."

"Amen," said Hector. "I used to work for a health insurance company. You want to talk about sucking the joy out of life, try that out for a while."

"But the four of us have the chance to do something that could impact people for the better. However long it takes us, we should look at this as a gift. If we come in each day with that in mind, then there's no telling what we can achieve. Trust me, guys, we could be on the brink of something really big right now."

Darcy chuckled and put her arm around her father's waist. "You sound like a motivational speaker again."

"Is that what he was like back then?" asked Bentley. "I've gotten used to him being a grumpy old man."

"I'll send you over some of his old videos," said Darcy. "You'll get a kick out of them."

"Yeah, do that," said Bentley. "I'll give you my email."

Lincoln begrudgingly waited as his daughter and Bentley exchanged information, and then he said, "Come on, let's go. We're wasting daylight. I'd like to find these places and get some pictures before it gets dark."

"Give me your phone," said Hector. "I can geotrack the spots for you. I've got the coordinates already. I'll install the app on your phone and it'll map where you walk. Then we can upload it to the site."

"Really?" asked Lincoln, impressed. "Technology today, huh? Pretty incredible."

"I've got that program on my phone too," said Darcy. "Some of my friends and I use it to figure out where everyone's at in the city."

"We can time your trip from the mall to the middle school," said Hector as he worked with Lincoln's phone. "The stream where they think it happened isn't far from the school and Devin's house."

"Maybe we can try and talk with Devin's parents while we're there," said Lincoln.

"They don't live there anymore," said Bentley. "His parents were already divorced when he went missing. He lived with his mother. Since then she moved. We haven't been able to find her address yet, and his Dad disappeared a few years back. I haven't been able to track him down either."

"That's okay. I think it's better to lay the groundwork before we approach anyone involved," said Darcy.

"You're probably right," said Lincoln.

"Here you go," said Hector as he handed back the phone. "You're all set. Just open the app and click the timer when you're about to start walking from point 'A' to 'B'. That'll make the program automatically upload the data to the site."

"I'll show him how to use it," said Darcy. "He's useless with that sort of stuff."

"Ready to go?" asked Lincoln of Darcy.

"Ready when you are."

# Arthur

Colorado's a beautiful state. The wealth of nature awaiting anyone willing to look for it is astounding. In a single day, Arthur drove along winding roads that carved through the Rockies, hiked beside flowing streams of crystal clear water that frothed against the banks, and then made it down to the eastern half of the state that featured flatlands as far as the eye could see.

All along the way he'd peppered the pieces of his latest victim.

The prostitute was in the back of his truck, cut into pieces, wrapped in cellophane, and stuffed into coolers. Her mashed up hands, feet, and head were in weighted bags that he kept together for now, chilled in melting ice, and he'd mapped out the locations where he would dump them.

His first stop was about fifty miles from home, almost to Winter Park. He'd taken a long, winding road that led to a hiking trail, and then walked off the path a good ways before depositing her forearm in a rocky pit where he was certain no one would travel. He felt good about it, and smiled as he watched the indecipherable fleshy lump tumble down and lodge between a few jagged stones. Before long a scavenger would find it, and the first piece of the puzzle that'd been his latest victim would be lost.

One of her hands was dropped in the Yarborough Reservoir, a secluded, man-made body of water that was stocked with fish that would devour the fleshy pulp like chum. Those bits of bone might wash up on shore one day, but no one was likely to think they were anything but pieces of a dead fish. And even if it was discovered to be human remains, it would just be one piece of a puzzle no one would ever be able to put together.

Over the course of his trip, Arthur deposited the remains while taking the opportunity to listen to an audiobook between stops. He was treating this as a well-deserved vacation.

He was down near Pueblo when he decided to stop somewhere to eat. There were still pieces of the girl in the coolers tied down in the back of his truck, but he was willing to risk a stop somewhere in the city to get a bite to eat. When he set out that morning he thought he'd packed enough food to last until he made it home, but he was sick of eating beef jerky and soggy sandwiches that'd been sitting in the cooler all day. He craved good food.

Arthur pulled into a barbeque restaurant, enticed by the smell of smoke wafting up from their chimney. He got out of his truck and went to check on the oversized igloo coolers in the back when he noticed liquid dripping to the pavement. He knelt to inspect it, and saw the reddish fluid coming out of a rusted hole in the bed.

His heart raced when he realized what it was. On his last stop, when he chucked the woman's right thigh down to a ravine near the Pueblo Reservoir, he'd also taken the opportunity to drain water from one of his coolers. Despite his attempt to bleed the meat, the hunks still seeped, and now that the ice had melted it left a disgusting soup of humanity. Unfortunately, when he loaded the cooler back up in his truck he'd forgotten to replace the plug to keep any more ice melt from leaking.

Arthur hoisted himself up onto the rear tire of his truck to look inside and saw that his suspicion was correct. The slats in the bottom of the bed were filled with the faint red water. He went around to the back and saw water dripping down from the rear gate, over his bumper, and down to the hot pavement.

"Son of a bitch," he said as he tried to decide how to handle the situation. He had to get somewhere out of sight where he could plug the cooler up and then mop out the bed. He hurried back to the cab of the truck and was about to start it when he heard sirens.

Arthur looked around, and then spotted the telltale red and blue flashing lights in his rearview.

This was it. They were coming for him.

Arthur ducked down and reached under the passenger side seat, scrambling for the Beretta hidden there. He wouldn't go to prison. He'd rather die.

He got on his back and pressed his shoulders against the passenger side door with the gun pointed up at the driver's side window. He was ready to shoot the first officer who dared peek in.

Arthur cursed his sloppiness. He knew he shouldn't dump part of his victim at the Pueblo Reservoir. It wasn't as secluded as the other spots. One of the campers there must've seen him and called the police, and he'd left a trail of bloody water leading right to him.

A squad car's tires squealed as they came to a sudden stop, and the flashing lights illuminated the truck. The cop car was parked right behind him.

The gun trembled and he tried to keep it steady as he pointed at the window. He wanted to survive, and began to plan his escape. He would shoot the first officer who looked in the truck, and then he would dive out the passenger side door. He was near the highway, and he could run out into traffic in a desperate attempt to stop someone. He would carjack an unlucky motorist, and then speed away.

It was a longshot, but it was the only chance he had.

The wait was excruciating. What was taking them so long? Were they waiting for backup?

There were more sirens, but these sounded different. Arthur continued to wait, but eventually his curiosity began to nag at him. He adjusted his position, lowered his gun, and then dared to peek over the back of the seat.

An ambulance had arrived, and was parked closer to the restaurant than the squad cars. An EMT opened the back doors and pulled out a stretcher.

Arthur gasped in relief. He calmed himself down, took several deep breaths, and sat up to watch the activity behind him. Someone in the restaurant had been placed on the stretcher and was being taken out to the parking lot. Worried family members followed quickly behind, asking questions Arthur couldn't hear.

One of the officers saw Arthur, and walked over to speak to him. Arthur tucked the pistol under his leg and then rolled down his window as the burly officer approached.

"Sorry if we've got you blocked in," said the gruff, square-jawed man.

"Not a problem," said Arthur in a tremulous voice. He cleared his throat and asked, "Everything all right?"

"I'm sure it's fine. Someone inside was complaining about chest pains, and you know how that goes. You can't mess around with chest pains at a barbeque joint." He laughed, but Arthur didn't respond in kind.

"Right."

"We'll be out of your way in just a minute so you can get back to your day."

"Thanks." Arthur watched through his side view mirror as the officer walked away, his shoe splashing in the pool of bloody water that'd dripped out of the back of the truck.

What if this had been it? What if he'd been forced to kill the officer and then flee to the highway?

The officer stopped and looked down at the liquid dripping from the truck. Arthur ceased breathing as he looked at the cop's reflection in his side mirror. The officer knelt down and looked under the truck, and then turned to walk back to the door.

Arthur gripped the Beretta's handle as the officer came back and rapped his knuckle on the window.

"Just wanted to let you know that you've got a leak back here. Looks like one of those coolers."

"Oh, right, yeah," said Arthur. "It's fish. Just a bunch of fish."

"All right then," said the officer, suspicious. The officer eyed Arthur, and then glanced into the back of the truck. Finally, thankfully, the cop said, "Well, you have yourself a good day. We'll be out of your way in a minute. And do me a favor and fix that cooler. No one wants a bunch of fish blood stinking up their parking lot."

"Right, right. No problem. Will do."

Arthur watched as the officer walked back towards his squad car, avoiding the trickling water as he went. Somehow or another Arthur had avoided capture. It was almost as if the universe wanted him to succeed; as if it was ready to unleash the predator that'd been caged for too long.

He was happy to oblige.

# Chapter Five

"I haven't been here in a while," said Darcy as they entered the Boulder Valley mall.

Lincoln agreed. It'd been several years since he visited the mall. Darcy used to have him drive her here when she was a teen, and he would sit in the food court reading as she met with friends. Most parents would simply drop their children off and then pick them up again a few hours later, but Darcy's illness required constant monitoring, and Lincoln didn't feel comfortable leaving her on her own for any extended length of time. Her trips to the mall to meet friends afforded her the illusion of normality, while her father stayed in close proximity.

Indoor malls had nearly become extinct in the Boulder area, and the majority that survived were decrepit shells of what they once were. Flatirons Mall in Broomfield was the only major indoor mall around that'd flourished, while many of the others had since been torn down and replaced by parking lots and big box stores. Boulder Valley Mall stubbornly stayed open, despite how many of the shops within had been closed and shuttered.

Lincoln brought along a clipboard with pages of notes that he was keeping about the case. Darcy poked fun at him for his antiquated ways, insisting that he should be carrying a tablet PC instead, but he preferred the old-fashioned way.

They passed a nail salon, and the stench of chemicals was noxious even in the hall. An unhappy Asian woman stood out front, her arms crossed as she offered the weakest of smiles. Lincoln wondered if she had a customer passed out inside, slowly dying from whatever vapors were leaking out into the hall and causing his eyes to water and his lungs to refuse to breathe. How someone worked in those fumes was beyond him.

The next store had once been a chocolate shop, but had since closed, leaving their logo still emblazoned on the window behind the metal grate that barred entrance. Lincoln looked over at the empty benches in the middle of the hall, and a mild depression set in as he recalled how busy this place had once been. Now it seemed the only people here were being paid for the trouble, guarding this museum of an older generation's idea of consumerism.

"I remember going to the toy store here," said Darcy as they came to the corner that would lead them closer to the food court. "I don't think there was anything I loved more than..." she paused as they rounded the corner and discovered that the toy store in question was no longer there. It'd been converted to an H&R Block that was closed until tax season. "Oh. I guess it's not here anymore."

"This whole place is on the verge of collapsing," said Lincoln as he looked at the walls that direly needed a coat of paint. There was a spot beside them where a roof leak had eroded the ceiling and left a water stain on the wall that streaked it brown, like a pair of dirty underwear that deserved to be burned instead of washed.

"It smells like an old gym sock in here."

Lincoln thought the analogy was odd at first, but then nodded in agreement. "You're right. It sort of does. It makes me sad."

"The smell of socks?"

"No, not the smell of socks." Lincoln laughed and then shrugged, still sorting through his emotions as he tried to explain them. "This place was important to us, way back when. I remember bringing you here all the time. Do you remember that stuffed monkey you used to take with you to chemo?"

"Nanner," said Darcy, easily recalling the name she'd given the toy. "I still have him. He's on my dresser."

Lincoln pointed over at the tax service center that used to be a toy store and asked, "Do you remember getting him there?"

Darcy nodded and said, "I think so. Wasn't it right after I got diagnosed?"

"Yep. We told you to pick out anything in the store you wanted, anything at all, and you picked that silly little stuffed monkey."

"He was cute. He still is, although he's seen better days."

"You used to take him with you to chemo. I remember he got a rip in his armpit, and you put a band aid on him. Your mother stole him from you one night when you were asleep, stitched him up, and then put the band aid back on. We pretended like we had nothing to do with it. I remember you taking off the band aid and running into our room to tell us that Nanner was all better. After that, you always wanted us to put band aids on you for even the tiniest little scratches."

"You told me they had medicine in them that could fix anything," said Darcy.

"Who knows? Maybe I was right. You got better." He put his arm around her shoulders and brought her closer to him before kissing the top of her head.

"Here's the food court," said Darcy after putting up with her father's affection for a moment. "Let's find the exit that Trent talked about."

The food court was just as sad a representation of urban decay as the rest of the mall, like someone had built a life-size terrarium to study the rot of 1980's retail. Most of the restaurants were closed, with metal grates pulled down to their counters and old menus still plastered on the wall behind faded, yellow glass. The remaining restaurants stayed afloat by feeding the employees of the other shops that inexplicably stayed in business. The melodic hum of tinny elevator music was piped in through a dreary sound system, and the lonely few souls who ate here did so in silence, staring forward as if trying in vain to search for something uplifting in the few minutes they had left before walking back to work.

"Hold up a second," said Lincoln as he took his daughter's arm and held her back. "Look around."

"At what?"

He spoke in a hushed tone. "Look at how unhappy they are."

"Dad," she said, reproachful. "Don't be mean."

"I'm not being mean. I'm trying to point something out to you. Look at how sad everyone here is."

"You are being mean. Stop it."

Lincoln shook his head, determined to get his point across. "No, pay attention. This is important. All of the people in this place have made the choice to be here. For whatever reason, they chose to be unhappy. For some of them it's because of laziness; they're too lazy to shoot for something higher than this. For others it's because they feel like they don't have any other choice. They feel like life dealt them a shitty hand and they have to stick it out and keep playing. I don't see a single person working here who seems happy with their lot in life, and I bet they've all got excuses for why they can't get out of the rut they're in."

He could see by the look Darcy gave him that she still thought he was judging the people here, and that wasn't the point he was trying to get across. Before she had a chance to comment, he continued passionately, "Anyone who says they're stuck in a job they hate is suffering under a delusion. They're stuck thinking there's no other option for them. Sometimes it's their bills that got them stuck, but more often than not it's the fault of the poison that got put in their brains. It's the poisonous thinking that they're not worth more than this; that the people above them deserve success more than they do. But you know what? It's not just about success. Fuck success. It's about being happy. It's about not settling for a life that you have to endure. It's a mindset, and all you have to do is flip the switch and you can make everything change." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that."

"We've got precious little time here on Earth," said Lincoln as he looked around at the almost empty food court. "Why in the hell would anyone waste it spending 40 hours or more a week doing something they hate?"

"Is this about me quitting my job?" asked Darcy, annoyed at the point she assumed her father was making.

"No," said Lincoln, desperate not to give her the wrong impression. "Not at all. Ever since you were a kid, all I wanted was to see you grow up and be happy. I know your dream is to be in a band, and you're working towards that. And you're being smart about it by learning to run a restaurant as a back-up plan. I couldn't be prouder of you. As long as you spend your days in service of your dreams, then you're making me a proud papa."

"And are you finally going after your dreams?" asked Darcy as she looked at her father expectantly.

"What do you mean?"

"I remember you giving me this same speech when I was a kid, all about how you wanted me to dream big and chase those dreams no matter what. When I asked you what your dreams were, do you remember what you said?"

He tried to recall, but shook his head. "No."

"You said that all you ever wanted was to help other people live happy lives. That's why you were a motivational speaker. You said it made you happy to see other people achieving their goals."

"That's true. That's why it's so important to me that you live your dreams. That'll make me happy."

Darcy made a noise like a buzzer on a game show. "Wrong. Try again."

"What do you mean?" asked Lincoln, amused.

"I'm calling you out on that bullshit." She rarely cursed around him, but she relished the opportunity. "Mom used to tell me how happy you were before you started the office on Pearl, back when you were a consultant. If you were happy, why'd you quit?"

"There's more to life than a job. I make more from my new business than I ever made as a consultant. And my old job had me flying all over the place. I was hardly ever home."

"You quit because I got sick," said Darcy, bluntly laying out the truth that Lincoln had tried to avoid admitting.

"Yes, and it was the right decision. I'd do it again a million times over."

"Why didn't you ever start consulting again after I beat cancer?"

"Because the new business was doing better than we expected. I didn't have to go back to the old job. And I'm happy, Darcy. You don't have to worry about me."

"You're happy? Really?" she asked like she already knew he was lying. "Is that why you hardly ever go out anywhere except to bars?"

"Ouch."

Darcy's expression revealed her regret. "Sorry. It's just that this whole family thing works both ways. You want me to be happy, and I want the same for you too. And I know Mom feels the same way."

"I am happy," he lied with a smile. "Never happier. And I have a feeling this new project is going to keep me pretty busy."

"That's good. I remember you telling me that when you were a kid, and all of your friends wanted to be astronauts or firefighters, you wanted to be a private detective. It's nice to see you reaching for that goal, even if it's just a midlife crisis." She teased him with an elbow to the side. "I've seen a spark in you that I've missed."

"Oh yeah?"

"Uh-huh. You're starting to talk like you did when I was a kid; like in all those motivational tapes and videos you used to make."

"That was a long time ago." He didn't mean the sentiment to come out quite as sad as it sounded. "Anyways, let's focus on the task at hand before the day gets away from us. There's no exit sign here, so I'm guessing there must be a way out through there." He pointed to a featureless door between two restaurants that was clearly meant for employees.

"Do you think they're going to let us back there?"

"Can't hurt to ask."

Lincoln walked over to the business on the left side of the door. It was a Mediterranean restaurant that had a dry-looking cone of gyro meat spinning slowly in its case. The grey meat was dotted with black spots and the edges were withered from the heat, as unappetizing as a dirty diaper left out in the sun.

"How can I help you?" asked the disaffected youth wearing a paper hat and stained, white and blue apron.

"We need to get into the back," said Lincoln with a confidence that implied he had the right to go where he pleased. "Is the door unlocked?"

"You need a key," said the young man, surprised by the question.

"Do you have one?" asked Lincoln. "Or can you go around and let us in?"

The teenager wasn't sure how to respond, and nodded before saying, "Sure, yeah. Give me a second."

He went through the back of the restaurant and disappeared from view. After he was gone, Darcy asked in a whisper, "What sort of Jedi mind trick did you just pull on that kid?"

"No trick," said Lincoln. "All it takes is confidence. If you're wearing a nice suit and carrying a clipboard there aren't many places you can't get into."

A moment later the plain, beige door opened and the young man held it for them. Lincoln and Darcy went in, and thanked the employee. The hall beyond went along the backside of each of the restaurants, providing access to lavatories and break rooms. The walls were plain and in worse shape than the ones in the retail section of the mall. The tiles were cracked and unclean, and the ceiling had a multitude of water stains. Instead of the smell of an old gym sock, this employee area stank of grease, burned food, and a faint chemical odor that reminded Lincoln of the pink powder janitors used to throw over vomit at school.

"Has that door always been locked?" asked Lincoln.

"Ever since I started working here," said the young man. "But I've only been here a few months." Lincoln jotted down notes on his clipboard as the youth waited. After a moment the young man asked, "Can I go back to work?"

"Sure thing, Darryl," said Lincoln, noting the young man's nametag. "Thanks for your help."

Darryl left them and headed back through the door that led to the Mediterranean restaurant.

"Wow, he even asked permission to go back to work like you were his boss," said Darcy, amused by the young man's reaction.

"Funny how that works, isn't it? I'm telling you, a suit and a clipboard mixed with a little confidence will get you into just about anywhere." He pointed back at the door they'd come through and said, "We'll have to see if we can find out if that door always had a lock on it. I'm betting it did, which means Trent had to have access to this area somehow, or know someone who did."

"Or he just came in here with a suit and a clipboard," said Darcy jokingly.

"Trent doesn't strike me as the sort of kid who liked suits. So, right off the bat we're throwing a wrench in the prosecution's timeline."

"That's because their timeline is garbage," said Darcy.

"Don't be so certain. We're going to be impartial about this whether you like it or not. Let's see where these doors lead." He headed towards a set of double doors on the other side of the hallway. He pushed them open to reveal a fenced parking lot. "Here's our exit. Do me a favor and go back over to the other door and then run here. I'll time you. That way we don't have to break in here again."

Darcy did as he asked, and he timed her using a stopwatch on his phone. He noted how long it took, and then they went through the exit that led to the fenced lot. The employee parking area was beside several dumpsters, and the fence that surrounded the lot was tall and wooden. The lot was small, and the employees at the mall most likely weren't given access except to smoke here, as evidenced by the pile of crushed butts on the blacktop beside a stool where people likely sat during their breaks. Lincoln theorized the parking spots were meant for a select few members of upper management. There were only two cars here, a sedan and a plain white van, parked beside one of the dumpsters. The gate was open, swung wide with a chain hanging loose off one side.

"If he had an accomplice, then maybe he got picked up here," said Lincoln.

"Hey Dad, look." Darcy pointed at a security camera up above the door they'd just exited. It was pointed straight down at them.

"Huh," said Lincoln. "Maybe they installed that after the crime."

"Maybe. According to Trent he used to come out here and do drugs with Grant. I doubt they had a camera here before then, otherwise Grant sure as hell wouldn't come out here to deal."

"We're not sure Grant ever did deal drugs to Trent."

Darcy looked at her father with a frown "Come on. Grant lied his butt off on the stand. You know that."

"I don't know anything, Darcy. I'm staying impartial." Lincoln jotted down notes as he spoke. "Ready for our walk?"

"Sure. Do you know if there was any new construction between here and the middle school in the past decade?"

"I don't know. We can get Hector to look into that, but it's a pretty straight shot there. Even if there has been new construction, I don't think it would've altered Trent's path. And he probably went to the stream instead of the middle school, but we can check out both areas."

The door to the mall swung violently open. A security guard whose girth tested his uniform's elasticity came out to confront them. His bushy, greying eyebrows nearly met as he scowled. "Can I help you?"

"My name's Lincoln Pierce." He offered to shake the bewildered and angry guard's hand.

The guard didn't accept the gesture, and kept his short arms flat against his sides as he moved his jaw back and forth with his lips shut, as if he were mimicking a cow grinding food between his molars. He had small eyes that stayed focused on Lincoln as if the two were about to fight, and he flared his nostrils as he breathed. "Why're you back here?"

Lincoln had to think fast to come up with a plausible answer that might also serve to earn the man's trust. "I'm thinking about buying this place."

The guard didn't believe him, and looked suspiciously back and forth between Lincoln and Darcy. "You're what?"

"I'm thinking of buying this mall, or one like it," said Lincoln as he looked disapprovingly back and forth at the wall behind the guard, as if sizing up the place.

"Who are you?"

"Like I said, my name's Lincoln Pierce." He shook the surprised and confused guard's hand before taking out a business card and handing it to him. "As you can see, I'm the owner and president of Landmark Development Industries. I didn't catch your name."

"James."

"Good to meet you, James. So tell me, James, are you the head of security here?" Lincoln intentionally repeated the man's name to help remember it, and also because it's a well-known fact among salespeople that everyone loves the sound of their own name.

"I guess so."

"You guess so? Well, James, I need people like you to help me out here."

"Help you with what?"

"I took a walk around the property, and if I'm being honest," he leaned in closer, as if sharing a secret he trusted James could keep, "I'm not so sure this place is a good investment. I'm thinking of buying an empty lot on the other side of town instead, but the problem with doing that is the cost of building everything from the ground up. Take the security system for example. I bet getting all these cameras cost a fortune to install. When were they put in?"

"I'm not sure," said James, flustered. He believed Lincoln's story about wanting to buy the mall, which made him nervous. "It was a while ago."

"Were you working here when they were installed?"

"No."

Lincoln frowned. "Are you new here?"

"No, sir. I've worked for Mr. Pettigrew for almost thirteen years."

"Has Pettigrew mentioned anything about selling the mall?"

"No, not that I know of. But I don't really talk to him that much these days. The last I heard he was trying to get the city to declare the mall..." James's brow furrowed and he bit his lip as he tried to recall the details of the rumor. "Blighted, I think they said. Is that right?"

Lincoln nodded. "That's right. They have to get it declared blighted before companies like mine can put a bid in to buy it. It's all part of the legal hustle and bustle. When you get lawyers and city politicians together..." he shook his head and made a clicking sound with his tongue. "It's amazing if they get anything done. I'm sure you know what that's like."

"Oh, sure," said James, agreeing despite not knowing what it was like at all.

"If I was looking for someone to..." Lincoln raised his eyebrows and spoke cheekily, "Mind you this is just a friendly chat. I'm certainly not trying to scout new employees while they're at work or anything. But, let's just say I was looking for someone to help me put together a mall security system – a position that pays real well - would you be a good person to call? You know, for advice."

James stuttered and was blinking rapidly as he stood a little straighter. "Yeah, uh, sure. I know my stuff."

Lincoln went on to get James' full name and number, and then hinted that he might call him soon. Before they left, James was treating Lincoln like a visiting dignitary, regaling him with tales about busting shoplifters and the rigors involved with security detail.

Lincoln and Darcy left the fenced portion of the parking lot and were headed out along the path that would take them to Betty and Devin's middle school. Darcy snickered and shook her head. "I never knew you were such a good liar."

"A liar?" asked Lincoln, humorously offended. "Me? Nah. As a matter of fact, the thought of owning my own mall went through my head once or twice in my life. I'm almost sure of it. That brings me to the second secret about getting anywhere you want and being treated like you belong there." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a business card. He handed it to her and said, "A vague business card printed on high quality paper is better than a bribe."

"How so?"

"It's all about first impressions. If you have confidence and wear a nice suit, then people assume you're important. Handing them a business card means you're giving them entry to your financial success. It's psychological. It's their ticket into your world, and they'll start to dream up fantasies about what you can do for them."

"Or they'll stick the card in their jeans and throw it out with the lint when they get home."

"Sometimes, but not that one," said Lincoln as he nodded his head back in the direction of the security guard. "He'll keep that like a badge of honor. Trust me, I used to teach this sort of crap for a living. One of the things I'd talk about was first impressions, and how they can make or break you."

"Are you going to call that guy and try to get more information about the case?"

"Maybe, but not just yet. He already gave us what we needed to know for the time being."

"He did?"

"He said the security system's been there longer than him, and he's been there for thirteen years. That means it was here when the crime happened, and we know the mall provided the cops with video of Trent entering and exiting the building. That means either they intentionally hid the video of the employee lot, or it wasn't recording that day."

"All right, so what does that mean?"

"It means we need to learn more about Grant's arrest. He got picked up for dealing drugs at the mall, just like Trent said. And if we're to believe Trent, they used to go out to that lot and smoke dope. How in the world is that possible if the lot's monitored? We weren't back there for more than a couple minutes before James came out after us. How's it possible that a couple teenagers were able to go back there and deal drugs? It doesn't add up."

"I don't get it," said Darcy. "What are you saying? Do you believe Trent or not?"

"Neither," said Lincoln. "We're not searching for answers yet. We're still figuring out the right questions. Right now the question I can't get out of my head is why that camera was turned off the day those kids disappeared."

# Chapter Six

Lincoln and Darcy walked from the mall to the middle school, following the map that Hector provided, and it took them far longer than expected to make the trip. Devin's house, the middle school, and the stream where the crime supposedly took place were in a scalene triangle pattern, and they'd taken the path directly to the school instead of the stream, which was marginally further from the mall.

The sun had already gone down behind the foothills, but it was still light out. The middle school had let out for the day, although there were still some cars parked in the lot, probably belonging to underappreciated teachers who spent long evenings earning too-little pay. The clouds were awash in a fiery hue that complimented the blue behind them as a pleasant breeze cooled the formerly warm day. Yet despite the breeze, Lincoln was sweating beneath his suit, and he regretted agreeing to the trip.

"Four miles sure feels a hell of a lot longer than it used to," said Lincoln as they neared the middle school.

"And Trent supposedly ran that whole way," said Darcy, shaking her head in disbelief. "I don't think so."

"It's possible. It might've taken us over an hour," he said as he glanced at his watch. "But you could run that a lot quicker." He consulted his clip board and said, "The average person can run 8.3 miles an hour. Trent had 71 minutes..." He tried to do the math in his head, but that'd never been his strongest subject. "I'm pretty sure the prosecution is right, and the stream where they found Betty's shoe is a little closer to the mall, that way." He pointed down the street, not in the exact direction they'd walked from, but in the same vague area.

"Trent wasn't an athlete." Darcy had a defensive tone, as if she were a teen arguing with her father about curfew. "He spent his free time playing videogames and smoking pot. I bet he never ran a mile in his life, let alone eight while killing a couple kids along the way."

"Fair enough, but we need to be pragmatic here, not emotional. Weigh the facts. And the fact is that it's possible for a person to run from the mall to the middle school and back again in 71 minutes. And don't forget that he didn't kill the kids here," said Lincoln as he motioned towards the middle school across the street. "If he did it, then he did it down by the stream or somewhere else along the trip home. That'd put him a little closer to the mall."

"Supposedly."

Lincoln pointed down the road and said, "The kids used to walk this way. Let's go check out the stream."

Lincoln had lived in Boulder for years, but there were several parts of town that he'd never ventured through. Boulder's nestled against the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, with towering hills visible from just about any clearing in town. The rising hills blocked the view of the mountains beyond, and gave the illusion that you could hike a single peak and view another valley on the other side. The hills were green, but sparsely wooded in this area, which made Lincoln wonder where the prosecutor thought Trent could murder two children without anyone noticing.

As he looked down at the pavement, he reflected on how Betty and Devin had walked this path home every day after school. That made him think about the plight of Devin's mother. He vaguely recalled her teary image on the local news, pleading for the safe return of her son before the revelation came of the discovery of the murder scene. "Imagine what it must've been like to wait for your kid to come home, and then they never show up. That sense of helplessness and fear. It must've been hell."

"Think about how bad the Klines had it. Their daughter disappeared and then their son got ripped away too. They lost both their kids in all this."

"True. I feel bad for them too."

"But?" asked Darcy as if expecting him to continue.

"But nothing. I feel bad for them. Just like I said."

"No, you said it like you were about to add a 'But' in there."

"Well, let's be honest, they had a pretty messed up kid."

"There you go," said Darcy as if she was finally getting the admission she'd been seeking. "Let's hear the truth, Dad. You think Trent's guilty."

"I didn't say that, but he clearly had some mental problems. His own journal proved that. He was into some weird stuff."

"Lots of teenagers are into weird stuff. It goes with the territory."

"Sure, but not some of the stuff he was into. If you wrote in your journal about drinking blood and worshipping Satan, you can damn well be sure I'd step in and do something about it."

"Who's the one not being pragmatic now?"

"Oh trust me, disciplining the hell out of your kid for wanting to drink human blood is the definition of pragmatism."

Darcy didn't feel like arguing any more, and just shook her head in quiet disagreement. Their debate was good-humored, although Darcy seemed to take the case more personally than Lincoln expected.

The middle school was in the center of a residential neighborhood, one block over from a busy street. The area was replete with mature trees whose canopies shaded the area, making the block more reminiscent of a Midwest suburb than the newer construction around where Lincoln lived. Fall had just begun to influence the green leaves to change color, dotting the canopies with hints of yellow and orange.

The subdivision had been built in the late-seventies, and the squat, ranch-style houses still bore embellishments reminiscent of the time. The roofs were low-pitched and the curbside facades were wide with tall, floor to ceiling windows, often shrouded by overgrown coniferous bushes. Most of the lawns weren't manicured, and instead bore the signs of the arid climate, patchy and bare in spots. And for being so close to a school, the area felt unexpectedly quiet, with only the sound of nearby traffic interrupting the chirping birds nesting above.

"Did you like going to school there?" asked Lincoln as he looked at the building behind them.

"I guess. I was in and out of the hospital so much back then. I think I remember more about the layout of the hospital than I do the school."

They reached the end of the block and crossed the street to a part of the walkway that curved along the bank of a stream that came down from the foothills. This area was busier than the neighborhood behind them, and several joggers passed, wires stretching from their earbuds, without an acknowledging wave or smile, their heads down and focused on the path ahead. There was a man walking two dogs, one a Chihuahua and the other a happy, slobbering bulldog.

"This must've been where the kids were lured off the path. I saw the pictures of the spot down by the stream. It was pretty tore up. Whoever killed those kids must've been waiting here for them." He glanced over the side of the bridge at the stream below.

"Maybe," said Darcy. "But don't assume that's what happened. Someone could've picked them up in a van along the way home too. And honestly, that seems more likely to me than the idea that Trent lured them off into the bushes and murdered them."

"True, but what about Betty's shoe? They found it down there."

"Maybe she tried to escape," said Darcy.

Lincoln walked across the bridge and then stepped off the path, plunging his handsome oxfords into the spongy earth. The stream kept their surroundings more lush than the rest of the area, and there was plenty of vegetation along the banks. There were clear signs that children played here, along the muddy banks where the grass had been all but trampled to death. Lincoln pushed aside a low hanging tree branch and invited his daughter down to the stream, away from the sidewalk.

"Somewhere out here," said Lincoln, more to himself than in conversation as he looked around. The stream was down a short, slippery decline, hidden from the sidewalk by the thick vegetation. "He must've done it down here."

"With all the people running along the sidewalk up there? Not to mention the other kids walking home from school. You think Trent brought the kids down here, murdered them, and then somehow got them out of here without anyone seeing?"

"Wouldn't be easy, but it's not impossible."

"We've got very different ideas about what is and isn't possible." Darcy turned in a circle, taking in their surroundings as the sound of passing cars melded with the babbling brook.

Tires rumbled over a bridge, shaking metal slats and causing a tinny sound that caught Lincoln's attention. He looked back towards where the road passed over the stream, and began to walk towards it. "Darcy, look over here."

She went with him, and they investigated the low bridge that the water passed under. The stream was shallow, and disappeared into the yawning, metal mouth under the bridge.

"Do you think he could've stuffed them under here?"

"Let me get this straight," said Darcy, her tone thick with derision. "You think he ran here, killed two people, dragged them under this bridge right next to the path they would walk to get home from school, and then ran back to the mall to get his car, drove back here while Devin's mother was walking back and forth screaming her son's name, parked God-knows-where, and then dragged those bodies out of here and into the car without anyone seeing him?" She knew how ridiculous it sounded, and raised her eyebrows as she asked, "That's really what you think happened?"

"Not when you put it that way."

Darcy thought she'd won.

Lincoln came up with the simplest answer, "He must've had a second vehicle."

"For God's sake," said Darcy, frustrated with him for still assuming Trent was guilty.

"That would explain everything," said Lincoln. "They found signs of a struggle down here. Maybe he parked up there along the road and waited for his sister on her way home. He got them to follow him down here where he got in a fight with them, knocked them out, and then dragged them back up into the car."

"They didn't find any blood here."

"You're right," said Lincoln as he tried to think of the most plausible scenario. An idea came to him, and his serious expression softened as he said, "Maybe he never meant to kill anyone."

"What do you mean?"

"What if he just meant to scare his sister? Maybe he convinced the kids to come down here with him for one reason or another, like a wounded animal was here or something, and then pretended like he was going to kill Betty, but things went too far. He hurt her. He hurt her bad." Lincoln was mimicking what he was trying to explain, even going so far as to get on his knees in the dirt with his hands wrapped around the throat of an invisible foe. He pointed over at Darcy and said, "But Devin was there. Devin was upset, and he was going to go get help, but Trent said they should get in his car and go to the hospital. But instead of going to the hospital, he drove up into the foothills, out by the shed where they found the blood. At that point, Betty was already dead, and Trent didn't have any choice but to kill Devin too. He left the bodies there and then rushed back to the mall so he could cover his tracks."

"And when did he change his clothes?" asked Darcy.

Lincoln responded with a puzzled look.

"How could he fight and kill two people without getting mud and blood on himself? Look how muddy you are. Trent walked out of that mall in the same clothes he came in with, and he wasn't covered in mud."

Lincoln conceded with a plaintive nod. "True."

"Not to mention this whole theory of yours requires him getting access to a second car, which never came up at trial. According to the prosecution, he killed both of those kids here and then left their bodies as he ran back to the mall."

"It doesn't make much sense. That's not to say I agree Trent's innocent, but I can't imagine it working the way the prosecution said. We're missing something here." He chewed on his lip as he surveyed the scene, trying to think of the most likely scenario. He spoke as if admitting guilt, "There had to be a second person. It's the only way this makes sense. If Trent did it, then someone picked him up at the mall and brought him here."

"So what's the next step?"

Lincoln checked his watch and said, "Next we call a cab, because I'm not walking all the way back to the mall."

"You know what I mean. What's the next step in your investigation?"

"Hector's working on getting us access to the police file and some pictures of the evidence they gathered. Bentley's going to check that stuff out. I figure we should pour over that a bit before trying to contact anyone involved."

"When does the site go live?"

Lincoln hadn't considered that as of yet, and shrugged, "Tonight, as long as Bentley has everything sorted."

"I'll call the girls and see if they can start working on getting stuff together for the donors. I've got to warn you, though, once this site goes live there's a good chance you're going to get more attention than you bargained for. There are a lot of people who want to know the truth about what happened here." She held out her arms as if offering the very earth they stood upon to him.

It was striking to think that the very spot where she stood might've been where her friend had lost her life a decade earlier. It turned his stomach, and brought back a host of bad memories about the trials Darcy had survived.

The sobering truth was that he got his child back, but the Klines and Harcourts hadn't been so lucky.

Lincoln and Darcy left the crime scene and walked over to a busier area of the city. Lincoln wanted to stop in at a bar, but Darcy insisted they have coffee instead. They ordered iced Americanos and sat at an outside table where they waited for the cab to come.

The sun was finally losing its zeal, lost behind the foothills as the gathering darkness won out to the east. Traffic was heavy as people left work to head home, clogging the streets with tired motorists who'd just survived yet another Monday, but had four more days left to go. Boulder was a college town, and during the fall there were far more people at the local shops. The city was changing by the day, catering more to the wealthy than the hippies who once dominated the streets.

Lincoln looked at his daughter, astounded by how beautiful she was. She reminded him of her mother.

"Stop looking at me like that," said Darcy with an embarrassed grimace.

"Can't I look at you?"

"Nope."

"I'm just happy to get to be with you. We should spend more time together."

"You need a girlfriend."

Lincoln let out a sharp laugh and then said, "That's not going to change how much I love my daughter. I've got bad news for you, kiddo, I'm still going to look at you all doe-eyed and want to spend time with you even if I've got a girlfriend."

"How're things going on the dating front? Did you sign up for online dating like I told you to?"

The conversation had turned on him, and he wasn't happy with the subject. "No, and I'm not going to. I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"How is it okay for you to always ask about my love life, but I don't get to ask about yours?"

"That's the way it goes. I'm your Dad. It's my business to know as much as I can about your life, and you don't get to know anything about mine. It's in the rulebook somewhere."

"Oh is that right?" asked Darcy in good humor before spinning her coffee so that the ice rattled before she took a drink. Lincoln assumed the topic was finished, but Darcy soon continued, "It's just that I want to see you happy. You know?"

"Thanks for the sentiment." He looked up the street, past the traffic waiting at the light, and wondered what was taking the cab so long.

"What's stopping you?"

"Stopping me from what?"

"What's stopping you from moving on? You and Mom broke up a long time ago."

Lincoln gave his daughter an icy stare. "Let's not go there."

"Too late," said Darcy. "We're already there. I know you tried to work things out with her for a while, but that ship sailed. Don't look at me like that. I'm just trying to help. Nothing would make me happier than to know there was a good woman keeping an eye on you. Someone needs to. You're doing a cruddy job of keeping an eye on yourself."

"That's enough, Darcy. I'm serious." He hated the tone he used when he admonished her, and regretted it immediately, but this wasn't something he wanted to talk about.

He still regarded his divorce as his greatest failure, and he wasn't sure how long it would take to get over. All that mattered was that the wounds were still fresh, and talking about it would only make things worse.

They sat in silence for a while, and Lincoln was just about to apologize when their cab arrived. He didn't want to bring it up to her on the ride back, and resolved to do it once they got to the mall, but by that time the conversation felt like it'd been laid to rest.

Darcy drove him home, and they discussed banal topics along the way, conversing like strangers getting to know one another instead of like father and daughter. He should've apologized before saying goodbye, but he just kissed her on the cheek and watched her drive away instead. Then he headed to the nearest bar.

# Arthur

He threw the last of his victim into the water, and the weighted bag made a deep, resonant splash that echoed across the placid expanse. It was late, and the water looked like oil as it reflected the night sky, the starlight undaunted by clouds or pollution of any kind.

This was a beautiful place for a burial.

He was nearly finished now. Next Arthur would dump out the bloody water from the coolers and then search for an automated gas station car wash. He'd prefer to find a self-serve, manual car wash so that he could spray out the coolers, but he doubted there were any open this late at night.

Arthur hadn't planned on being away from home today, and his trek would put him behind in his work. There was a package waiting for him at a post office in Loveland that he'd meant to pick up today, and he'd have to go out first thing in the morning to get it. He was running low on Morning Glory seeds that he needed to make the LSD he sold online in the deep web market, Bluebird Cthulu, where buyers purchased his goods anonymously using web-based currency. The quantity of seeds he needed would raise suspicion if purchased from a standard retailer, and he also wanted to keep costs down, so he created a false wholesale account based in Kansas where he routed his packages through an automated distributor that allowed him to forward mail to whatever address he specified. These extra steps ensured his safety.

After getting the seeds, he would need to take on the laborious task of extracting the ergine, or d-lysergic acid, necessary to make his drug. The reason his product was in demand was because he took efforts to purify the psychedelic, allowing users to avoid the sometimes crippling nausea associated with the drug. His product wasn't cheap, but it was considered premium, and he had a good reputation on Bluebird Cthulu. His customers were willing to pay for the best, and he was determined to provide it.

His work kept him living as comfortably as he desired, and Arthur often wondered how long it would be before the corner hustlers lost their footing in the drug trade, replaced by more savvy dealers like him who were taking advantage of the internet age. Few of the dealers he knew who worked through the deep web marketplaces ever had trouble with police, but every day the news talked about yet another drug ring bust happening on some corner.

Idiots.

A man could get rich simply by being smart and careful. There was no need to risk getting arrested for dealing on a street corner.

Arthur's phone buzzed, and he took it out of his pocket to see if he'd gotten a message or a call. It was an email, sent from a web crawler that constantly searched for keywords to alert him about subjects he wanted to keep up to date on. He had hundreds of these crawlers out there, but the one that popped up on his phone caused him to hold his breath.

It was about Betty Kline.

Arthur quickly opened the message and followed the link. He cursed the slow connection as his phone tried to bring up the website. It seemed to take forever to load, and then suddenly Betty's face was staring at him.

He'd been afraid this would happen. As the ten year anniversary of Betty Kline's disappearance neared, websites were bound to publish new stories ruminating on the real murderer. But this was different. Someone was launching a new investigation using a crowd-funding site called IndieStarters.

This was yet another would-be Private Investigator hoping to make a name for himself by digging up a story that'd earned national attention at one point. It made Arthur furious.

He read through the rudimentary site, examining the details, and each second he grew more annoyed. In the past he'd ignored the attempts of the Kline family to hire private investigators, certain they would never find anything new, but if he was going to start hunting again he needed to be extra careful. After the near miss at the restaurant, he was scared. He couldn't ignore this new threat.

He would have to put a stop to it.

# Chapter Seven

"You coming in today?"

Lincoln looked at the clock, and then mumbled incoherently.

"What's that?" asked Bentley.

Lincoln held the phone closer, just then realizing he'd let it drift away from his face. "I'll be in later."

"My uncle's coming in soon."

"So?"

Bentley was apprehensive, uncertain how to tactfully urge Lincoln to come to work. "He's going to want to talk about the site. We launched it last night, like you asked. We're already starting to get donations, nothing outrageous, but Uncle Danny has some questions for us."

"If he gets there before me..." Lincoln decided not to ask Bentley to lie for him. "Never mind. Don't worry, I'm on my way."

He hung up and forced himself out of bed. The room was a mess, with remnants of a midnight fast-food binge on the floor, an overturned cup of barbeque sauce on the carpet, and fries scattered about. His stomach lurched as he stood, but he dutifully headed to the bathroom, ready to vomit while showering if necessary. A familiar act.

Lincoln paused to look at himself in the mirror above his dresser. His greying hair was sticking up in every direction its short length would allow, and his eyes were bloodshot and squinting, with dark circles beneath that revealed his sour condition.

His suit pants were on the dresser, carefully folded. For a fleeting moment he considered how his suits and ties were just a costume for a different sort of clown. He ignored the thought as he inspected his pants. They were dirty, caked with mud from his trip down to the stream where Betty's shoe had been found. He went to the closet and got out a fresh suit before heading to the bathroom.

A shower and a few swigs of mouthwash later and he felt like a new man. He got dressed and inspected himself in the mirror again, happy with the veneer except for the bags under his eyes. He resolved to pick up eye cream to help with that. The thought of sleeping more and avoiding late night binges never entered his mind.

It was another bright and sunny day in Boulder, as it often was, but the glare and heat disagreed with him as he emerged from his apartment building. He held his arm up to shield his eyes from the unforgiving sun. It felt like he'd just walked out of a movie theater in the middle of the afternoon.

His phone rang, and he grumbled as he saw that it was Danny calling. He reluctantly answered.

"I need you at the office," said Danny with insistence. "Now. We need to talk."

"I'm already on my way. What's the problem?"

"Just get here." Danny hung up, and Lincoln promptly took a detour to a coffee shop to waste some time. He didn't respond well to commands from people he didn't respect.

* * *

"What the hell took you so long?" asked Danny as he stood with his arms crossed, not even bothering to display his usual false smile.

"I had some things to take care of," said Lincoln as he looked around at the newly furnished office space.

Bentley had been busy. The kid must've stayed late to build the cubicles and desks. Danny had requested that the office be built to accommodate six full-time employees, and Bentley had done an admirable job, even putting potted plants in the corners and a water cooler against the wall. It looked like any moment there might be employees arriving to sit down and get to work.

Danny didn't look happy. He was glaring at Lincoln with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. "I had Bentley pull down your site."

"Why?"

"Because this is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to avoid. That's why. You're poking a bear with one hand while holding my picnic basket in the other?"

Lincoln chuckled at the odd analogy. "What?"

"This is exactly what I was worried about. You start digging around into old, closed cases and the cops start getting pissed off. They turn their attention on you, and all of the sudden I'm swimming up shit creek."

"Don't worry, the site's got nothing to do with you. It's in my name, and they used my credit card to set it up. There's nothing implicating you. Besides, this is just a test to see how the whole thing works. Once we know the tricks of the trade, Bentley's going to set up sites for urban legend crap that no police department in their right mind cares about. That way, if the cops ever do decide to come sniffing around, they're going to come after my case first. I'm putting a big spotlight on myself for a reason. Let them come and start asking questions, and they'll find out everything's above boards."

Danny's unease was slightly lifted, although he still glared at Lincoln. "I guess that makes sense. But you're the one who's going to have to sell it."

"Sell it to who?"

"Sell it to the people who matter."

"And who's that?"

Danny pulled out one of the office chairs that Bentley had ordered, and he sat down heavily in it. His thighs spilled over the edge as he looked up at Lincoln. He crossed his legs as if lounging. "Some of my business associates want a rundown on the plan here. They're coming by this afternoon, and you're going to fill them in."

"I'm not talking shop with a group of drug dealers."

"They're not corner hustlers," said Danny as if the assumption annoyed him. "Do you really think I'm that stupid? Do yourself a favor and don't answer that. The gentlemen I've invited here are legit businessmen. They just happen to have revenue streams coming in that they don't file with the IRS. Where that money comes from is anyone's guess. I don't make it my business to ask them for details, and they don't feel the need to provide them. We work in... what's it called? Synchronicity. Our businesses intermingle here and there, but we're all smart enough not to ask too many questions. Levels of separation and what have you. And like I told you, they're eager to get a new business up and running that can clean up some of their income."

"They sound like real upstanding citizens. Why don't you deal with them?"

"Because you and Bentley are the ones in charge of this, not me." Danny stood up and checked his watch as if already late for another appointment. "I'm meeting them for lunch over at The Med. We'll be back here in about an hour. Have something ready for us." He clapped his fat hand on Bentley's shoulder before heading for the door. "See you two in an hour. Oh, and don't mention that you already put the site up live. Let's let them think we wanted their blessing first."

Lincoln waved an unenthusiastic goodbye and then looked grimly over at Bentley. "Your uncle's a dick."

Bentley laughed, and nodded in agreement before choosing his words carefully, "He can be difficult. Any ideas on how we should prepare for this meeting?"

"Easy. Let's relaunch the site," said Lincoln as he went over to one of the computers and started to wiggle the mouse, expecting the monitor to turn on.

"Hector hasn't hooked these up yet. We've been using his laptop for the site. And besides, I'm not so sure it's a good idea to launch the site again just yet. You heard what he said."

Lincoln ignored Bentley. He took out his phone and called Hector.

"Bossman," answered Hector cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"

"Are you busy?"

"Always. No rest for the wicked."

Lincoln looked across the hall at the office where Hector worked. He could see his IT Manager's back as the rotund man sat in his cubicle. His left hand was buried in a bag of chips on his desk and there was a videogame on his monitor.

"You're always busy, huh?" asked Lincoln, enjoying the moment as he watched his employee relaxing.

"There's always a problem that needs to be fixed around here. You know how it is."

"Right, sure. I know how it is." Lincoln nudged Bentley and pointed across the hall at Hector. He hit the speaker button on his phone so that Bentley could listen in. "You're nothing if not a hard worker, Hector."

"Thanks, but I'm sure you didn't call me just to blow smoke up my ass. What's up?"

"I don't want to bother you if you're too busy," said Lincoln. "Should I call back later?"

"Nah, I can make time for whatever you need, bossman. What's up?"

"You sure this isn't a bad time?"

"No worries. What can I do for you?"

"Do me a favor and turn around."

Hector swiveled in his chair. He saw Lincoln and Bentley watching from across the hall. He flipped them off and gave them with a smarmy grin. "Fuck you very much, buddy."

Lincoln laughed and said, "I need your help getting the site started. But not if you're too busy. Don't let us interrupt that gripping game of solitaire you've got going on over there."

Hector sheepishly closed his laptop and brought it across the hall with him. Lincoln joked about his busy day at work, but when Hector offered an apology Lincoln explained that he wasn't upset. Everyone slacks off at work from time to time.

Hector went to the IndieStarters site and they reviewed the information that was ready to be republished. After tweaking it a bit, Lincoln decided that it was ready to go. Bentley again voiced his concern about Danny, but Lincoln ignored him.

Lincoln tested the site by sending in a $25 donation, and discovered that it was easy to go through the process anonymously. The key to the money laundering scheme would be for the donor to send in money from offshore accounts, something that the internet made easy. The entire process was simpler than Lincoln anticipated, and he was confident Danny's business associates would be pleased.

Danny called before returning to make sure Lincoln and Bentley were ready for them. It was lunchtime for Hector and the salespeople working in the other office, so Lincoln decided to meet with Danny's friends across the hall at the conference table where they would have more room.

Danny came up the stairs with three men following behind. Lincoln was surprised by how normal they looked. He expected them to be mafia stereotypes, but they could easily be mistaken for accountants or lawyers enjoying a day away from the office. Two of them were wearing khaki shorts and polo shirts, as if plucked from the golf course for this meeting. The third man was in a tweed suit with a plaid vest of garish yellow and red, and a matching bowtie. He had thinning hair and a thick goatee that he was obviously dying blonde to feign a youthfulness that his wrinkles betrayed.

Bentley was at the conference table, but not Hector. Lincoln wanted to keep his IT Manager away from Danny and his associates as much as possible. Bentley borrowed Hector's computer, and had it open on the conference table with the site pulled up, ready for their demonstration.

"Lincoln," said Danny as he began the introductions, "this is Paul Vale, Kyle Arteton, and Clyde Pettigrew."

Lincoln was shaking their hands when something about the third man's name caught his attention. "Pettigrew," said Lincoln, trying hard to figure out why that rang a bell. "I feel like I've heard your name before."

"Are you in real estate?" asked the older man in the tweed suit as he smiled politely.

"No."

"I own and manage a few properties around town." He gave Lincoln a business card. Lincoln reciprocated, and then exchanged cards with the other two men as well.

Lincoln examined Clyde's card, and his last name continued to vex him. Why did it sound so familiar?

Pettigrew.

Danny gave a quick introduction about the project and then invited Lincoln to explain further. Lincoln offered a synopsis of what they wanted to set up, and why doing the IndieStarters campaigns was a better process than Danny's original plan. He kept the explanation vague, and didn't tell them any of the details about the Kline case. Bentley was seated beside Lincoln, and was about to swivel the laptop for the others to see what they'd been working on.

Lincoln glanced at the site, and saw the map of Trent's trip from the Boulder Valley mall to the crime scene. It was in that instant that Lincoln's memory snapped into focus.

Pettigrew!

He grabbed the computer away from Bentley and swiftly closed it, surprising everyone at the table. "Sorry," he said as he tried to think of a reason for his abrupt action. "It's just that I want the campaign to look as good as possible before you see it. This one's not ready. It's not perfect for..." he looked at Bentley, desperate for help, but the young man didn't know what was wrong.

Clyde Pettigrew leaned forward and said, "We need to know what we're getting into here. Our former deal with Mr. Barr fell through, and we need to get a replacement up and running as soon as possible."

Lincoln nodded, opened the laptop, and then moved the computer so that the screen was facing away from Mr. Pettigrew. He searched the site for Hector's campaign about the traffic stops in Arizona, and then turned the computer around to show the men gathered.

He continued on, explaining the way to donate money anonymously, and how doing so from an offshore account using Bitcoins would effectively launder any amount of money they wanted. He demonstrated by donating to Hector's campaign, and they all watched as the site's counter recorded the money coming in.

The men had a lot more questions, and Lincoln answered the ones he could while explaining that they were going to set up a test campaign before starting the laundering scheme. Pettigrew didn't like the idea of antagonizing officials, like what Hector was doing in Arizona, so Lincoln explained that their focus would be urban legend cases and nothing that the police would care about. Within a half hour, the men seemed intrigued about the venture but still concerned about its viability. They wanted to see it in action, and Danny agreed to help set up the dummy account to get things rolling.

Soon Danny and his three associates were leaving and the employees who normally occupied the office began to return from lunch. Lincoln headed back across the hall, and Bentley waited until the door was closed behind them before asking, "What was that all about? Are we quitting the Kline case?"

"I realized something that could cause us problems."

"Like what?"

Lincoln was apprehensive and suspicious of Danny's nephew. Would Bentley run to his uncle to reveal the news? Lincoln didn't know if he could trust the kid to stay quiet. "I don't have much to do with your uncle or his associates. I don't run in those circles. Do you?"

"No." Now it was Bentley's turn be suspicious. "What are you getting at?"

"You know what the people who work with your uncle are involved in. You don't need me to spell it out for you."

"What does that have to do with the Kline case?" asked Bentley.

Lincoln set Hector's laptop down on one of the desks and opened it. He went back to their IndieStarters campaign and scrolled down to a picture of the Boulder Valley Mall. "I think the man we just met, Clyde Pettigrew, the old guy with the goatee... I think he owns this mall."

"All right," said Bentley, uncertain why that was anything more than a simple coincidence. "So?"

"I was at the mall yesterday, in the parking lot where Trent said he used to buy pot from Grant Hedland. And guess what was right there above the door." He didn't give Bentley a chance to answer. "A security camera."

Bentley was still confused.

"A security camera that the guard said had been there for at least thirteen years, which means it was there the day that Trent supposedly used that exit to head off and kidnap Betty and Devin."

"So you're saying Mr. Pettigrew had something to do with the murders?" asked Bentley as he tried to put the pieces together.

"No, not exactly," said Lincoln, frustrated that Bentley wasn't following along. "I'm saying that Trent claimed to be buying drugs in the employee parking lot where a security camera had been shut off. Why would it be shut off? Why would a local dealer know that it would be shut off?"

"Because the dealer..." at first Bentley wasn't sure where Lincoln was going with the statement, but then he realized the obvious answer. "Because the dealer was working with Mr. Pettigrew."

"Bingo."

"Oh fuck," said Bentley as the ramifications of their investigation shining light on Pettigrew's illicit business practices came into focus.

"Now you see why I didn't want them to see the site. The last thing we need is to show Mr. Pettigrew a picture of his own mall."

"Well crap," said Bentley. "I guess we're going to have to scrap the site."

"What? Are you kidding?"

Bentley thought it was a foregone conclusion that they would have to stop their investigation, and he looked puzzled as he asked, "We're going to have to, aren't we?"

"No," said Lincoln, adamant. "Don't you know what this means?"

"It means we're going to piss off a lot of important and powerful people if we keep going," said Bentley. "Including my uncle."

"Fuck your uncle. This backs up what Trent said. He couldn't be the murderer because he was buying drugs at the mall in the exact spot he said he was, where the security guard would turn off the cameras and look the other way. And if Trent didn't kill those kids, then someone else did. Someone who's out there right now. Someone who thinks they got away with it."

"Should we go to the police?"

"No, we can't," said Lincoln. "First off, this isn't enough evidence to warrant them reopening the case. Second, it would require us ratting out Pettigrew. I don't think that'd win us any new friends. We can't even put this on the site. At least not yet. Which means you and I are the only people who can solve this. Our next step needs to be finding Grant Hedland and convincing him to tell us the truth. Because, the way I see it, either he lied on the stand about dealing drugs to Trent, or he was in on the murders."

# Chapter Eight

"Hi Grant, my name's Lincoln Pierce. I need to ask you a few questions."

Lincoln had the call on speaker phone with Bentley and Hector standing nearby. Grant's information wasn't easily available, but Hector knew how to contact a national cellular registry website to get his number. There were only three people in Colorado with his name, and only one within a hundred miles.

"You a bill collector or something?" Grant sounded perturbed.

"No, nothing like that. I'm researching a case you were involved in."

"Nope," said Grant, quickly cutting Lincoln off. "Not interested."

"We're willing to pay you," said Lincoln fast, hoping that Grant's apparent financial troubles could be exploited.

Grant didn't hang up, which Lincoln assumed was a good sign. He repeated, "We'll pay you for your trouble."

"What case?"

Lincoln's heart raced. He didn't want to mess up the opportunity to get Grant to agree to an interview.

"We think we've caught the person responsible for the murders of Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt." He purposefully phrased it this way to alleviate any concerns Grant might have about cooperating.

"You a cop?"

"No," said Lincoln. "I'm a private investigator."

Grant laughed and said, "Let me guess, you're working for the Klines. Are they ever going to let that shit go?"

Lincoln didn't think it would do him any favors to correct Grant. "A lot of people want to know the truth about what happened that day. If we've got the chance to catch the bastard who killed those kids, then we're going to do it."

"Who's the suspect this time?" asked Grant as if this was amusing to him.

"There's a convicted rapist who confessed to the crime," he lied.

"No shit? I always figured it was Mr. Harcourt who did it."

Lincoln looked over at Bentley and Hector with a quizzical frown before responding to Grant. "No, it's not him. Although I'd love to hear why you think he's the one who did it."

"I thought you already had your guy.

"We do, but it pays to be prudent. We're interviewing as many people involved with the case as we can."

"Nah, man. Sorry, but I don't got nothing to say about it."

"Like I said, we're willing to make it worth your while."

Grant hesitated. "How much we talking?"

"How much will it take to get an hour of your time?"

Grant chuckled and asked, "How about a couple grand? Since you're asking."

"I was thinking more like a hundred."

"For an interview?" He thought about it for a moment and then said, "Yeah, all right. Sure. Why not?"

Lincoln made arrangements to meet with Grant the next day for lunch in Boulder. After hanging up, he asked Bentley and Hector, "Do you know why he brought up Mr. Harcourt? Is there reason to suspect him?"

Hector shook his head and muttered something as he scrolled through information on his computer. Bentley said, "Not really. I read through the case work last night, and the police interviewed the family of both kids pretty extensively. I think Mr. Harcourt was at work, and his alibi held up. He was an asshole, by most accounts, but not an asshole who killed two kids."

"You were reading case work at home?" asked Lincoln, chiding Bentley. "Don't you have a girlfriend to keep busy or something?"

"No," said Bentley. "I'm alone."

Something about the way he said it broke Lincoln's heart. There was a barely noticeable sorrow in Bentley's words that most people would never notice, but sounded achingly familiar to Lincoln. Bentley hadn't said, 'I'm single.' Instead, he answered in a much more depressing fashion.

Hector finished reading something on the computer and said, "Benny's right." He began to read out loud, "Frank Harcourt was questioned in regards to his whereabouts on the day of the disappearance, and explained that he was at work in Denver."

"Denver?" asked Lincoln with a shrug. "That's close enough to drive back and forth pretty quick. Does it say anything about the police looking into his alibi?"

"No, but they must've," said Hector.

"Don't assume the police know what the hell they're doing. And even when they do, don't assume they're doing a good job of it."

"I can try and dig up some stuff on him, but he disappeared a few years back. I think he might've left the country," said Hector. "I remember seeing that the police questioned the mother too. What was her name?"

"Devin's mom?" asked Bentley. "Angel. She's the one who called the police after searching for her son. I think it's standard procedure for the cops to question the parents of a missing kid first. Normally with kids who turn up dead, someone in the family's responsible."

"Do we have transcripts of the police interviews with the family members?"

"I do," said Bentley. "I printed them out last night. They're at my apartment. I can print them out again, if you want, but there's a lot of pages."

"No, that's all right," said Lincoln. "How about you head home and pick them up, and then we can get together for a drink tonight. If you're going to stay up working all night, you might as well pretend to be having a good time at the bar. Right?"

"Yeah, sure," said Bentley with a forced smile. The comment caused him to remember something, and he reached out his hand before saying, "Hey, by the way, let me see your phone real quick."

Lincoln handed over his cell, uncertain why. Bentley opened up the geolocation app that Hector had installed, clicked a button, and then handed the phone back.

"What'd you do?" asked Lincoln.

"You forgot to switch it off yesterday after you and Darcy left the mall."

Lincoln looked at his phone, suddenly understanding that Bentley and Hector had been given a glimpse into his nightly activity. Did they know he stayed at the bar until closing? Did they care? Did he care if they knew? He felt a modicum of shame, but he didn't have a chance to consider it before a knock on the window interrupted them.

"Speak of the devil," said Lincoln as he glanced over and saw his daughter opening the glass door of the office. "To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Speak of the devil?" asked Darcy. "Is that all you guys do here? Sit around and talk about girls?"

"Just the pretty ones," said Bentley.

Hector laughed and then pointed at Bentley while looking at Lincoln. "You'd better watch out for this one, Mr. P., I think he's got his sights set on your girl."

"Then he's got his sights set too damn high," said Lincoln.

Darcy was wearing a black skirt and white blouse that hugged her athletic frame. Her hair was tied up in a bun, and she'd taken the time to apply make-up that Lincoln didn't think she needed. She was always beautiful, but she looked particularly stunning today. He was reminded of a group of pharmaceutical saleswomen he'd mentored years earlier. They'd been serious career women, focused and dedicated to their jobs, but it was no secret that they'd been hired for their sex appeal. Vixens in business attire. Today, Darcy fit the bill.

"I was hoping to steal you away for a minute," said Darcy to her father.

He followed her into the hall and became suddenly terrified that something was wrong. Before she started talking, he was convinced the cancer was back, and his palms began to sweat as his heart pounded.

This was the day he'd been dreading since the last time her cancer had gone into remission.

"What is it, honey?"

She seemed apprehensive, and he knew his concerns were valid. This was it. This was the moment his world would come crashing down on him. His baby was dying.

"I was thinking about what you said yesterday," said Darcy.

"About what?"

"About the job."

He'd been so certain he knew what she was about to say that he was blindsided. "What job?"

"The job here, with you. Duh."

"Oh," said Lincoln, and then said it again with obvious excitement. "Oh! Right. Oh thank God."

"What did you think I was talking about?"

"Nothing, nothing," said Lincoln. He had no desire to drag her into his morbid, fatherly head space. "We'd love to have you on the team."

"I'm going to have to work at the restaurant for the rest of the week, and there're some shows coming up that I'll have to go to with the band."

"That's fine," said Lincoln. "Just let me know how much money you need and I'll take care of it. As a matter of fact, we're getting together tonight to run through some things about the case if you want to come along."

"I can't come tonight. I'm practicing with the girls. We've got a show tomorrow night. But I can hang out the rest of the afternoon if you want."

"That'd be great," said Lincoln. He pulled her in for a hug and held her tight. The fear that quaked him moments earlier was still fresh. It would take time for that sort of terror to subside.

* * *

Nothing was better at settling his nerves than alcohol.

Lincoln held the stem of the martini and watched the last scraps of ice melt away on the surface. It was never a good sign when there were ice chips in a martini. It meant the bartender had shaken it, or stirred it too hard. However, the familiar aroma of gin, with its crisp hint of juniper, stilled his concern.

It always did.

That first sip of a martini, potent and cold, the flavors and alcohol dancing their way down his throat, was worth the trials any day held. He savored it with his eyes closed, which helped him escape the environment. It helped him escape everything.

It always did.

He'd once heard someone say that martinis tasted like sophistication, which was as accurate a description as he could imagine. He started drinking martinis when he was young because he thought it was a drink that came packaged with distinction. No need for sugary additions or artificial flavors, just dry vermouth, gin, and a couple olives. Early on he'd insisted on vodka martinis, shaken instead of stirred, because he assumed James Bond had it right. It wasn't until much later that he discovered the subtle flavor of a good gin and a gentle stir.

"Sorry I'm late," said Bentley when he arrived carrying a bookbag and wearing comfortable clothes. He looked like a college kid fresh from class.

"What happened to your suit?"

"It's after hours," said Bentley as if surprised Lincoln had asked.

"It's never after hours if you're putting your best foot forward."

Bentley sat down at the round table and opened his bag to start pulling out stacks of paper. "I've never been comfortable in a suit. It's not my style."

"No one's comfortable in a suit. That's not why you wear them."

Bentley hadn't expected a scolding, and wasn't sure how to respond. "I'm not worried about impressing anyone tonight."

"You should always be worried about impressing people."

"Well, I'm not." It was clear that Bentley wasn't interested in continuing to talk about how he was dressed.

"That's your problem," said Lincoln. "You're not taking yourself seriously."

Bentley shrugged and said, "Maybe worrying about impressing people all the time is your problem." He glanced wryly across the table.

Lincoln was about to respond snidely, but then he simply smirked, raised his glass, and said, "Touché."

"I read through Frank Harcourt's interview. It's actually pretty shocking how feeble his alibi is."

"Really?" Lincoln moved aside his martini to make room for the case work.

"He was working as an IT manager at a brokerage in Denver, and he was clocked in the day Betty and Devin went missing. But he always kept the door of his office closed, and there weren't any coworkers who could confirm he was there that day. Which is weird, right? I mean, you've got to figure the dude leaves his office from time to time to go to the bathroom or something – maybe stop for a chat at the water cooler. But when the police tried to get someone to back up the fact that he was at work, no one could do it. They'd seen him that morning, but no one would testify that they saw him after lunch. Harcourt had to provide them with his computer logs from that day, which detailed everything he did."

"And did he give them the logs?"

"Yeah," said Bentley. "But here's the weird thing." Bentley started to shuffle through the multitude of papers on the table, but couldn't find what he was looking for. He opened up his bookbag again and pulled out a clipboard that he handed over. "Back when the case started to get attention again after Grant got busted, there was an online forum set up for a benefit concert."

"I remember it," said Lincoln. "That's the concert Darcy's band played in."

"One of the forum members claimed to be a coworker of Frank's, and that they would use a bot to create the logins so they could get out of work. Those faked logs could be what Frank showed the police."

"A bot?" asked Lincoln.

"Yeah, it's a computer thing. You can create programs to perform coding work automatically, and to anyone not computer savvy it can be passed off as proof that he was really there working. I asked Hector and he said something like that was possible. He's going to try and find out if he can get the information that Harcourt gave to police, but I'm not sure if it still exists."

"If anyone would know about getting out of work, it's Hector. So then we've got to put Devin's dad in the suspect pile," said Lincoln. "What about his mom?"

"Angel Harcourt," said Bentley as he produced a new sheet of paper with details about Devin's mother. "She worked at Longmont United, but was off the day of the disappearances. She's the one who called the cops after Devin never made it home."

Lincoln took the page and read through some of the details. "Not exactly the sort of thing a killer would do."

"Mom's do kill their kids from time to time," said Bentley. "But I don't get the sense Angel was that sort of person. By all accounts, she helped the police as much as possible, and she spent every waking hour hanging up posters and searching the area for her son."

"Was Devin an only child?"

"Yes," said Bentley. "Angel lost a premature baby right after her and Frank got married. That was when they were young. I'm guessing they got married because she was pregnant. Her family was pretty religious. Devin didn't come around until several years later."

"I hope I never know what it's like to lose a child. And if he was her only kid..." Lincoln grimaced and shook his head. "What about the Klines?"

"They were supportive of the cops too, up until the investigation turned to their son. That's when they got an attorney and clammed up. The police got ahold of Trent's journals, which kicked off the media circus."

"Did Betty's parents have alibis?"

"Yes," said Bentley. "Rock solid, from what I can tell. They owned a bakery, and were there at the time. Apparently they had security cameras in the store that proved they were there until they got a call from Angel Harcourt."

"Why did she call them?"

"To see if they knew where Devin was at. I guess Betty and Devin walked home from school together a lot."

"Oh." Lincoln was reviewing the papers as Bentley continued.

"That's when Deborah Kline left the bakery to go help look for the kids. Her husband closed up the shop a little later and headed out to help his wife."

"Hopefully they'll be open to an interview," said Lincoln.

"I thought they'd be open to it, but now I'm not so sure. After Trent got convicted, they were all over the media trying to prove he was innocent. Like Grant said, they even hired private investigators to look into the case. But they ran into some financial trouble, and after that they shut down their bakery. I'm not sure what's up with that, but from what I've seen they even started refusing to conduct interviews about the crime. They must've figured things out, though. Eventually they opened their bakery back up. I was thinking of going by there to check it out."

"What about the other family?" asked Lincoln.

"I think we're going to have an even tougher time getting the Harcourts to work with us. Both of them were convinced Trent was guilty. They hated the fact that so many people were trying to prove he was innocent. That's why most of the artwork for that concert featured pictures of Betty instead of Devin. His parents insisted they leave him out of it. And then there's the fact that no one knows where Frank Harcourt's at."

"Mr. Harcourt's becoming more and more suspicious every second," said Lincoln. "Maybe Grant was onto something."

"It'll be interesting to talk to him," said Bentley as a waitress came over to ask him if he wanted anything to drink.

The waitress was young, short, and thin, with jet black hair and red lipstick. She was cute, and Lincoln noticed immediately that she was trying to flirt with Bentley, something the young man seemed oblivious to.

Bentley ordered an IPA on tap, and didn't pay any attention to the girl as she mused about how he'd made a good pick, and that it was her favorite beer. Bentley was cordial, but disinterested in small talk.

After the waitress left, Lincoln leaned in closer and said, "I think she's into you."

"The waitress?" Bentley glanced over at the young woman and then shook his head. "You're crazy."

Bentley wasn't a bad looking kid. He was tall and thick, with a barrel chest and wide shoulders, but he was trim where it counted. Lincoln knew he'd have to convince Bentley to shave off the patchy beard, which made him look ten years older than he was, and to get his hair cut, but with a little work the kid could be a lady-killer.

"One thing life's taught me," said Lincoln, and he took a drink before finishing the thought, "a man's better with a good woman by his side."

"Can't argue with that." Bentley moved on quickly, revealing his eagerness to avoid the topic. "When do you think we should try to call everyone for interviews?"

"Let's go after the Klines first. I'd like to see what the other P.I.s they hired were able to find."

"Good idea," said Bentley. "What about after..."

"Let's focus on one step at a time," said Lincoln, deflating Bentley's enthusiasm. "Tomorrow we can meet with Grant, and then try to contact the Klines. That's enough for now."

"Okay," said Bentley as he started to leaf through the mound of pages he'd spread out over the small table between them. "Do you want me to find Grant's testimony?"

"Sure that'd be great, but I don't need it just yet. For now, I want to get to know you a bit."

"Me? Why?"

"Because I'm being forced to work with you. I might as well learn to like you. Tell me a little about yourself."

"There's not much to tell," said Bentley, bashful as he focused on the paperwork.

"Bullshit. Everyone's got a story to tell, and I'd wager you've got a better one than most. With an uncle like Daniel Barr, I'm sure you've got a few interesting anecdotes."

"Not really."

"The scars on your knuckles tell a different story."

Bentley glanced self-consciously down at his hands. There were a myriad of scars crisscrossing his knuckles, and some of his fingers were bent oddly, indicative of breaks that never set quite right. "Old demons."

"Demons tell better stories than saints. Were you one of your uncle's enforcers out on the street?"

"I didn't work with Uncle Danny until recently."

"Then who were you beating the crap out of to get scars like those?"

"These didn't come from a fight."

Lincoln was annoyed that he had to pry, but he wanted to know more about the young man he was being asked to mentor. "Okay then, where'd they come from?"

Bentley made a fist, and then relaxed his hand as he examined the way the color of the scars changed. "I did it to myself, punching a wall."

Lincoln teased him, "Well that's smart. Do you have yourself a bit of a rage issue?"

"No. Just a few bad months. I lost someone important to me."

Lincoln ceased his chiding tone, and offered a sincere apology. "Sorry to hear that. Do you mind if I ask who?"

Bentley hesitated, and then reached up to his neck to retrieve a gold chain. He took it out from beneath his shirt, revealing a wedding band dangling from it. "My wife died in a car accident."

Lincoln was at a rare loss for words.

"I was a mess for a while," said Bentley. "But you know what they say, time heals all wounds. Right?"

"That's what they say," said Lincoln.

"You don't sound convinced," said Bentley with the sort of smile that people wear to feign normalcy. "Me neither."

"I'm gutted to hear you lost someone so close to you," said Lincoln. "Honestly. A kid your age... You don't deserve to go through that sort of thing."

"No one does. Least of all her." Bentley was looking down at the ring, turning it around between his fingers before tucking it back under his shirt. "She was in the hospital for two months. For a while there we thought she was going to make it. We even set up a rehab schedule to help her walk again. Uncle Danny paid for a ramp to be built at my dad's house, and we were going to move in there after she got out of the hospital. Dad didn't want us to have to worry about bills. He and Uncle Danny were going to take care of everything. But then..." He paused as an unexpected pang of hurtful memory stole his breath. "She got... uh..." He took a deep breath and motioned towards his chest, gesticulating as he tried to recount the story. "Her lungs filled up with fluid. She got pneumonia. It happened all of the sudden. I was laughing with her one day, and the next the doctor was telling me she... uh." He cleared his throat and then spoke in a near whisper, "She might not wake up again."

The waitress showed up and asked if they needed anything. Lincoln ordered a martini and then tried to convince Bentley to have another beer, but the widower refused.

"I should probably be going," said Bentley. "I have a feeling tomorrow's going to be a busy day for us."

Lincoln didn't try to stop him from leaving. Bentley gathered his things, and left a few pages behind for Lincoln to look over. Bentley left in a hurry, fighting demons he didn't feel like sharing.

Lincoln sat alone through his next few martinis, ruminating on what the young man had revealed. It never ceased to surprise him just what sort of skeletons were hiding in peoples' closets. Bentley's revelation was another reminder of how tough life could be, and how it's a fool's game to guess what trials plague a person. You never know how deep the devil treads.

# Arthur

"I'm here to pick up a package," said Arthur to the overworked clerk at the post office. It was early. He'd hoped to avoid a crowd, but the building was still packed. When Arthur arrived and saw the line, he debated turning around and leaving, but he needed to get the Morning Glory seeds that'd been sent here.

The woman behind the counter was short and middle-aged, with a bowl haircut that would've looked bad on a schoolboy and managed to look even worse on her. She barely even looked up at Arthur as she shuffled through the stacks of letters the customer before him had left behind.

"What's the name?" she asked.

"It's not under a name," said Arthur, feeling suddenly exposed as the crowd loomed around him. He scratched nervously at his salt-and-pepper beard. The line stretched around a center desk behind him and out into the adjoining room. The customers were all annoyed at how long their trip to the post office had already taken, and he knew they were staring daggers at him. He'd covered up as much as possible, with a baseball cap pulled down low and his collar up, but he still felt awfully exposed.

The clerk glanced up at him, as intrigued as she was confused, "Then what's it under?"

"The package is for the holder of a specific Federal Note," said Arthur as he pulled a two-dollar bill out of his pocket and set it on the counter. The bill's integrity suffered from being folded numerous times, and the edges curled up. He flattened it and turned the bill around before pointing at the number that made this bill unique.

F 54078600 A

"You've got a first class package here that can only be picked up by the bearer of this note." He tried to sound calm and confident, but the crowd behind him rattled his nerves.

"I still need an ID."

"No you don't," said Arthur, hissing a little as he whispered to her. He was worried about attracting attention. "You have to give me the package. That's the law."

The clerk was visibly perturbed, and she said, "Let me check on this. I'll be right back."

Arthur hung his head low, hoping to avoid suspicion as the clerk left to go speak with a manager. He wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

The post office had two other clerks serving customers. Arthur was at the desk on the furthest side, and the customer beside him finished his transaction, prompting the clerk to call for whoever was next. A spritely young woman came forward, with red hair that was tied in a ponytail and diamond studs in her cheeks. She was wearing a plaid skirt and fishnet stockings, and could've passed for a punk from the 1970's.

"Hi," said the cute young woman who was now standing mere feet from Arthur. "I'm here to pick up my mail. It got delivered to my parent's house instead of my apartment, and they weren't home." She produced a slip of paper and said, "The mailman left this on the door."

"What's your name?" asked the clerk.

"Becky Kyle."

Arthur perked up at the mention of the name, and he regarded the girl with new interest. Becky Kyle, alliterative to Betty Kline. She was young and pretty, and the studs in her cheeks reminded him of Betty's dimples.

The clerk serving him returned, as dour as before, with a large box that she set on the counter between them. "You're going to have to sign for this." She slid across a piece of paper and pointed at the line on the bottom. He picked up a pen that was chained to the counter and signed 'X' before pushing the paper back over to her.

"Are we done here?" asked Arthur.

"Don't forget this," said the clerk as she pointed at the two-dollar bill.

He took the money and his package, and quickly left the Post Office. He got to his car, but he didn't drive away just yet. He waited for Becky Kyle to come out. He watched as she went over to her car, and then he followed behind her as she headed home. He tailed her to an apartment building on the edge of town, and then saw which building she headed into. After circling the block, the entire time debating whether or not he should just head home, he returned to the apartment and parked in the lot.

Arthur tried to act casual as he jogged over to the building, inspected the list of apartments and last names, and found the buzzer belonging to the name 'Kyle.' Becky lived in 3-B. He looked up at the top floor of the apartments and wondered which one was hers.

Until recently Arthur had considered the idea of hunting women in the wild too dangerous. The prostitution method worked well enough, but it presented problems. He took great care to keep his dealings with the prostitutes hidden, but if he killed enough of them then word would spread through that community. It wouldn't be long before the internet boards lit up with questions about the missing girls, which would lead to increased precaution. Also, the quality of the women who participated in the dark web's sadomasochism rings were of a lower quality than he preferred.

Out in the wild he could have his pick.

Arthur was getting excited. He wanted to run up to her apartment right that instant. He began to imagine the scenario.

He thought about pretending to deliver a package, but then discounted that idea. Most delivery companies left packages for apartments like this at the front office, and he'd just seen Becky picking up a package that'd been delivered to her parent's house. What if she had all her mail delivered there? No, he'd have to be smarter than that. What sort of person is granted unfettered access to a person's apartment?

Repairmen.

Arthur could get an appropriate outfit and tools, and then call Becky with a request to come inspect her plumbing. He'd explain that one of the other tenets in her building was experiencing issues, and that he needed to speak with her. That would be believable enough.

As he contemplated the murder, he reached into his glove box and took out a resistance exercise glove. It was fitted with loops for his fingers that were connected to what looked like five miniature pistons. The glove was designed to help strengthen a person's forearm and grip, and Arthur used it whenever he imagined choking a victim.

All she had to do was let him in. If he got into her apartment, and was alone with her, then he could choke her into unconsciousness in less than a minute. He squeezed his hand, letting the exercise glove heighten the sense of realism as he imagined her in his grip, struggling to get free. He would compress the arteries, starve her brain of blood enough that she lost consciousness, and then he would put his thumbs over her windpipe. He'd linger, allowing the excitement to build.

He was getting an erection.

After she was dead, he would leave her there. He wouldn't worry about cutting her up. That wasn't part of the process that he enjoyed. He would masturbate over her, but he couldn't risk leaving any semen. He'd have to use protection, even if he didn't want to. For a moment he debated if that was necessary, but then he sternly admonished himself for considering risky behavior. He could masturbate after she was dead, but he had to use a condom or something else to collect the semen. He couldn't leave any trace behind.

This was exciting, and he wanted to move ahead with his plan, but then a sobering realism hit him. He remembered the alert last night about the new investigation into the disappearances ten years ago. How could he consider another murder after learning that his past exploits were still gathering attention? No. That would be sloppy.

As much as he wanted to feel Becky Kyle's life slip away in his grasp, he had to deal with this new problem first. After he was certain that the new investigation was over, he could reward himself with Becky.

# Chapter Nine

"Is this the owner of the...um..." the woman on the phone sounded nervous. "The owner of the IndieStarters website about Devin's murder?"

Lincoln sat up quickly. His stomach churned as he tried to get his bearings. He was in his apartment, in bed, with another hangover. Someone had once told him that alcoholics didn't get hangovers, but that was a load of bullshit. He burped, and the taste of gin and vomit snuck up through his nostrils. He shook it off, and focused on the call.

"Who's this?" asked Lincoln, ruder than he'd intended.

"My name's Angel Harcourt." She sounded so meek, like a mouse pleading for her life. "I'm...uh. I'm Devin's mother."

"Ms. Harcourt," said Lincoln with new reverence. "Hi. Wow, I'm... I'm glad you called."

"So I've got the right person then? You're the one doing the investigation?"

"I am, yes. Hold on just a second." Lincoln got up and rushed around in search of his clipboard, but he wasn't sure where he'd left it. He finally found some of the papers Bentley had given him and sat down at his kitchen table to take notes.

"I think I'd like to talk with you."

"I'd like that too," said Lincoln. "Do you mind if I ask how you heard about our investigation?"

"A friend from church called," said Angel. "There are a lot of people looking out for me. They know this sort of thing..." She sighed, and then continued. "They know it hurts. Having someone dredge all this up again can be hard to deal with. My friends like to try and protect me."

"We're not trying to hurt anyone," said Lincoln. "I promise."

"I know. That's why I'm calling. I'm sure my ex-husband wouldn't feel the same way about it, but the way I see it, the best thing is to deal with you head on instead of trying to hide. There's been a lot of people like you over the years, and they all end up coming to the same conclusion every time. No one can find out anything that the police haven't dug up already. The sooner I can convince you of that, the sooner I can try and forget about what happened."

Lincoln didn't want to take the chance of upsetting her. He'd worked with enough salespeople over the years to know that once the deal was done, the best thing to do is hang up. "When can we meet?"

"Are you available today?"

"I've got a lunch meeting, but maybe I could meet you tonight. Would that work for you?"

"That's fine."

He got her address, agreed to pick her up at six, and thanked her for calling. He texted Bentley to tell him that he got a call from Angel Harcourt, and then he headed into the shower. By the time he was ready, Bentley had responded. He had everything ready for their lunch meeting with Grant, and asked if Lincoln would be meeting them at the restaurant instead of coming to the office first.

Lincoln looked over at the clock for the first time since waking up and saw that it was already nearing eleven. He cursed himself for not waking up sooner. He let Bentley know that he would head to the restaurant now. Bentley said he would meet him there, and that they could review their notes at the restaurant before Grant arrived.

He was almost out the door when he checked his breath again. He decided to head back to the bathroom for a second round of brushing his teeth. He took a liberal swig of mouthwash, swallowed some, and then headed out the door.

They were meeting Grant at a Thai restaurant on the outskirts of town. It was his pick, and one that he said he frequented regularly. He explained that the owners knew him, and that he'd done business with them in the past. Lincoln didn't bother asking what sort of business.

"Hey there kid," said Lincoln when he saw Bentley walk in the door.

Bentley got right to the point, eager for details, "So Angel Harcourt called you?"

Lincoln told him about their conversation, and Bentley was just as shocked as he was. Then Lincoln asked Bentley if he'd be able to come out for dinner, but the young man had plans that night. When Lincoln pressed, Bentley explained that he was going to a concert with some friends, and that he couldn't get out of it.

"After we meet with Grant, we can head back to the office and work on a list of questions for you to ask her. I think this is the first time she's done an interview with an investigator."

"I don't think so," said Lincoln. "She mentioned that she thought the best way to deal with investigators was to cooperate. I think some of the private detectives the Klines sent out must've gotten to her."

"Maybe," said Bentley. "There's no information out there about the people the Klines hired. Hector and I tried to dig stuff up, but we couldn't find anything. I think we should consider calling the Klines for an interview as soon as possible. But for now, let's focus on what we've got here." He passed Lincoln a piece of paper to review. "These are the questions I was hoping to ask Grant."

Lincoln read through the questions and then made a few notes. Bentley explained that their main goal should be to get Grant's version of the facts, as best as he could recall, and to avoid any discussion of the crime until the interview was almost over. He also brought along a digital recorder that he set on the table.

"Legally we don't have to tell him he's being recorded," said Bentley. "But we're not going to get very good sound quality from this if it's not out on the table."

"That's going to make him nervous. I think we're better off keeping it out of sight."

Bentley picked the recorder back up and then looked at the other side of the table. He got up, moved the fourth chair away, and then sat back down so that the only empty seat was beside him. "Grant can sit to my right. I'll keep the recorder in my pocket and point it in his direction. Hopefully that'll help." Then he pivoted in his seat, saw the sign for the restroom, and said, "I'm going to go pee real quick."

"Thanks for the update," said Lincoln. "I'll make a note of it."

"Order me one of those Thai iced teas, the sweet ones," said Bentley as he headed for the bathroom.

Bentley was only gone for a few seconds when the bells above the entrance jangled, announcing another customer. Lincoln was seated facing the door, and he saw a man in his late-twenties enter. He was short and thin, with a coat that was thicker and heavier than the weather warranted, and a set of earphones around his neck. His walk gave the impression that he was injured, but Lincoln assumed it was a purposeful gait.

"Yo Leah, I'm here to meet with someone," said the young man to the hostess before he glanced over into the dining area and saw Lincoln. He pointed over at him and asked, "You the guy?"

Lincoln stood and nodded, "I'm the guy. Come have a seat." He motioned to the chair directly across from him. "I take it you're Mr. Hedland."

"The one and only."

Lincoln extended his hand, but Grant didn't see the gesture. He sat down fast and started to pull at his coat as if trying to get comfortable but unwilling to take the cumbersome apparel off.

"It's a little warm for a coat like that." Lincoln rescinded his extended hand before sitting down across from Grant.

"Yeah," said Grant, disinterested in Lincoln's opinion of his fashion. "Prob'ly." He took out his cell and looked at it before saying, "I've got to go soon. You got my money?"

"I do," said Lincoln, "but I'll pay you after the interview."

"Yeah, a'ight. You lucky you called when you did, man. I've been thinking of going to Santa Fe, and I might never come back. I got a nice little thing down there," he used his hands to draw the vague outline of a female shape, accentuating the bottom. "Tight as hell. Seriously. And a fucking ho like you wouldn't believe. I'm going down there, and I might never come back. Not after dipping into that sweet sugar." He gave two, sharp laughs and leaned forward as if about to reach across the table to slap Lincoln's hand, but then he just tapped the table a few times with a sloppy beat.

"I've got a friend in the restroom at the moment," said Lincoln. "We'll wait for him before starting the interview."

"Fine, whatevs. I guess you've got all sorts of questions 'bout Trent, right? 'Bout that day. What was it? Ten years ago, right? Jesus fucking Christ, time, man. Know what I'm saying?"

Lincoln glanced over at the bathroom, curious what was taking Bentley so long.

"Guess you're going to want to know if Trent bought drugs from me. Right? You wanna know if I lied. That's what the ones before you wanted to know. You want me to admit I lied?"

"You're already well past the statute of limitations on that," said Lincoln. "If you did lie, it wouldn't do you any harm to admit it."

"See, motherfucker," said Grant as he leaned back and tilted the chair. He was relaxed and unintimidated. "You're just as dumb as the rest. Fuck, the cops and them lawyers... They ain't the ones I was scared of."

"No?"

Grant shook his head and moved aside as the waitress showed up with a couple glasses of water. She asked them if they wanted anything else to drink, but Lincoln explained that they didn't want anything yet, and that they would call her over when they were ready.

Lincoln glanced over at the bathroom again, and this time he caught sight of Bentley. The young man was hiding, peering out from behind a six foot decorative room divider. Lincoln locked eyes with him, and Bentley brought his finger to his lips to hush him as he shook his head. Lincoln was confused, but did his best not to react.

"Where's the other dude?" asked Grant as he turned to look in the direction of the bathroom. Bentley ducked behind the screen, and Grant didn't see him. "Is he pinching a loaf?"

"I guess," said Lincoln nonchalantly. "We can start without him."

"Here, let me make it easy for you," said Grant. "I'll tell you something I never told none of those other guys, 'cause I don't give a shit no more. As of this weekend, I'm outta here. I'm not covering no one's ass but my own from here on out."

Lincoln sat up straighter and got ready to start writing down what Grant said. Bentley snuck closer, the digital recorder in his hand. He gently set it on the table behind Grant, the microphone pointed at the dealer, and then retreated back behind the decorative screen.

"Go ahead," said Lincoln, prompting the garrulous dealer to continue.

"I used to deal at the mall. Trent was telling the truth about that. But, I mean, you know that shit already. I got busted, right? Ain't no secret. I used to deal to Trent back in the day. I had a good thing worked out with the security guard at the mall. I cut him in on what I sold in the lot, and he'd shut off the camera for me."

"Was Trent telling the truth about buying from you on the day of the murders?"

"Here's the thing, man." Grant held up his right hand and looked as if about to set his left on a bible. "I don't fucking remember. Hell, I don't even remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday. And it's not like the cops were banging on my door the day after them kids went missing. They came at me, like, two or three weeks later, after they found Trent's journal and all that shit started to make it onto the evening news. And you know what's fucked up? The first people to show up weren't even the cops. I had a couple heavies at my door, telling me what's what and shit. I'll never forget it. There were two big, mean looking dudes and a lawyer with them, I think he was from the DA's office or something, and they sat me down and went through exactly what was going to happen. They had evidence that Trent was guilty, man. And they sold me, for real. Lock, stock and shit. But I don't know. After a while, some of what they said started to get fuzzy. Like, they needed me to lie, and they said it wouldn't hurt nobody because Trent was guilty, and he deserved to go to jail. If I admitted to selling dope at the mall, all it would do is hurt the people I worked with. And, bro, those aren't the sort of folks you wanna fuck with. You feel me?"

Lincoln assumed Grant was mistaken about the lawyer being with the District Attorney. That wasn't likely. It must've been Clyde Pettigrew's lawyer and some of his enforcers. "They told you to lie?"

"Of course they did, man. And they made it real clear what'd happen if I didn't. Thing is, I never knew I was involved in any sort of major drug ring. I never had a fucking clue. I was the low man on a really goddamn big totem pole. These aren't the sort of guys you mess around with."

"Why the change of heart?" asked Lincoln.

"Like I told you, I've been thinking about getting the fuck out of town anyways. And the last private detective that came snooping around had some pretty good evidence about that one kid's dad."

"Mr. Harcourt."

"Yeah, him."

"What sort of evidence?" asked Lincoln.

"That dude was a freak. He got arrested once for beating the shit out of his girlfriend. And he was involved in some pretty nasty sex stuff. Leather and whips, bondage, you know what I mean. On the outside, the guy pretended to be this upstanding, churchy dude. But on the real, he was straight up fucked."

"Being into kinky sex doesn't mean you're a killer."

"No, I feel ya there, bro." Grant grinned wide, causing his eyes to squint. He'd mistaken Lincoln's comment for a joke. "But that guy lied to the police too. I don't remember the specifics, but the last detective I talked to, the one the Klines hired, he had proof that dude was in Boulder earlier than he said."

"What sort of proof?"

Grant shrugged and then rubbed his nose as if about to sneeze as he spoke, "I don't remember. Something about his work logs getting faked. I don't know. Point is, that guy lied to the police." Grant leaned in, and the synthetic material of his coat's sleeve made a zipping sound across the edge of the table. He spoke quietly, as if sharing a secret, "My bet is he killed his son to get revenge on his ex, and that other girl got in the way." He leaned back again, smiling as if pleased with himself as he nodded.

"Could be," said Lincoln. "But you said that Trent knew that the camera would be shut off sometimes. So it's possible that he went back there when the camera was off, and then ran to the crime scene to kill those kids."

"Man, I don't think so. Trent was a fucked up kid, no doubt, but I don't think he had it in him to kill anyone. He was a dork. The only reason he got into all that devil shit was to keep the other fools from picking on him. He wanted them to think he might be the next kid to show up at school with a shotgun. Pretty morbid, but high school can be hard on some kids. Trent used to get jumped on the regular. He had to ditch his gym class all the time to keep from getting his ass kicked." Grant snapped his fingers and pointed over at Lincoln as if something had just occurred to him. "The cops used that against him too. Gym was his last class of the day, and they said he ditched so he could get to his sister's school when they let out. But that's bullshit. Trent used to ditch gym all the damn time. I know 'cause he used to come by the mall and hang out."

Grant took a drink of water, and then shook his head in remorse. "Trent getting busted for killing those kids always bugged me. Someone got away with murder, and he got the rap for it. That's rough. And the way he went out." He slashed a finger across his throat. "Brutal, man. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. It was like his worst damn nightmare come true."

"What do you mean?"

"He hated high school 'cause he was always getting picked on, and then he goes to prison for killing two kids. Imagine what his life was like in there. No wonder he offed himself. He wasn't built for jail, man." Grant sighed and looked down at his hands as he fiddled with a sugar packet. "I probably should've come forward and told the truth a long time ago, but it wouldn't of done no good. The cops had their man, and they shut that case up good and tight. Plus, the last thing I need is some cartel heavies on my case, making sure I keep my mouth shut for good. Am I right? But fuck it. I'm picking up roots. That sweet ass honey's waiting for me in the Fe, begging me to come lay some of this pipe. Know what I'm saying? And if I'm hitting the road, I might as well do what I can to help clear Trent's name 'fore I go."

Lincoln glanced up, past Grant, to see if Bentley was still hiding behind the divider. The waitress saw him looking, and mistakenly assumed he was summoning her.

"Hi, are you ready to order?" asked the waitress as she returned. She walked hurriedly across the dining room and paused while taking out her order pad. She saw the digital recorder on the table beside her. She looked queerly at Lincoln, and then picked it up. "Is this yours?"

Grant turned, saw the recorder, and then looked back over at Lincoln. "You're recording me?" He stood up, angered, and stepped back from the table. He moved towards the entrance, and his new position afforded him a view behind the decorative divider where Bentley was hiding.

Grant's demeanor changed the moment he saw Bentley. His expression went from angry to terrified, as if a horrific realization had just forced his brain to choose between fight and flight, like a threatened animal facing a predator. He chose to run.

"Wait, wait!" Bentley screamed out as he ran after Grant.

The escaping dealer yelled out, "Fuck off! I didn't say nothing." He slammed into the glass door, forcing it open so hard that it rattled the wall. The vibration caused a brass sconce to fall and smash on the floor beside Bentley as he chased after Grant.

Lincoln saw Bentley pull out a gun.

"Stop or I'll shoot."

# Chapter Ten

"Grant!" Bentley followed the dealer out into the parking lot. "I'm going to shoot."

Lincoln grabbed the digital recorder and then chased after them both, bewildered by what'd caused Grant's dramatic reaction. He got a better look at what Bentley was holding, and saw the yellow stripes on its side that revealed it to be a stun gun.

Grant was headed to his car, fumbling with his keys as he continued to repeat, "I didn't say nothing."

"Last warning," said Bentley. He waited for a second, giving Grant a chance to stop trying to escape, and then he fired.

Three wires shot forth from the tip of the gun. The wires were attached to prongs, two of which stuck in Grant's coat and the third in his right cheek. Spasms caused him to jerk about in place, He still held onto the handle of his car as he shook, as if it was impossible to release. He sputtered before collapsing into a puddle in the parking lot.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Lincoln, confusion and shock outweighing his anger.

The restaurant's hostess came out after them, her heels clicking on the pavement. "What happened? What's wrong with Grant? I'm calling the police."

Lincoln turned to deal with her, "No, don't do that."

"I think I should," she said. "I think I should call..."

"There's no need to call the police. We're... uh..." He struggled to come up with an excuse. "I'm a P.I."

"You're a cop?"

"No," said Lincoln, making sure not to mislead her. "I'm a private investigator."

"Does that mean you can shoot people?"

"It means that... Yeah, I guess so. Sure." He looked over at Bentley. The young man had run over to Grant's side and had his knee placed on the dealer's back. "We can make arrests."

"Is he being arrested?"

"What do you think?" asked Lincoln, trying desperately not to outright lie. It was true that Private Investigators could make arrests, because any citizen could legally make an arrest if they thought a crime had occurred. In Colorado, private investigators had no more rights than a regular citizen, but this hostess certainly didn't know that.

"I think I should still call the police."

Lincoln took out his money clip. "There's no need for that. Here, let me pay for the sconce that broke." He handed the hostess a hundred dollar bill, and she scowled at him as if furious that he would try to bribe her.

"You can call the cops," said Lincoln, realizing that she wasn't going to simply take his bribe. "But then you're going to have to explain why a known drug dealer has been operating on your premises." He raised his brow as he continued to offer her the money. "Or you could just let us take him in and never have to worry about it."

She looked over at Grant, and then back at Lincoln with pursed lips and an icy stare. She snatched the money from him and said, "Get out of here."

Lincoln waited until she went inside, and then ran over to Bentley. "What the hell are you doing?"

Bentley was still kneeling on the dealer and was now zip-tying Grant's hands behind his back. "It's all right. I've got him."

Grant's face was in a puddle, and he was sputtering as the muddy water kept invading his mouth. "Ass... hole... Get me up... I'm drowning."

"You're not drowning," said Bentley. "How can you be drowning if you're whining like a bitch?"

"You're drowning me in a... in a fucking puddle!"

Bentley got off the dealer and then pulled at the tie on his wrists. The taser's prong was still stuck in Grant's cheek, and Lincoln winced at how painful it looked as it pulled at the skin.

The left side of Grant's face was soaked and dripping, and he clenched his left eye shut as he was forced to let Bentley lead him across the parking lot. He stumbled, but Bentley kept him moving with authority, like a cop walking a perp to a squad car.

"Where you taking me? I didn't say shit! I didn't say a fucking thing, man."

"Keep your voice down," said Bentley. "Settle down. Stop fighting me. Would you stop fighting me?"

"Nah, man. You fried me. Tried to drown me. Now you're kidnapping me. Motherfucker!"

"You're not in any danger," said Lincoln. "No one's going to hurt you." He clicked the alarm on his key fob and pointed to the Mercedes. "Put him in the back seat."

Bentley did as he was told, and then got in the back of the car to sit beside Grant. Lincoln groaned in frustration before getting in the driver's seat.

"Where you taking me?" asked Grant. "People know I came here. They're gonna know if I go missing. You know that, right? You can't disappear me. You'll get caught."

"No one's disappearing anybody," said Lincoln. "Just shut up for a second." He adjusted the rearview so that he could look at his cohort without having to turn around. "Bentley, mind telling me what the hell just happened?"

"It's a misunderstanding."

"Oh yeah?" asked Lincoln with sarcastic flair. "Is that it? Just a little misunderstanding?"

"Grant and I know each other," said Bentley. "Sort of."

"Yeah, we fucking know each other," said Grant. "I know you and the twins beat the shit out of me. I know you're a piece of shit. I know you're working for the PettiCrew. I know that..."

"Whoa, wait a minute," said Lincoln. "Who's he working for?"

"The PettiCrew man," said Grant. "Come on, don't fake like you don't know, you suit-wearing, goomba, cunt-fuck."

"Chalk that one up for the boards," said Lincoln. "No one's ever called me a cunt-fuck before."

"I'm not part of any crew," said Bentley. "We're not with them."

"Who's the PettiCrew?" asked Lincoln.

"They're some old friends of mine," said Bentley. "They're related to Clyde Pettigrew, the guy you met at the office."

"And you're just telling me this now?"

"I didn't think it would come up. Honest," said Bentley. "I used to pal around with those guys in high school, and I knew they were into some shady stuff, but I never got involved with that. One time I was with them when they met up with Grant. They went after him for something or other, I'm not even sure what it was. Something about owing them money. I didn't know who Grant was. It wasn't until I saw him at the restaurant that I realized we knew each other."

"Wait, wait," said Grant. "So you guys are for real? You're not here to, you know, shut me up?"

"No," said Lincoln as he adjusted the rear view again so that he could see between the two men in the back seat. The hostess was standing with her arms crossed at the restaurant's entrance, a phone in her hand as she glared at the car. "The last thing we want is for you to be quiet."

"Then why the fuck'd you taze me?"

Lincoln started the car.

"Where we going?" asked Grant, panicked. "Where you taking me?"

"We've got to get out of here before they call the cops," said Lincoln. "If you've got a car here, you can pick it up later." Lincoln backed up, and drove away from the restaurant, uncertain where they were headed next.

"If you're not kidnapping me, then cut these fucking ties, man. They're tight as hell."

"Do you have a knife in here?" asked Bentley of Lincoln.

"No."

"Then you're going to have to wait," said Bentley. "Sorry."

"You asshole. You tied me up with no way of letting me go? What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"Why'd you run?"

"Because the last time I saw you, you were breaking my face! What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"All right, quit it," said Lincoln. "Both of you. Grant, we don't mean you any harm. Bentley, I'm not sure what you were thinking. You should've just let him run."

"I didn't want word getting back to my uncle or anyone else involved that we were talking to Grant. This whole thing's got the potential to blow up in our faces."

"What whole thing?" asked Grant. "What the hell did you get me mixed up in here? Is this some cartel bullshit?"

"No. We told you the truth, for the most part," said Lincoln. "We're looking into the disappearances of Betty and Devin, and that led us to the parking lot at the Boulder Valley Mall. Which led us to you. The way we figured, either you helped Trent kill those kids or you lied about not selling him drugs."

"I thought you said there was a dude in jail who confessed."

"That was a lie," admitted Lincoln. "But that was the only lie I told you. We wanted to get you to agree to a meeting, and I was worried that if you helped Trent kill those kids you wouldn't talk to us unless you thought we were looking in the wrong direction."

"Playing me for a fool, huh? Asshole. I didn't kill those kids. You think the cops would've let me walk if I did? You think Trent wouldn't rat me out if I helped him kill someone? Come on, man."

Lincoln pulled over at a store that sold hiking equipment. "I'll run in and buy a pair of scissors or a knife to cut the zip tie. You two play nice back there."

He went in the store and perused their selection of pocket knives. He settled on a Kershaw Skyline, a thin collapsible blade that was less than five inches closed and easily slid into his pocket without weighing his pants down.

When he got back out to the car, Grant and Bentley were arguing. He told them both to shut up as he went around to Grant's side and cut the tie on his wrists.

"Am I free to go, or are you going to taze me again?"

"Why don't you let me drive you wherever it is you're headed?"

"Fuck that," said Grant. "I've had enough of you two to last me my whole damn life." He got out of the car and then flipped them off with both hands. "You can go to hell, bro. But give me my money first."

"I gave your money to the hostess," said Lincoln. "You can get it from her."

"Man, fuck ya'll. I'm out."

"I thought you wanted to help clear Trent's name," said Lincoln.

"Yeah, sure, but I'm not willing to get myself killed doing it. You heard my piece. I don't know if I sold to Trent that day or not, that's the truth. But I don't think Trent killed those kids neither. My money's on Devin's dad. Scope that fucker out. Peace."

"Can we reach you on your cell?"

"Fuck no," said Grant as he started to walk away.

Bentley got out of the car and came around to stand beside Lincoln. "Well, that could've gone better."

"You think?" asked Lincoln, smirking as he pointed at the passenger side door. "Get in. You've got some explaining to do, kid." He walked around to the other side and got in, grumbling as he did. Before starting the car, he glared at Bentley and asked, "Is there something you need to tell me? Because, I know you're a hothead and all, but I'll be damned if it wasn't a surprise when you whipped out a stun gun the minute Grant took off. What was that all about?"

"I told you, I recognized him from back in the day and I figured he would try and run once he saw me. That's why I hung back by the bathroom while the two of you talked."

"Would Pettigrew kill Grant for talking?"

"No, I don't think so. I hope not. Trust me, I don't know a hell of a lot more about him than you do."

"And it's just a coincidence that you and some of Pettigrew's thugs roughed up Grant back in the day? I'm supposed to believe that?"

"It's the truth," said Bentley. "I guess it's just a small world."

"Uh huh," said Lincoln, staring suspiciously at Bentley. "It's just a big coincidence?"

"It is, I swear. Although, it's not really that surprising. Part of my family is in that world. There's nothing I can do about that. I grew up surrounded by those people, and I never knew what they were into; not until I was older. I knew some of Mr. Pettigrew's nephews. A couple of twins. They were a few years older than me, and back in high school I felt like it was cool to hang out with them. They'd take me around to do pick-ups, and I got mixed up in a few things here and there, but I was never in on it. I was a big guy for my age, and they'd take me around with them and pretend I was part of their crew. They'd throw me a few bucks, and nothing bad ever came of it, until they roughed up Grant that one time. After that, I quit hanging out with them. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Have you been telling your uncle about our investigation behind my back? Don't lie. I'll know if you do."

"I haven't told him anything," said Bentley in earnest.

Lincoln kept his gaze steady, pretending to be judging Bentley's honesty. He remembered doing this with Darcy when she was a teenager, and how he did everything he could to convince her that he had the ability to see through any web of lies she tried to create. He never could, of course, and he always ended up believing his daughter. Who knows what sort of things she got away with?

"All right, I believe you," said Lincoln. "Let's get moving. We've got work to do."

# Arthur

"Tell me about yourself, Mr. Pierce."

Arthur was at home, researching the Indiestarters campaign that'd been set up to investigate the disappearances of Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt. He was collecting information about the man who was looking into the closed case.

Lincoln had put a number on the site for tips that utilized an internet based phone system that would forward calls to him. He'd planned on remaining anonymous by doing this, but Arthur's call was forwarded directly to the owner's cell, which had this message, 'This is Lincoln. Leave me a name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.'

Arthur assumed the owner of the site was local, and began to search for people in the area with that first name. There weren't many, and a simple white-pages search yielded an interesting discovery. There was a Lincoln Pierce associated with a young woman named Darcy Pierce, both of whom lived in Boulder. Arthur knew Darcy Pierce.

Darcy and Betty Kline had known each other.

Darcy Pierce and some of her friends started a band in Betty's honor. They went on to have minor, local success, even participating in a concert in Denver that was meant to help fund an investigation into the case. That investigation, like all the others before it, had turned up nothing, and Arthur decided not to retaliate at the time. That'd been a mistake.

Darcy apparently refused to give up. She must've convinced her father to start the site. She wouldn't let this go, and now she would pay the price for her tenacity.

After he was certain that Lincoln and Darcy were the culprits, Arthur used his account with a research site for lawyers to learn as much as he could about the Pierce family. Within minutes he was reading about Lincoln's divorce, Darcy's health issues, tax records, and all of their credit information. Neither of them were careful about their online footprints, leaving them susceptible to this sort of research. It was astounding how naked the average person was without even realizing it.

Arthur had all the information about Darcy and Lincoln Pierce that he needed. He was determined to prevent them from interrupting him. After all, he was just getting started. The predator hadn't even gotten a chance to hunt yet.

And he planned to hunt.

There were ways to deal with this without resorting to violence, but he wouldn't hesitate to kill them both. According to their IndieStarters site, they were going to post updates about their investigation frequently. That was good, but Arthur wanted more. He wanted to know as much as possible about what they were doing.

He went to the website of Darcy's band, The Murder Betties, and reviewed their upcoming schedule. They had a show at a bar in Loveland that night, and Arthur decided to make an appearance.

Arthur went up the basement's wooden stairs and unlatched the bar securing the door. He pushed the heavy door open, and then closed it behind him as he headed into the modest kitchen.

His house was impeccably clean. There wasn't a dish out of place, or a scrap of garbage left out. Every time he used a dish, he washed it. Every time he took off his clothes, they went in the hamper to be washed the following day. It was important that this part of his life, what he thought of as his exterior, was kept immaculate.

Arthur went to the bathroom, took off his shirt, folded it, and placed it aside. He admired his physique, flexing for his own benefit, proud of his muscle definition. Next he leaned in close to the mirror to inspect his salt-and-pepper beard, pushing aside a bottle of hydrogen peroxide as he did. He ran his fingers through his bushy facial hair. No one who'd met him ten years ago would recognize him today. He was certain of it.

He wanted to go see Darcy's band play, which was risky. It would be a disaster if she happened to recognize him, but a crowded, dimly lit bar was a better place to spy on Darcy than anywhere else. He was confident she wouldn't know who he was.

She'd never know he was watching.

# Chapter Eleven

Lincoln and Bentley met Hector at the office, and they debated the gifts they planned to give out to people who donated to the site. Hector suggested giving donors immediate access to site updates, while others would have to wait a week before being able to see them. They also started to work on setting up a whiteboard in the office with details about the crime, but the day got away from them, and soon Bentley said that he had to leave if he was going to make it to the concert on time.

Hector asked who he was going to see.

Bentley looked sheepish, and stammered as he said, "I'm, uh... I'm going out to see Darcy's band."

Lincoln dropped his pen and stood from his desk. "Wait, what?"

"Darcy invited me."

"And you're just telling me this now? You sure are full of surprises today."

"I didn't think it mattered."

Hector was amused by the awkward situation as he sat between the two men. "I told you he had the hots for your daughter."

"It's not like that," said Bentley.

"Let me explain something to you," said Lincoln, stern and adamant. "Darcy's off limits. Period. No questions asked."

"She invited me to her concert," said Bentley. "I said I'd go. That's all there is to it."

"Keep it that way."

The conversation should've ended there, but Bentley couldn't help but ask, "Isn't she old enough to make her own decisions?"

Hector laughed uncomfortably, and then he saw how angry Lincoln had become. He stood up between the two of them. "Whoa, now. Let's put a stop to this before it gets out of..."

"Listen up, kid," said Lincoln, glaring past Hector at Bentley. "I don't have any choice but to put up with you here in the office, but I don't want my daughter getting mixed up with your kind."

"My kind? And just what sort of 'kind' is that?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

Hector yelled, "Quit it! Both of you."

"I'm a good person," said Bentley.

"Good people don't have friends like yours. They don't inspire people to run away at the sight of them, and they sure as hell don't taze people at a lunch meeting."

Bentley looked like he was about to respond, but then clenched his jaw and nodded. "Fine. That's fine. I don't care what you think of me, because I know what sort of person I am. You don't have to worry about me making moves on your daughter. That's not why I'm going to the concert. I'm going because I need a reason to get out of the house. Darcy invited me to the concert, and I thought it'd be better than sitting at home trying to forget about..." Bentley hesitated, and then said, "I just needed a reason to get out of the house. Don't worry, I'm not looking for a girlfriend. That's the last thing I need." He took his suit coat off the back of the chair, slipped it on, and then headed for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

They watched the young man walk swiftly down the stairs, and then Hector punched Lincoln in the arm. "What'd you do that for?"

"Do what?"

"Give Benny a hard time. He didn't deserve that. Don't you know what the poor kid's been through this past year?"

Lincoln replied sheepishly, "He told me about his wife. But that doesn't mean I have to be okay with him going after Darcy."

"Yeah? Did he tell you how he missed his wife so much that he tried to kill himself?"

Lincoln looked at Hector, abashed and surprised.

"That's right, man. His uncle gave him this job to get him out of the house. He thought you might be able to, you know, inspire the kid – to get him back on his feet." Hector said it as if the idea of Lincoln helping anyone was ludicrous.

"Danny never said anything about that."

"Well, it's the truth. I know you've got an axe to grind with Dan, but don't take it out on Benny. He's a good kid who's had a year from hell. The last thing he needs is you treating him like scum."

"I guess I was being overprotective."

"Speaking of which, if Darcy knew you went after Benny like that she'd wring your neck."

"You're right. I'll apologize to him tomorrow." Lincoln looked at his watch, and then started to gather his things. He felt bad for attacking Bentley, and wanted to get out of the office so that he could stop in for a drink at the bar before his dinner meeting. "I've got to get going. I'm supposed to pick up Angel Harcourt."

"All right, Mr. P.," said Hector. "Good luck. I'll lock up here."

* * *

Lincoln was nearing Angel Harcourt's house later than intended. She lived about an hour from Boulder, up in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, in a town called Eversprings. It'd been a mining town, established during the gold rush of the mid-1800's, when prospectors coming from the east had reached the arduous terrain blocking their path to California and decided one mountain was as good as the next. The mines of Eversprings never yielded much more than stone and coal, and the town's growth never exceeded a thousand residents.

There were a total of three stoplights in town. Eversprings boasted a hardware store, a couple restaurants, a grocery store that doubled as a post office, and not much else. It was the sort of town where the residents still waved at cars passing through, a rarity that Lincoln was enchanted by as he drove along Main Street in search of Thatcher Road. The mountains hugged the town as if trying to smother it, with rock faces looming above, dotted with outcroppings where plants crowded, rooted into any place they could survive. Lincoln wondered how often rocks would come loose and fall down onto the buildings around town, and what that likelihood did to the residents' insurance bills.

The GPS unit on his car alerted him that his turn was coming up, and he glanced to his right with a frown. There was a rock face beside him, and it didn't seem possible that a road could head that way. As he reached the corner, he discovered that Thatcher Road climbed precipitously up, with no railing to prevent motorists from going over the side and falling down the long drop.

"You've got to be kidding me," said Lincoln as he looked up the intimidating climb.

Lincoln had lived in Colorado most of his life, but he still hated traversing the mountains. During a drive like this, where he was forced to head up into the mountains, he had a bad habit of counting the wreaths and crosses on the side of the road marking the spot where a motorist's life had come to a disastrous and sudden end. On this trip the count was already at nine.

He edged along, driving at a jogger's pace. A pickup truck came rumbling up behind him, moving fast until forced to slow down behind Lincoln's Mercedes. The man driving looked to be in his mid-thirties, wearing a cap and sunglasses, and with a bushy beard. He was certainly a local, accustomed to these white-knuckle roads.

"Sorry, pal," said Lincoln. "This is as fast as I'm going."

The driver behind him got fed up with the pace and went into the empty oncoming traffic lane to pass, which Lincoln was more than happy to accommodate. He waved at the truck as it went by and smiled while muttering a curse.

Thatcher Road wound its way through the mountains until it reached a fork where signs made it clear that drivers were entering private property. Lincoln followed his GPS, and continued on Thatcher Road instead of taking the turnoff. The road began another steep climb that ended at a switchback, which was nerve-racking, but meant that Lincoln would no longer be driving beside the edge once he made the turn. The second half of the trip up was longer than the first, but the incline got gradually easier and soon the road turned off onto a flatter, wooded area. This was the type of landscape that the people who lived here craved. If not for the occasional mailboxes beside gravel driveways that sprouted from the road, one might assume this was a national park. The trees were tall and packed tightly together, dominating the view as if preparing to collapse upon the road. A shallow stream ran alongside Thatcher Road, splashing over rocks as it went.

Despite the beauty, Lincoln couldn't help but think of what it would be like to live here in the winter, when at any moment a storm might come across the mountains and dump a few feet of snow, trapping the residents until the sun got around to melting them free.

The GPS in Lincoln's car offered only the vaguest suggestion of where Angel's house was, landing the destination marker square in the center of the forest at a spot he'd already passed. He checked his phone and discovered that the Geolocator app that Hector had installed was doing a more admirable job of mapping his destination.

"There you are," he said as he pulled into the driveway of Cabin 6, Thatcher Road. The driveway went over a rickety bridge that crossed the stream, and then down a slight decline to what looked like a vacation home. It was tiny, no more than two bedroom, with a wraparound porch and stone foundation. Angel Harcourt was on the porch, sitting on a two-person swing, sipping iced tea as Lincoln pulled up.

"I was starting to get worried about you," said Angel. She stood and walked to the railing to greet him. She was wearing a sundress, yellow with white flowers, and her long blonde hair was draped over her shoulders. She had very little makeup on, which suited her fine, and she was barefoot. Her dress wasn't new, evident by the faded color, and she didn't have a single piece of jewelry on. She exuded simple beauty, a stark contrast to Lincoln's impeccable attire. For the first time he could remember, he felt ashamed of his suit and tie.

"Sorry I'm late," said Lincoln. "I'm a flatlander."

"Not from around here?" she asked. There was a pair of white and yellow canvas flats by the steps. She slipped them on before walking onto the gravel.

"I've lived in Boulder for years, but I don't go up into the mountains much."

"Why's that?"

"I'm not a big fan of heights."

"You picked the wrong state to live in," she joked.

"It's half and half," he said with a shrug. "I prefer staying on the flat half with the mountains at a safe distance." When she got closer, he extended his hand. She demurely took it, and her hand felt as delicate as a rose. He barely squeezed her hand as he shook it, as if worried he might crush it, and after releasing he wondered if he should've kissed it. Something about Angel's quiet modesty made him nervous. He felt like a young man from another generation courting a longtime crush.

Angel had the faintest blue eyes he'd ever seen, almost grey, like the down of a baby bluebird. She was a gorgeous woman, but he was drawn inexplicably to her eyes. They revealed trepidation and a sadness that she tried to hide with a smile. Her eyes reminded him of Darcy, and the way she used to look after her chemotherapy had stolen all but a sliver of her will to live. They immediately broke his heart, and he felt ashamed for dragging this woman back into the morass of sorrow that'd certainly corrupted her past decade.

Her child had never come home, and she never stopped waiting for the day he did. Lincoln was guilty of dredging up the past, a tourist in the agony she endured.

"Thanks so much for agreeing to talk to me," said Lincoln. "I can't express just how much it means to me, and how sorry I am for your loss."

She looked down and nodded. "It's better for me to get it out of the way. I figured something like this would happen, what with the anniversary coming up. It's hard to believe it's been ten years already." She forced a smile and changed her tone as she said, "You look nice. I feel a little underdressed. I'd offer to change, but this ratty old thing is the nicest dress I own." She laughed and pinched the sides of her dress to hold it out on display for him.

"You look stunning," said Lincoln.

"Thanks," she said with a tone that implied she didn't believe him. "If I'd known you hated heights, I would've gone down to meet you."

"It's no problem," said Lincoln. "It's about time I force myself to get used to driving in the mountains. Although that switchback back there," he pointed in the direction of Thatcher Road. "That's a beast."

"You should try driving it in the winter. The plows don't come up this way."

"I'll pass, thanks," said Lincoln as he walked around to open the passenger side door for her. She thanked him as she got in, and then he went around to the driver's side to get in as well. "Do me a favor and don't make fun of me for driving slowly down the hill."

"I won't. I promise." She stroked her fingertips along the leather interior and mentioned how nice his car was. She nodded towards the detached garage at the end of the driveway and said that Lincoln's car put her rusty pickup to shame. After a few minutes of small talk about cars and the importance of four-wheel drive in the mountains, she broached the subject that'd brought them together, "Have the Klines told you about the other detectives they've hired?"

"No, actually," said Lincoln. "Although I've heard they hired a few P.I.s over the years."

"More than a few. For the longest time they wouldn't leave us alone." There was venom in her words, and she immediately apologized for it. "Sorry, I don't mean to sound angry. It's just... It's hard – digging it up all over again, time after time. For the first few years I hated them. I mean, I hated them so much. I blamed them for what their son did." She looked out her window and muttered under her breath, "I hated them so much."

"I can understand that."

"Can you?" she asked pointedly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I've heard that a thousand times. People say they understand, but I don't know how they can. Trent Kline killed my son. He butchered him." Her anger mounted, and then she seemed to shut down. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back as she took a deep breath. "I remember everyone always saying that it'd get easier as time went on; that I'd find a way to be happy again. We're going on ten years now, and I'm still waiting."

After a moment of silence, Lincoln said, "You're right, I can't relate. But I can empathize. My daughter had leukemia."

Angel raised her head and looked at him. She offered a quiet, compassionate apology.

"My wife..." He corrected himself, "My ex-wife and I never let ourselves talk about the 'What ifs.' We couldn't think about it, so we convinced ourselves that Darcy was going to be fine, but all the while the Grim Reaper kept creeping into my thoughts. I used to have dreams about her funeral, and that tiny casket." He shivered. "It still haunts me."

"I know what you mean. I don't think there's anything worse than seeing one of those half-size coffins. We bought one for Devin. We had a funeral even though there was nothing left of him to put in his casket. I don't even bother going to his grave anymore. What's the point? It's just an empty box in the ground."

Lincoln didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. Instead, he focused on the road ahead as they drove down Thatcher Road on the way to the switchback. The road hadn't seemed this steep on his way up, but now he was tempted to put the car in a low gear to take the corner as slow as possible as gravity tried to pull him along. There was a guard rail, but it was rusted and probably useless. He stressed his brakes until he made it to the turn, and crept along slow and steady.

"Do you know what they told me?" she asked, but didn't wait for a response. "The investigators said there was so much blood that Trent must've strung my baby up like a farm animal to be butchered. They said he probably cut Devin to pieces. Apparently that's the only way there could be so much blood." She was struggling to recount the details, as if each sentence was a battle to avoid weeping. "The lead forensics guy talked to me. I'll never forget it. He talked so casually about it, like he was just recounting another boring day at work. He said that when a person dies, the body stops pumping blood and it settles. They said that Trent must've cut Devin up to get all that blood, and then took him out piece by piece to throw him away in the woods. That's why they never found him. Because the animals out there snatched him up." She paused in grief. "He let animals eat my baby boy."

Lincoln had no response. He doubted the entire English language contained a proper one.

"So, yeah," said Angel as if in exhalation. "I was pretty angry at the Klines for a long time, but, I've started to come around. I'll never forgive their son, but I can forgive them for not letting go. I don't understand how they still say their son was innocent, but I understand their grief." After a moment she chuckled and said, "I'm sure they've had a lot of choice things to say about me."

"I haven't spoken with them yet."

Angel looked at him in surprise. "Really? Aren't they the ones who hired you?"

"No, actually. No one hired me."

"Then why are you looking into the case?"

"If you want to know the brutal truth, it's all just a pathetic attempt to get my daughter to spend more time with me." He glanced over and saw her puzzled look. "Darcy went to school with Betty and Devin. She was in the same grade."

"Oh."

"Her and a few of her friends started a band in honor of Betty. They're still together. As a matter of fact, they've got a show out in Loveland tonight. I thought that if I started an investigation into the murders, she'd be willing to spend a little more time with me. After the divorce it feels like I hardly ever see her anymore."

"Did it work?"

Lincoln nodded, "Unbelievably it did. She's quitting her job next week to come and work with me."

"If the Klines didn't hire you, then who's paying for all this?"

"You saw the website, right?" asked Lincoln. "It's all based on crowdfunding. We're hoping there are enough people who want the case solved that we can fund this with their donations."

"The case was solved," said Angel, annoyed.

Lincoln felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. "Right, but you've got to be aware that an awful lot of people out there think Trent's innocent. If he's guilty, someone needs to prove it, once and for all."

"And you think you can do that? Don't you think the police are better qualified to solve the case?"

"I'm sure they did their best, but there're still a lot of questions that need to be answered. When they do, people might finally believe that Trent did it. In fact, I just had a meeting today that was supposed to exonerate Trent, and it still left me with more questions than answers."

"How so?"

"You remember the name Grant Hedland?"

She nodded.

"He admitted to me that he used to deal drugs to Trent, just like everyone suspected. But here's the thing that no one's talking about yet: Trent knew there was a camera in the employee lot at the mall, and that it could be shut off."

"Oh really?" asked Angel, surprised by the new information. "No one ever told me there was a camera there."

"The police never talked about it because the camera wasn't recording. I think it's because there were people at the mall who knew Grant was dealing, and helped him do it. Which could mean that Trent was telling the truth, but not necessarily. Grant said he couldn't remember whether he sold to Trent the day of the murders. Everyone assumes that Grant getting busted for dealing at the mall proves that Trent's innocent, but if Grant can't remember for sure then it might not prove anything. And if Trent knew how to turn off that camera, then the prosecution's timeline could be true."

"That's interesting, but let me give you a piece of friendly advice," said Angel as she sat up straighter and pulled down her visor to inspect herself in the mirror. "To convince the Klines that their son was a murderer, you're going to need God himself to come down with video proof. I mean, for crying out loud, the cops found the murder weapon buried in their yard. What more proof do you need?"

"I know, but the problem with the knife and the shoe is that the cops didn't find that until the kids had been missing for over three weeks. If Trent wasn't the killer, then whoever was responsible would've had plenty of time to plant the evidence."

"And what about the journal? That little monster used Devin's blood to draw all sorts of satanic symbols all over that shack – the same sort of symbols that were in his journal."

"Right, I know," said Lincoln, trying to be delicate. "But, and I'm just playing devil's advocate here, the pictures from the journal were all over the news too."

"No, that's where you're wrong," said Angel. "This has been one of the things that's so frustrating to me about people saying Trent was innocent. They always bring up how the real killer used pictures from Trent's journal to draw the symbols at the shack, but that's not even possible. The police kept Trent's journal out of the news. It wasn't until the trial started that the pictures were made public. The only people who saw it before the trial were the police, Trent's family, and a few other people involved in the case."

"Really?" asked Lincoln, uncertain if she was right.

"Look it up yourself. It's in the court transcripts. The prosecutor went over that point, but for some reason no one ever seems to remember it. Selective memory at its finest."

"I'll have to look into that."

"They brought that hateful, demonic journal to show me after they found it, and they had all sorts of questions about it. They thought maybe Devin and Trent were friends, and wanted to know if Devin was into that devil worshiping crap too. Which he wasn't," she said pointedly, as if to preempt a question. "He was a good boy. If only people knew just how good a boy he was, and how evil Trent was. Maybe then we could lay this to rest."

"That's the most important thing about this case to me. I want the truth to come out, whatever it may be. I'm not opposed to believing that Trent was guilty."

"Good."

Lincoln waited a moment before asking, "Do you remember much about the day Betty and Devin disappeared?"

"Of course. I remember every second like it was burned into my brain. It's the worst day of my life."

"I hate to ask, but would you mind running through it with me?"

"That's why I'm here, right?"

Lincoln took out the digital recorder and showed it to her. "Mind if I tape you?"

"No, that's fine."

He turned the recorder on and set it in the cup holder with the microphone pointed in her direction. "Go ahead, start whenever you're ready."

She sighed, steeled herself, and then recounted her story, "I had the day off work. I was a nurse at Longmont United..." She paused and corrected herself, "No, that's not exactly true. Back at that time I was still a phlebotomist. I didn't become an RN until a couple years later. Anyways, I had the day off and I was waiting for Devin to come home because I needed to get some shopping done and I wanted to take him along. He knew he was supposed to come right home, so when he didn't show up I got worried."

Angel paused again, tilted her head slightly, and then said, "No, that's not exactly true either. If I'm being 100% honest, I was angry. It hurts to even say that, but the truth is I was pissed. He knew he was supposed to come right home, and I assumed he went over to Betty's."

"To Betty's?" asked Lincoln. "Did he go there often?"

"Unfortunately," said Angel. "I don't know whether it's true or not, but some of his friends told me that Betty had a thing for him. He used to hang around her house a lot. That's why the police assumed he was friends with Trent. I don't think it ever got serious between Devin and Betty. They were just kids, but that's around the age where hormones start flying. Devin was a good kid, but the Klines were a bad influence on him. Even before the murders, I had a bad feeling about Trent. Devin would tell me stories about what his room was like, and how he acted in the house. Did you know he used to curse at his parents and tell them that he wanted to kill them?"

"No, I haven't heard about that."

"Oh yeah, he was a real peach. Sorry, back to the story. At around a quarter to four I called over to the Klines' house to see if Devin was there. No one answered, so I decided to go out and look for him. I walked about halfway to the school before turning around and going home to see if somehow we'd missed each other. By that time it was about a quarter after four. It was around then that I called Frank – he's my ex-husband. I wanted to let him know that I hadn't seen Devin and to ask if maybe there was some off chance that he knew where he was. He didn't, so I ran up and down the street calling Devin's name before I called the Klines' bakery. They didn't know anything, so that's when I called the police. I think by that time it was around a quarter after five."

"You've got a pretty good memory," said Lincoln, impressed.

"Trust me, after going to trial and dealing with lawyers you get real used to memorizing timelines. I had to sit there and listen to the lawyers duke it out about every minute of that afternoon." She fidgeted, and it was clear that recalling the details of that day was hard for her. "After I called the police they got there fast. I tried to tell them that Devin had never made it home, but they insisted on searching the house first. I don't think I've ever been angrier in my whole life than when they wasted time at the house before going out to search the neighborhood. I was screaming bloody murder at them. They didn't find anything at our house, of course, so then one of the cops went over to the Klines' while a couple of others started to drive up and down the street."

Angel's hands were trembling, and she clasped them in her lap to try and keep them still. She took a deep breath, and Lincoln knew she was stifling the welling emotions. "I started searching the area as soon as the cops would let me. They kept trying to get me to stay at the house, but there was no way I was going to. If my baby was out there somewhere, I was going to do everything in my power to find him. There's nothing I wouldn't do for him. He was my baby. The last thing I wanted to do was sit at home, totally helpless, and wait."

"Where was your husband? Did he come to Boulder too?"

"He didn't leave work right away. But he came to help look for Devin. I don't remember what time he got there. It was after six. I'd say you should ask him yourself, but unless you buy a ticket to Mexico, you're out of luck."

"Mexico?"

She nodded. "He moved out there a couple years ago."

"Do you know where?"

"Tijuana, last I heard. He wanted to be somewhere close to the border, so that he could come and go."

Lincoln wanted to be careful about his next statement. "Were you aware of the theory that your ex was responsible for the murders?"

She nodded, and was quick to discount the idea, "Yes, and it's just as ridiculous as the rest. There are conspiracy theories about almost everyone involved. For some reason, this case made it into the Conspiracy-Culture Zeitgeist. That's what I heard someone call it."

"What's that?"

"It's how the internet gives whack-jobs a place to preach. There's been a rise in conspiracy theorists over the past couple decades, and it's poisoning our culture. You can hardly turn on the television without seeing a show about how the CIA killed Kennedy, or how George Bush ordered 9-11. For any story that gets national attention, there'll be people claiming some sort of conspiracy about it. Trent Kline became a darling of those type of idiots. They turned him into some sort of psychopathic martyr. They came up with a million wild theories about how Trent was framed. They blamed the cops, my ex, the Klines, me... Once they even said Betty was the killer. I remember reading an article about how Betty was a Satan worshipper too, and how she ran off into the mountains to live in the wild. They said she's still out there hunting kids to perform her rituals, like a horror movie."

"I'll take it for granted you don't believe the theories about your ex."

She gave him a steely gaze, "No. Frank was in Denver. He was one of the first people the police ruled out as a suspect. I have no earthly idea why the idiot conspiracy theorists think he had something to do with it."

Lincoln didn't want to press her for more, content to let the conversation die off for the moment. She was getting upset, and they hadn't even made it to the restaurant yet.

Angel decided to end the conversation succinctly, "It's simple, but for some reason people don't want to believe the truth. Trent killed his sister and my son. He did it; he got caught; end of story."

# Chapter Twelve

Lincoln worried that the conversation about the crime had dredged up too many bad memories, and that Angel's mood would remain sour throughout the rest of the night. Luckily she seemed to forgive him by the time they got to the restaurant.

He took her to a fine dining establishment called 'Jai' in downtown Boulder, which served a unique Italian-Japanese fusion menu. There was a glut of hungry patrons at the door, and the waiting area inside was packed. Lincoln walked confidently past them to the hostess stand. "I've got a table reserved at the bar under the name Pierce."

"Sorry, we don't take reservations for the bar..." The hostess was new.

The manager saw Lincoln and hurried over. She was tall and thin, in a sleek black dress and heels that added four inches to her already impressive height. "It's okay, Molly. I'll take care of this one." She had an accommodating smile as she welcomed her guests, "Mr. Pierce, right this way." She led them past the bar to a line of booths along the far wall. It was the quietest part of the restaurant, and there was a card on the table that read, 'Reserved'.

"Will you be needing menus?"

"That'd be great, Dawn. Thanks," said Lincoln.

After the hostess left, Angel offered an uncomfortable grin. "I guess they know you here."

"This is one of my favorite places in town. I've never been much of a cook, so after the divorce I became real familiar with local restaurants."

"I take it this one's good?"

"The food's not bad, but that's not the reason I'm a regular."

She was glancing at the menu as she asked, "Oh no? Then why are you a regular?"

A waiter interrupted their conversation as he brought over a martini. Lincoln didn't even have to place an order. "Here you go, Mr. Pierce," said the mustachioed waiter with a smile. "Can I get the lady started with a drink?"

"Oh, um, I'll just have an iced tea."

"One iced tea on the way," said the pleasant waiter before walking away.

"Feel free to order something a little stronger if you'd like. It's all on me."

"No, that's okay. I don't drink."

Lincoln considered asking if she cared that he was drinking, but he didn't want to hear her answer. He'd met plenty of former alcoholics who hated being around drinkers, and he didn't want to risk having to send the martini back if Angel revealed she was a recovering addict.

The bartender at Jai used the highest quality ingredients, even going so far as to import organic olives instead of the standard jarred and pitted variety. Nothing could sour a martini quicker than an off olive.

He brought the martini's rim to his lips and paused to enjoy the aroma of juniper. He took a satisfying sip, and the crisp, cool liquid soothed him.

"You should see yourself," said Angel.

"What do you mean?" he asked after setting the glass back down.

"You should see how you look when you're drinking." She was smiling, as if teasing him. "Your whole demeanor changes. Your face relaxes. You close your eyes and stop scowling. It's like I'm watching you fall asleep."

Lincoln chuckled. "I guess I never realized I did that. Wait a minute, are you saying I scowl a lot?"

"Maybe not always," said Angel as she rested her chin on her hands, her elbows propped on the table. "I just met you an hour ago. Maybe the drive up the mountain put you in a bad mood. I don't know. It's just that right then, when you were taking that drink, you looked like a man walking through the pearly gates – leaving your sins in the grave."

"Is that where you leave them? I've had mine packed up with all those skeletons in my closet."

She smiled, laughed, and then leaned back as the waiter brought her iced tea. When he asked if they were ready to order, Angel apologized and explained that she hadn't even looked at the menu yet. He agreed to give them more time, and left them alone.

Angel asked Lincoln what was good, and he listed a variety of things that he'd tried in the past, but explained he normally ignored the regular menu and ordered from the sushi bar. She agreed to let him order for her, and he filled out the paper slip that listed the wide variety of rolls available.

"How's your daughter's cancer doing now?" asked Angel to get the conversation going again after the waiter left with their order. "If you don't mind my asking."

"No, I don't mind. Heck, I'm the one asking you a ton of personal questions. You should get the chance to lob a few my way. Darcy's doing good, for the most part. She beat the leukemia, but that's a battle you never really win. The chemo tore her up, but she made it through. She still has to go in for checkups once a month. She's never going to be completely healthy. You wouldn't know it by looking at her, though. The kid's a fighter."

"Good for her."

Lincoln nodded while deep in thought. He imagined his little girl in the oversized leather chairs designed for adults at the chemotherapy clinic, IV bags filled with putrid chemicals beside her dripping poison down tubes into her port. It was an image that would never stop haunting him.

"I don't know where she gets her strength from," said Lincoln as he pinched the stem of the martini glass. "It must be from her mother. She sure as hell didn't get it from me." He took a drink, and tasted a hint of sourness, as if a lemon had been mixed in with the olives. "Talking about it helped her a lot. She started going to a cancer therapy group every week. That's her safe place. She gets the chance to pour her heart out to people who've been through the same sort of thing."

"Getting the chance to talk to people who know what you're going through is a big help," said Angel. "That's something I struggled with for a long time. Not very many people can relate to a mother whose son got chopped up and fed to animals."

Lincoln nodded in agreement, but their conversation was struck by a sudden, uncomfortable silence. He knew that he needed to change the subject, and he tried to think of something to say.

Angel took it upon herself to point the conversation in a new direction, "Darcy's band is playing tonight, right?"

"Yep, at a bar in Loveland."

"I haven't been to see live music in ages," she mused as she toyed with the straw in her drink, raising it halfway out and then letting it drop back in. "Maybe after dinner we could swing by there. What do you think?"

Lincoln was hesitant. "We could, but... well, there's something you should know. Her band's called The Murder Betties. They got the name from the case. Like I said, Darcy was friends with the Kline girl, and she never believed that Trent was guilty. A lot of their songs are about Trent and the murders."

"Oh." Angel's response was quick but expressive. It was as if Lincoln had physically struck her.

"Betty and Devin disappeared right around the same time that Darcy's cancer was at its worst. Back then the story was all over the news, and Darcy saw how sad everyone was. It didn't occur to me until we were in therapy that Darcy was watching the news footage of your family and the Klines crying and pleading for the kids to be returned. I think she imagined what would happen after her own death. It probably tore her up inside. That's why the first songs her band wrote were all about the murders. I've always tried to convince her to write some more upbeat songs, but she never listens to me. The happiest song they play is a cover of Lesley Gore's 'It's My Party', but Darcy changed the lyrics to say, 'It's my body and I'll die if I want to.' I guess it's her way of taking control of the cancer."

Angel frowned and said, "That's morbid."

The waitress brought over miso soup for them both, and before they were finished, the first plate of sushi arrived. Lincoln and Angel focused their conversation on more pleasant topics not associated with death, cancer, or murder. Lincoln enjoyed her company. Her understated beauty didn't hurt either.

He asked why she decided to live so far up in the mountains, and she explained that her family owned a large expanse of land in the little mining town of Eversprings. Her father had set up a religious camp on the land, but it closed down shortly after his death, leaving the family with a lot of real estate and nothing to do with it. She'd grown up there, and knew most of the people in town. She only moved to Boulder after marrying Frank. He preferred urban environments, and Boulder had been a good compromise between the backwoods of Eversprings and the crowded streets of Denver. However, life in Boulder wasn't cheap, and after the divorce Angel wanted to move back to Eversprings, but by that time Devin was already in school. She thought it'd be best not to uproot him. She began to sell off portions of the land that she'd inherited to afford life in Boulder, but after Devin's murder she had nothing holding her back. She moved back to the quiet solitude of the mountains that she'd missed for so long.

Lincoln was on his third martini by the time they finished their meal. He felt good – relaxed.

"It's nice to get out of the house," said Angel. "Thanks for this."

"I'm the one who should be thanking you," said Lincoln. "You've been more than open about everything. I appreciate it."

"Have I convinced you to call it all off? The investigation, I mean."

He looked across at her in an attempt to discern how serious she was. "Not quite yet. I don't think we've got all the answers."

"You'll never have all the answers." She used her straw to stab at the ice in her glass. Her comment and demeanor led him to believe she was annoyed, but then she smiled and said, "That's what one of the detectives told me. He said that he'd never worked on a case where all the questions got answered. The trick is answering just enough that you're able to convince yourself you know the truth."

"Maybe the cops walked away too soon."

She shook her head. "If anything, they didn't walk away soon enough. They dragged a lot of good people through the mud, and ruined a lot of lives. It was an open and shut case, with a mountain of evidence that should've buried Trent alive. But here we are, a few days away from the ten year anniversary, and I'm still getting visits from private investigators because the police let it turn into a circus. The whole time I was trying to get them to focus on Trent. I knew from day one that he had something to do with it."

"Why's that?" asked Lincoln.

"Because he was a Satan-worshipping delinquent. Devin used to tell me all about the stuff Trent was into. That kid was..." she paused. "Evil. He was pure evil."

Angel Harcourt's hatred of Trent Kline was evident as she spoke of him. Her normally serene, comely visage contorted as if some unseen foe was torturing her. Her left hand clenched into a fist, and her brow furrowed as she stared at the table instead of Lincoln.

"Is there anything else I can get for you tonight?" asked the waiter, startling them both as he seemed to appear from nowhere.

"No, that's okay. Just the check, thanks."

"I guess we should get going," said Angel.

"I've got to be honest," said Lincoln as he glanced out the window at the darkening sky. "I'm not looking forward to driving you back up that mountain."

She squinted slightly and glanced over at his empty glass. "I don't think you're driving anywhere tonight." Angel put out her hand, palm up. "How about you give me the keys. I'll drive you home."

"That's not necessary."

"I'm not doing it for your sake," she said with her palm still outstretched. "Let me drive."

He sheepishly handed over the keys while promising that he was all right. He was about to ask how she planned to get home, and offer to get her a cab, but then he wondered if this was a ploy on her part to get herself an invitation into his apartment. Lincoln had been enjoying their time together, but he hadn't considered it romantic until now. His love life died with his marriage, and he'd never been interested in resurrecting it. Now, as this gorgeous woman sat across from him, he wondered if this night was headed in a direction he never expected. He wasn't sure how to proceed, or if he even wanted to. He paid the check, and then led Angel out.

She got in the Mercedes and adjusted the seat and mirrors.

Lincoln gave her directions back to his apartment, and avoided discussing whether she would stay the night with him or get a cab back to Eversprings. He wasn't certain how to tactfully broach the subject, but as she parked behind his apartment building he knew that he had to come up with something to say.

"Want to come in?" he asked, feeling as nervous as a teenager on a first date.

"Well, I think I'm going to need to crash on your couch. Unless you want me to steal your car."

"Oh, right," said Lincoln. "Sure. That's fine. I can... yeah, that'll work." He silently chastised himself for how ridiculous he sounded. "I've got plenty of room."

He led her through the apartment building's entrance and down the hall to his door. He explained that he didn't often have visitors, and that the apartment wasn't as clean as it should be. She promised she didn't mind, but he still felt embarrassed as he opened the door.

Lincoln welcomed her in and then started to clean off the couch. His apartment wasn't a disaster, but it suffered the neglect of an owner who never expected anyone to visit. As he cleaned, Angel looked at the pictures on his wall.

"Is this Darcy?" She was pointing to a photograph from a couple years earlier of Darcy and Lincoln in Denver.

"Yes."

"She's beautiful." Angel pointed to another, older picture of Lincoln, Darcy, and Ellen. "I take it this is her mother."

Lincoln felt awkward, and remembered his daughter warning him about having pictures of his ex-wife hanging up. "Yeah, that's Ellen."

"She's pretty. I can see why you're still hung up on her."

Lincoln was caught off guard by the comment. "Hung up... What do you mean?"

Angel winked at him and smiled. "Not many guys keep so many pictures of their ex-wives all over the house."

Lincoln looked at the wall and was forced to notice just how many pictures of Ellen were up there.

"I know what it's like." Angel raised her hand and pointed at her ring finger, revealing the slightest indentation. "Sometimes when I go out, I still wear my wedding ring. It's sort of pathetic, but I prefer to think of myself as a married woman. I didn't want the divorce. I spent a lot of years trying to convince Frank to come back, but he was too busy enjoying a bachelor's life." She shook her head, deep in thought. "I've never been able to understand how some people can love another person with all their heart and then just turn it off with the blink of an eye. Maybe it's because of how I was raised, but I bought into that whole 'Till Death Do Us Part' thing."

She returned her attention to the picture of Lincoln's daughter and ex-wife. "Darcy looks like her mother." Angel glanced over at Lincoln, squinting as she studied his features. "But she's got your nose." She looked back at the picture and her voice was distant as she mused, "Devin looked like his dad. I never thought he looked anything like me, but some of the people at church used to say he had my eyes. Sometimes I try to imagine what he might look like today – all grown up. I think he'd be handsome. Strong. An outdoors kind of guy. That's what I like to think."

Lincoln wasn't sure what to say.

After a moment of silence, Angel looked at him with tears in her eyes and said, "I wonder if I'll even recognize him."

"What do you mean?"

She pointed up and said, "When I see him in heaven."

"Oh."

"I can't wait to give him a hug. I might never let go."

Lincoln was at a loss for words.

Angel looked at the couch and asked, "Can I sleep there?"

He nodded and said, "I'll get you a pillow and some sheets."

# Arthur

The Murder Betties were opening for another band, so Arthur made sure to get there early. The venue was small, and resembled a middle-school auditorium, with drab, fabric seats on a riser in the back and a section up near the stage where the chairs had been pulled out to allow dancing. There was a bar at the back, but no stools. The lights were still on, intense and bright, so Arthur kept to himself in the corner where the shadows granted anonymity.

The band was setting up their equipment on stage, and Arthur spotted Darcy helping with the drums. Each of the band members were wearing black and white clothing, with a blood red scarf and matching lipstick. Darcy had on a leather skirt and pinstriped top, and she had her hair tied back in a tight ponytail. She glanced over at the crowd, and paused as she looked in Arthur's direction.

She waved.

Arthur felt panicked, and quickly looked away. He'd been recognized.

His distress was short-lived. A man standing a few feet away at the bar was who earned Darcy's attention. He waved back to her, and Darcy walked over to the edge of the stage before jumping down and then coming over.

Arthur pulled the bill of his hat down and thought about leaving as Darcy came closer, but his curiosity got the better of him. He was too enticed by the danger of staying, and even moved closer so he could eavesdrop.

"Bentley, you came," said Darcy as she hurried over.

The tall, strong brute she was speaking to waited by the bar as his beer was served. "Of course," he said as he set his drink on a coaster.

The bartender walked over to Arthur and asked, "What can I get for you?"

Arthur waved the man away without speaking.

"All right, let me know if you need anything."

Bentley had said something to Darcy that Arthur hadn't heard. More people were coming into the building now, and the commotion made it hard to hear. Arthur moved closer.

Darcy was leaning on the bar, her back to Arthur as she spoke with Bentley. The killer got close enough that his elbow brushed hers, which startled her.

"Sorry," he said, his heart thumping as the threat of detection caused a surge of adrenaline.

Darcy turned and offered a pleasant, "No problem," before continuing to speak to Bentley. "I'm so used to seeing you in a suit. For a while there I thought that's all you wore."

"No, I hate suits," said Bentley. "Before I met your dad I only owned one suit. He's the one who convinced me to go get some more."

Darcy sighed. "I don't know what it is with him and his suits. I swear to God, he would've worn suits to amusement parks if we would've let him."

"I'm excited to hear you play. I listened to the stuff you have on your site. It's pretty good."

"Do you really like it, or are you just being nice?"

"I really like it," said Bentley before taking a sip of beer. "I've never been a huge punk fan, but I liked what I heard of your stuff."

"Good. The only reason I started playing in a band was to get some hot fanboys that I could use and abuse." Darcy was obviously flirting, which Arthur hated. Her forwardness unexpectedly angered him. He wanted to punish her for it. She continued, and even placed her hand on Bentley's arm, "Hey, I'm going out with Polly after the show. She's the singer in the band. You should come with us."

"Oh, I don't know. I've got to be at the office tomorrow morning. We've got a lot to do."

"Yeah, because my Dad's going to be there bright and early," said Darcy sarcastically. "Let me guess, he normally strolls in around noon stinking of gin and breath mints. Am I right?" She didn't give him a chance to say anything before continuing, "I'm not going to take 'No' for an answer. You're coming out with us after the show. All right?"

"I guess I don't have a choice."

"You're right, you don't. I'll come grab you after our set."

"I'll be here."

Darcy returned to the stage, leaving Bentley and Arthur standing together.

Arthur glanced over at the robust, stout man Darcy had been flirting with. He was taller than Arthur, and had wider shoulders. He could present a problem, especially if he was working on the case with Lincoln.

"You're friends with the band?" asked Arthur of Bentley.

It was noisy enough in the club that Bentley had to ask, "What's that?"

Arthur spoke louder, "I asked if you're friends with the band."

"The bass player's dad is my boss."

This was a bad idea. If Bentley was working on the case, then there was a chance he'd seen Arthur's picture at some point. Even if the photo was old, there was still a chance the young sleuth might recognize him. He shouldn't be speaking to him like this, but the thrill of danger was intoxicating.

"She's pretty hot. Are you and her..." Arthur bumped his fists together.

"No," said Bentley.

"Probably a good idea. It's never smart to fuck the boss's daughter." He laughed, but Bentley didn't appreciate his sense of humor. Arthur should've quit talking, but he enjoyed provoking Bentley. "She's pretty good looking though. If you're not going to hit that, maybe I'll take a stab at her."

"Good luck," said Bentley as if the notion were preposterous.

"You don't think she'd go for an old guy like me?" Arthur never looked at Bentley directly, and kept himself slouched against the bar, his shoulders raised to hide his cheeks and his hat pulled down.

"I don't know, and I don't care." Bentley was trying to graciously end the conversation, but it was clear he was getting annoyed. He finished his beer and set the glass on the bar before walking towards the bathroom.

Arthur thought about following him in. He fantasized about attacking Darcy's friend, stabbing him in the back like a prison shanking, or knocking him down and then beating his head against the urinal. The thought entertained him, but he was too scared to try anything like that against the big man. Instead, he stayed by the bar and watched as Darcy helped her bandmates prepare for the show.

Soon the lights dimmed, and the club manager got on stage to announce the first band. The crowd cheered as Arthur stood silently observing, disgusted by the people around him.

The lead singer, who Arthur had learned was named Polly, walked to the microphone and said, "Thanks for coming out! We're The Murder Betties." They immediately launched into an abrasively loud song that hurt Arthur's ears. Some of the people in the crowd headed to the front of the stage to dance, and Arthur saw one of them was wearing a t-shirt with the band's logo and a 'Missing' picture depicting Betty Kline.

That made him laugh. Little did the crowd know who was standing in their midst.

The Murder Betties played a relentless set, hardly pausing between songs and bouncing around the stage the entire time. The lead singer frequently got down off the stage to interact with the crowd, but Arthur kept his eyes on Darcy. At one point, she stepped up to take over as lead singer on a cover of an older song, replacing some of the lyrics and speeding it up as she screamed, "It's my body, and I'll die if I want to!" During the song she glanced out at the bar and pointed. Arthur looked in the direction she'd pointed and discovered where Bentley had moved to.

When the band finished their set, Darcy came over to speak with Bentley again. She was approached by multiple people who wanted to express how much they enjoyed the show, and she graciously thanked them. She was sweaty and exhausted, but in good spirits as she leaned against the bar beside Bentley.

Arthur moved closer to eavesdrop.

"How'd you like it?" she asked.

"It was great."

"Thanks. I was so off on 'Death Toll.' That was the third song we played. It took me half the song to get back in time with the girls. I don't know what my problem was."

"I didn't notice," said Bentley as he set his empty glass on the bar. "To me you sounded perfect."

"Thanks. Hey, I've got to go take down the gear. If you help I'll get you backstage."

"Sounds like a deal."

She took his hand and started to lead him up to the stage. Arthur felt a surge of anger and hatred as he saw the two of them holding hands, and he felt the need to intervene. He grabbed Bentley's shirt and said, "Don't fuck her."

Bentley stopped, incensed. "What'd you say to me?"

"It's a bad idea," said Arthur. "Trust me."

Bentley let go of Darcy's hand and approached Arthur. "Do we have a problem?" Arthur was about to say something, but Bentley raised a finger and said sharply, "Keep it shut, or they'll have to peel you off the floor. Got it?"

"Big man," said Arthur with a forced grin. He was terrified and exhilarated. Blood surged through him with such intensity that his pulse throbbed in his ears. "You're a big tough guy, huh?"

"You're goddamned right."

"What's going on?" asked Darcy as she tried to intervene.

Arthur moved away and kept his head low so that the bill of his hat hid his features. "Nothing. Just a misunderstanding."

Confronting them like this was a stupid mistake, and one that Arthur regretted. He'd let his emotions get the better of him.

"It's all right," said Bentley to ease Darcy's concern. "Don't worry about it."

"You sure?" asked Darcy. "I'd be happy to get one of the bouncers to beat this shithead into ground beef if you want."

Arthur walked away, gritting his teeth as he did. The last thing he heard Bentley say was, "No, he's not worth the trouble."

* * *

The concert was at a venue in Loveland, coincidentally just a few blocks from Becky Kyle's apartment.

Arthur went to a Walmart that was open 24 hours and purchased the things he'd need. He got a tool belt and hammer, nails, rope, spackle, and canvas pants that he thought looked like something a handyman would wear. He bought the plainest short sleeve button-up shirt he could find, and a pair of new boots. Next he got a prepaid cell phone, and finally a gallon of water.

He drove to the back of the store, out of the security cameras' view, and changed clothes. He opened the spackle and cursed before checking the label, frustrated. This brand was designed to appear pink when applied, and then change to white after drying. He tested some of it on his hand, blowing on the paste to see how long it would take to change color. The smear dried quickly, and he decided not to bother exchanging it.

This would have to work.

Before leaving, he checked himself in the rearview, confident he looked the part. The crusty spackle on his cheeks and clothes did an admirable job of disguising him as a lowly maintenance man, but his outfit still looked new. He took off his shirt and went out into the parking lot in search of a muddy puddle. After splashing the shirt, ringing it out, and then shaking off the debris, he put it back on and got in the truck.

His hands were shaking the entire way to Becky's apartment. This was a momentous leap for him. He'd never hunted in the wild before. His former victims came to him, except for Betty, but that was a long time ago. With the others, he could almost convince himself their deaths had been an accident – just rough sex gone too far. Now there was no turning back. He was a killer. This is what he was born to do.

Arthur lingered in the parking lot, uncertain if he should make the call.

He got out of the truck and used the gallon of water he'd bought to liberally splash himself. He was soaking wet by the time he was through. Next he used his pocket knife to break open the plastic, clamshell case of the burner phone. He used his regular phone to look up Becky's information, and then used the burner to call her.

It took her three rings to answer. "Hello?" She sounded groggy, as if he'd woken her up.

"Hi, sorry to bother you," said Arthur, his voice shaking from nerves. "Is this Miss Kyle from 1209 Applewood, apartment 3-B?"

"Who's asking?"

"My name's Billy. I'm with the maintenance crew here at the complex."

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, it's nothing serious. So this is Becky Kyle, right? I've got the right number?"

"Yeah, it's me."

"Good, good. Again, I'm real sorry to bother you, but we've got a leak in the apartment below you that's pretty serious. We think it's coming from your bathroom. Could you check and see if you've got any standing water – maybe behind the toilet."

"Sure, hold on a second." He could hear her walking through her apartment and then opening a door. A moment later she said, "There's nothing wrong up here."

"Hmm," said Arthur. "Geez, I'm real sorry about this, but I'm going to need to come up there and check around under the sink. There must be a leaky pipe in there somewhere, and the way they've got these walls built," he grumbled and sighed. "I can't get to the pipes from down here. Is it all right if I come up?"

She hesitated.

Arthur held his breath, waiting for permission.

"Sure," she said, convinced there was no harm in letting a maintenance worker into her apartment. "Just give me a second to pick up a bit."

"Great, thanks. I'll be up in a minute."

He hung up the phone and got the rope.

# Chapter Thirteen

Lincoln was late to work, like normal, but not for the usual reasons. He'd gotten up early, made breakfast, and then drove Angel up to Eversprings before heading back. He was on the switchback on Thatcher road, heading down the mountain, when he got a text from Bentley. He almost made the mistake of taking his eyes off the road to read it, but refrained as he approached the dangerous curve. There was a makeshift cross and flowers preceding the rusty guardrail, marking the spot where some other unlucky motorist had met their end. He waited until he was off the mountain and at a stoplight to check his phone.

'Call me back. Klines are coming in.'

There was a news report on the radio about a murder in Loveland. Lincoln clicked off the radio and called Bentley, excited to hear the update about the Klines.

"I got your text."

"Good," said Bentley. "I stopped by their bakery this morning and told them what was going on. They weren't happy, but they agreed to meet with us. Mrs. Kline's coming in around lunch, after they finish the morning rush."

"That's good news."

"Yes and no."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"It's hard to say exactly," said Bentley. "There was something about the way she talked that freaked me out a little."

"How so?"

"She seemed scared, and a little annoyed. It's probably nothing. When are you going to be here?"

"I'm on my way in now. It won't take me too much longer."

He hurried the rest of the way and got to the office as soon as he could. Bentley and Hector were there, working on the whiteboard that they'd started the night before.

"How did things go with Ms. Harcourt?" asked Bentley.

"They went really well," said Lincoln as he handed the digital recorder to Hector. "Do me a favor and copy the recording on there. I got her to tell me about the day of the disappearances. She was pretty open about everything. This morning she said that if I had any other questions that I should call her."

"This morning?" asked Bentley. "Did she call you?"

Lincoln hadn't meant to let it slip that he'd been with Angel this morning, but he didn't want to lie to them either. "She stayed at my place last night."

Both Hector and Bentley stopped what they were doing and stared at him.

Lincoln was compelled to defend himself. "Nothing happened. She stayed over because I had a few too many drinks, and she lives way the hell up in the mountains, out in Eversprings. The last thing either of us wanted was to take a trip up the mountain in the middle of the night."

"A suspect in our case slept over at your place last night and you don't think that's a big deal?" asked Hector. "Yeah, all right."

"She's not a suspect. Trust me, I'm a pretty good judge of character and this woman had nothing to do with her son's murder. She was almost in tears every time we talked about him."

"Whatever you say, boss," said Hector as if the entire situation was humorous to him.

Bentley wasn't as quick to dismiss it. "Even if she's not a suspect, her ex is. I don't think it's too smart to get close to someone who..."

"I said it's no big deal," said Lincoln, silencing Bentley. "How about you? Did you have a good night? Did you see Darcy?"

Bentley turned back to the whiteboard to work on what he'd been doing before Lincoln arrived. "Yeah. Her band's pretty good."

"Did you guys get together after the show?"

Bentley acted lackadaisical as he said, "Yeah. Some of the band members went out and I tagged along."

"Where'd you guys go?" asked Lincoln.

Hector snickered and said, "He's got twenty questions for you, kid. Better be careful."

"Don't worry, nothing happened," said Bentley. "We're just friends. Let's focus on the case, so we know what we're dealing with before Deborah gets here." He pointed to the section of the board that listed their main suspects, including Trent Kline, Frank Harcourt, Angel Harcourt, and Grant Hedland. "We need to get together the alibis that everyone had. I've been thinking about our meeting with Grant, and I'm not sure I'm willing to rule either of them out just yet. I didn't get the sense that the guy was lying, but it's still not definitive proof of anything."

"I agree," said Lincoln. "As far as we know, Grant helped Trent out and covered for him."

"Then why would Trent throw Grant under the bus for dealing?" asked Hector. "That doesn't make sense."

Lincoln nodded and said, "Right, but there's another possibility here. Trent might've known how to turn off the security camera. I know the guy who's in charge of security at the mall. I could give him a ring to see if it's possible that Trent snuck back there, turned off the camera, and then headed out through the back entrance."

"You might want to hold off on that call," said Bentley. "We don't want word to get back to Pettigrew that we're asking questions about the case. Besides, you're stretching the timeline pretty thin. Unless Trent knew exactly how to turn the cameras off. I doubt he'd have time to break into the security office and figure out the set up that quick."

"Right, I agree. Which leaves me with the feeling that our main suspect is Frank Harcourt," said Lincoln. "Angel insisted that her ex was innocent, and she said that the police ruled him out right away, but she didn't explain why. She also said that he took off to Tijuana, which is why we've had so much trouble tracking him down."

"Let me get the notes," said Bentley as he walked over to the desk to retrieve a stack of papers. "From what I saw, the only reason they ruled him out was because of the time stamps on his computer logs."

"And that could've been faked," said Hector.

"Is that something that IT guys do a lot?" asked Lincoln. "Are you familiar with it?"

Hector raised his hands and said, "Hey man, I've never done anything like that. I goof off in plain sight. You know that."

"I know, but are you familiar with that sort of thing?"

"Not really, but I can't imagine it'd be that hard. You can create bots to do damn near anything, and it can be pretty tough to tell the difference. These days more people are aware of it, but ten years ago it would've been easier to sneak something like that by everyone."

Lincoln walked over to the board and started to wipe away Angel's name from the suspect list. Bentley stopped him and asked, "What're you doing?"

"Angel's not guilty. Trust me."

"How do we know? Just because you got a good feeling about it? No, she's still a suspect."

"A child killer doesn't usually call the cops on themselves."

"Except for all the child killers who've done exactly that," said Bentley as he started to fill in Angel's name back on the suspect's list on the whiteboard. "There've been lots of mothers who offed their kids and then called the cops claiming it was a kidnapping."

"If you'd been there when she was describing what happened you'd agree with me. She's innocent."

Bentley smirked and held up his finger as he said, "But wait." He walked over to his pile of papers and started sifting through them until he came upon what he was looking for. He handed it to Lincoln. It was a copy of an old yearbook page. "I found that this morning."

"What is it?" asked Lincoln as he looked at the pictures.

"It's from Angel's high school. She's down on the bottom. Her maiden name's Rosemont."

Lincoln saw her picture, a gorgeous young woman with a beaming smile and large hair that'd been stylish at the time. Under the picture was a caption, 'Most likely to be move to Hollywood – Angel Rosemont.'

"She was in drama," said Bentley as if he'd stumbled upon a big revelation.

"So what? Lots of kids are in plays. I think you're reaching here."

"Maybe I am, but it's got to be taken into consideration."

There was a knock on the glass, and the three of them turned to see a chubby, black-haired woman standing at the top of the stairs outside of the office. She waved, and Bentley said, "That's Mrs. Kline." He motioned for her to come in as he walked over to greet her. He introduced her to Hector and Lincoln.

"This is a nice place for an office," she said as she looked around. "Right here on Pearl Street."

"It's not bad," said Lincoln. "You can't beat the food, that's for sure. Come, sit down. Can we get you anything?"

"No thanks, I'm fine."

Lincoln was struck by how meek and quiet she was. He'd expected her to be a fiery woman, full of passion and zeal about the case, but it appeared as if she wanted to be anywhere but here right now, like a frightened puppy being scolded. She looked older than her age, with streaks of white in her otherwise black hair. She wore glasses that were large and round, the bottoms sitting on her chubby cheeks, and she didn't appear to have on any make-up. There was a dusting of flour on her sweater, and she wiped it clean when she noticed it.

"We're happy that you're willing to speak with us," said Lincoln as he pulled a chair over to sit near her. "We're putting a lot of energy into finding out the truth about..."

"You won't. You won't find the truth."

Lincoln was taken aback by her sudden declaration.

"Don't get me wrong, I hope you do. I hope you find out who really killed Betty and Devin, but I just..." Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. "I just don't have much energy to hope anymore."

"I'm not sure what you mean," said Lincoln.

She licked her lips and looked down, cocked her head slightly to the left, and then tried to say something. She only managed to let out a breath and then laughed. She tried again, "This is tough."

"I can only imagine," said Lincoln. "We don't want to drag you or your husband through all of this again. I know it's got to be hard, but I was under the impression you paid other investigators to look into the case. I would've thought you'd be happy if the case got this sort of attention again."

"Careful what you wish for." She fidgeted in her seat, appearing as uncomfortable as a guilty suspect in an interrogation room. "There was a time when all I could think about was finding out the truth, but now... Now it terrifies me."

"Why's that?" Bentley prodded.

"When Betty went missing, our whole world turned upside down. She was my light. My sweet angel. Do you have any kids?" she asked of the men around her.

"I do," said Lincoln, almost bashfully. "A daughter."

"Then you know what I mean. You know how much of your heart belongs to your child."

He nodded, a pang of recognition and empathy reverberating through him.

"Imagine it was your daughter who died."

He nodded again, wishing he could express how often that thought had come to him, but he was too ashamed of what his investigation was putting her through to say anything.

She continued, "I remember before she disappeared, I used to have these moments – I guess all parents do this – I'd think of something happening to one of my babies, and how that would crush me. How it would tear me up. I was positive I'd never make it through something like that, and then it happened. Someone stole my baby. I was living in a nightmare. Oh God, I can't... I can't tell you what it was like to wake up." She opened her purse and took out a crumpled tissue that she wrapped around her index finger and used to blot the corner of her eyes as she continued, "To wake up and forget, for just the briefest moment – just a tiny fraction of happiness before I remembered. Sometimes I'd dream of her. Those were the worst mornings. When I would dream of her and then wake up still thinking she was home. It felt like losing her all over again."

No one else dared say a word. The rawness of her pain kept them reverently silent.

"And then it just got worse. If you can believe it. Everything just kept getting worse. It took a while for the investigation to turn on Trent, but when it did..." She shook her head and sighed. "It was awful. It felt like the whole world turned on us. People hated us. They blamed us. They said it was our fault; that we let our son turn into a monster. We had church folks from all around coming to town with signs – you know, like they were at some union protest or something. They'd be outside our house, calling us devil worshipers, and leaving bloody shoes on our lawn. Who does something like that? What sort of sick person would..." She shook her head and bit her lip. She took a deep breath before continuing. "Trent was terrified. He went from being this distant, grumpy teenager back to being my baby boy so quick. He was so scared. I remember holding him on our couch as he cried and cried, and I kept telling him everything would be okay. I promised him they'd find whoever did it, and they'd clear his name, and that we'd get through this."

Deborah looked over at the whiteboard and all of the intricate notes that Bentley had scrawled on it. "Little did I know. Here we are ten years later... Ten awful, awful years."

"Maybe we can help," said Bentley. "I know it won't bring them back, but if we can find out the truth about what happened then maybe we can clear Trent's name."

"'Maybes' are a tough thing to hang your hopes on. Trust me. I did it for the better part of a decade. After Trent... after he..." it was a struggle for her to say it. "After he committed suicide, a big chunk of me died with him. We lost both our babies, and you just don't come back from that. You just don't. It felt like my whole world was collapsing in on itself. I wanted to die. Oh God, I wanted to die right then and there. I blamed myself for everything. It doesn't make sense now, but I did. I blamed myself for not being a better parent – for not picking Betty up from school like some of the other parents did. I let her walk home. I blamed myself for not being stricter with Trent. I blamed myself for not taking Betty to karate classes. I know it sounds ridiculous, but that's the sort of thing that goes through your head. Why didn't I take her to self-defense courses? What if I had? Would she still be..." The agony of remembering stole her words away, and she pressed the tissue to her lips as her face contorted in grief. Her pale cheeks turned red, and her eyes welled with tears.

Lincoln froze, too stunned to offer condolences. Bentley knelt beside Deborah and put his arms around her. She accepted the embrace of a stranger like a drowning victim clinging to a life preserver. She clutched him, and he said, "I've got you. It's all right."

This was too much for Lincoln. Something about her grief ripped him apart from the inside out, gutting him and dredging up demons he'd thought had been buried long ago. His hands were shaking. Everything Deborah said rang true in the harshest way. He remembered those blissful moments in the morning when he would wake up forgetting the truth about his baby girl's rapidly deteriorating health. He remembered holding Darcy as she cried, and promising her it would all be okay even though he had no way of knowing it would be. Deborah's loss felt too familiar. She was the grieving parent he'd almost become, and the sight of her breaking down like this, even ten years after her loss, crushed him.

"I know what it's like to lose someone," said Bentley, as if giving voice to what Lincoln should've been saying. "I know what it's like to wake up after dreaming that the person you loved is still alive, and how hard it is to realize that it's not true. I lost my wife. I didn't think I'd make it through the pain. I almost didn't, but we keep fighting. We keep fighting because we know it's what they'd want."

"You're so young," said Deborah as she looked at Bentley. "You're just a baby." She placed her hands on his cheeks and asked, "You lost your wife?"

"Car accident," said Bentley.

"Oh God, honey, I'm so sorry to hear that. I wish I could say it gets easier, but here I am blubbering ten years later." She laughed a little and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "It doesn't get easier. Anyone who tells you that is full of it. You'll always have that piece of your heart ripped out and missing, but you find a way. You find something to fill that hole up with. You have to. Don't make the mistake of turning to drugs or alcohol. Don't you do that." She clasped Bentley's hand and squeezed. "Find something else. Something good. For a long time, the only thing that kept me going was trying to prove Trent was innocent. That became my obsession. At first I thought it was a good thing – that I was fighting to clear my boy's name, and that everything would be better if I did. But it turned into a coping mechanism, and that can be ugly. I let it control my life for a lot of years. This might sound gross, but it was like I had a scab that I kept picking, over and over, day after day. It never had a chance to heal. And it wasn't just my wounds either. I was dragging my family through it. Every single day, I kept forcing them to live through it all over again. That's why I came here alone. If I came with Jack..." She shook her head. "I don't think he'd want to hear me talk about it again. We had to leave that part of our lives behind us, or we'd never get over it."

"Listen," she said as if deciding it was time to move on to a different point to keep from spiraling down into depression. "I'm not trying to tell you guys not to move ahead with your investigation. Nothing in the world would make me happier than being able to prove Trent was innocent. Jack's going to bring you all the information we got from the other P.I.s we hired. We'll help you however we can, but I have to warn you that the truth might not be there for you to find anymore. We spent a lot of money, and put a lot of time into trying to find it, and we don't have anything to show for it but a lot of tears and heartbreak, and a horrific credit score." She forced a chuckle, as if mocking her own pain before someone else could.

"Do you think Frank Harcourt did it?" asked Lincoln bluntly.

"I used to," said Deborah. "Now I'm not so sure."

"Why's that?" asked Hector.

"Well, when Jack brings over the files you'll see what sort of stuff Mr. Harcourt was into. Weird sex stuff. Bondage and that sort of thing. Prostitutes. And then came the stories about how he faked his computer logs. Have you heard about that?"

Lincoln nodded and said, "Yeah, although we'd love to see what you found out."

"Don't get your hopes up," said Deborah. "When the last P.I. found out about how he faked his computer logs, we thought that was the nail in his coffin. It was proof that he lied to the police, and it gave him time to get to Boulder to... you know." Even after all these years, it was still painful for her to talk about. "The prosecution built their entire case against Trent around a timeline, so we built our own, proving that Arthur could've done it."

"You mean Frank," said Bentley.

"That's what everyone called him, but it was his middle name. He was the third Arthur in the family."

"Oh, okay," said Bentley. "That might also be why we can't find him. Everything we've got on him uses the name Frank."

"If you thought he was guilty, what made you change your mind?" asked Lincoln.

"The police already knew that he lied to them," said Deborah. "We spent every cent of our life savings on the last private detective, and he put together a case that proved Frank lied. He tried to interview as many people as he could about the case. He talked to Grant, and to witnesses at the mall; he even got Angel Harcourt to talk to him. He used to be a police officer, and he told us that if we wanted to convince the department to reopen the case then we'd have to go to them with undeniable proof. The last thing a police department wants to do is admit they might've been wrong and be forced to reopen a closed case, and the Boulder department was adamant that Trent was guilty. So we paid the investigator every cent we had. It took almost five months, but he was finally convinced we had a strong enough case against Harcourt. We got a meeting with the department, took in the evidence, and in ten minutes they shot us down. Five months of work and our life savings evaporated," she snapped her fingers, "just like that."

"Why wouldn't they listen to you?" asked Bentley.

"Like I said, they already knew he'd lied. They confronted him about it and got the truth. Apparently, Frank left work after he got the call from his wife that Devin was missing. He faked his computer logs because he wanted to get paid a full day. He took the toll road to avoid traffic, and they had a photo of him in his car not long after four. That's why they cleared him. They never released the information because they didn't see any reason to get a grieving father in trouble with his employer. I had to accept that he was innocent, unless the police department was lying to cover it up, and doctored a photo of Frank driving down the toll road."

Deborah stuffed her tissue back into her purse and then said, "That's why I came by. I thought you might like to know that Mr. Harcourt's a dead end. A very expensive, time-consuming, heart-breaking dead end."

"Did anyone else ever come up as a suspect during the investigation?" asked Bentley.

"No. There were theories, but no evidence. Heck, there were a million theories. Someone even accused Betty of murdering Devin and then said we were covering it up."

"Do you still think Trent's innocent?" asked Lincoln, and the question came out more accusatory than he'd intended. The moment of silence before her answer wasn't long, but it was poignant and tense.

"I like to think so, yes."

"But are you sure?" asked Lincoln.

"I'm not sure of anything anymore. I don't think my baby boy could do something like that to his own sister." She shook her head, and grew more confident as she thought about it. "No, he didn't do it. I don't know who did, and I don't know if they'll ever be caught, but I know my baby didn't do that. And I don't want anyone to prove me wrong." She looked up at the clock on the wall over the whiteboard and said, "I should get going. Jack will be here soon with the notes from the last investigation. If there's anything else that you need, let us know. Well, let me know anyways. You might want to leave Jack out of it. He's never really... He doesn't like to dwell."

They thanked her for coming, and walked her to the door. Bentley went with her down to the lobby, leaving Lincoln and Hector behind.

Hector clicked off the digital recorder and said, "Wow."

"No kidding," said Lincoln as he looked through the glass at the first floor lobby below as Bentley led Deborah to the entrance of the office building. "I feel like the rug just got pulled out from under us."

"Me too," said Hector. "I was starting to lean towards Frank Harcourt as the bad guy. Now she's got me questioning everything. Who do we look at now?"

"Arthur Frank Harcourt."

Hector looked puzzled. "I'm not following you. You still think he did it?"

"No, but something about his timeframe doesn't click. If he left work early, and was on the toll road a little after four, then how come he didn't show up to help look for his son until after six?"

"Maybe he did, but he didn't want his work to find out."

"Could be. It still feels like we're missing something."

# Chapter Fourteen

Lincoln was at home reading through the casework that Jack Kline brought into the office. The burly baker hardly uttered more than a single word when he came by, and it was clear that Deborah had been right about her husband's mixed emotions about the case getting attention again. The coming anniversary weighed heavily on him.

It was almost nine. Normally Lincoln would be at the bar, and he glanced over at one of the empty martini glasses on his kitchen counter from a few nights ago. He debated going to the kitchen and making a fresh one, but decided to focus on work instead. It was the first night in months that he didn't have a drink.

The Kline's previous investigator had done a good job of collecting information about Frank Harcourt. He'd followed him for weeks, snapping pictures of him everywhere he went. He obtained computer records detailing the websites Frank visited, including a variety of BDSM pages. He interviewed former girlfriends of Frank, and discovered that he didn't just fantasize about rough sex, he practiced it.

There were pictures of one of Frank's girlfriends with bruises on her neck. But as Lincoln looked through the notes, something became apparent. There were several times that the previous investigator referred to notes or evidence that didn't exist. In the history that he'd compiled about Arthur Frank Harcourt, there was a distinct lack of information about the man's time as Angel's husband. It was as if those years had been plucked from the evidence pile and erased.

Lincoln's phone rang. "Hello."

"Hey Dad, I just got off work and I saw you were home. Can I come by?"

"Sure." Lincoln grew curious and asked, "How'd you know I was home? Are you spying on me?"

"No. I can see where you're at when you've got your Geolocator on."

"Oh, really? I didn't even know that thing was still on."

"Can I come over?"

"Of course."

"All right. I'll see you in a few."

He hung up the phone and then opened the Geolocator app that Hector had installed. He searched through the options and saw that it was set to turn itself on whenever he turned the phone on. He grumbled a curse about technology, and how it was a mystery to him.

Lincoln spent the next twenty minutes reading about Frank Harcourt's job history, and the company he'd been working for at the time of the crime. The investigator had taken the time to detail exactly how long it would take Frank to drive from work in Denver to the scene of the crime in Boulder. The problem, of course, was that the police had acquired a toll road photograph of Frank driving along 470 at around 4:30. That would put him in Boulder at almost the same time that the police arrived. There's no way he was the killer. Not unless the murders didn't happen when everyone assumed they did, but that meant there would have to be someone else involved who abducted the children. Either that or, like Deborah had said, the picture the police had was faked, but the implications of that seemed dangerously conspiratorial and ludicrous.

None of it fit, and Lincoln began to realize that he was indicting Frank based solely on his sadomasochistic obsessions, something that a lot of people enjoyed responsibly with willing partners. He realized that he was pointing the blame at Frank for his predilections much the same as others had implicated Trent for his. There wasn't enough proof to back up the theory, and as he looked through the mountains of paperwork he began to understand why the Klines had become so disheartened. This was a dead-end that just created more questions without providing a single answer.

The bell rang, and Lincoln went to buzz his daughter in. He hit the button without bothering with the speaker, and then went back to his coffee table to finish reading Frank Harcourt's arrest record. A moment later there was a knock at the door.

He casually said, "Come on in," expecting Darcy.

"Lincoln?" asked a familiar female voice as the door opened a crack.

"Angel, oh. Sorry, I was..."

"Is this a bad time?"

"No, no, come on in. It's just that I thought you were my daughter. She's on her way."

"Should I leave?"

"No, of course not. Come in, come in. What brings you down from the mountain?"

"I felt like I needed to talk to you some more. I've been thinking about last night all day, and..." she walked over to the coffee table and saw the casework. "What's this?"

"It's... uh..." he used a piece of paper to cover up a crime scene photograph of the shed where Devin's blood was found. "It's information on the case. We got it from the Klines."

"Did you talk to them?"

"Yeah, today, although it didn't go like we expected. We always assumed they'd be more willing to help us than anyone, but I got the sense that they wanted us to drop the case. Deborah had a real hard time talking about it."

"Really?" Angel sounded surprised. "Well, I understand how she feels. It hurts every time someone forces me to remember."

"Yeah, that's basically what she said too."

The picture of the shed and Devin's blood stains was almost completely covered, but there was a single corner protruding, and Angel glanced down at it. She pushed the top sheet over so that it covered the picture completely. "Maybe it's time to let the case go. If the parents of the kids who went missing don't even want you doing this, then you've got to ask yourself why you're still doing it."

"I've got to believe you would all want to know the truth."

She shook her head. "Not necessarily."

He was caught off-guard by the comment.

She elaborated, "Do you really think the Klines want to face up to the fact that their son did it? Or do you think it's easier to just go on pretending like he didn't, and that this is all some big dumb conspiracy where the cops and the prosecutor and everyone else hid the truth? Think about it. Of course they want you to stop looking into it, because they're afraid you're going to find out the truth, and it's going to break their heart."

"She didn't say she wanted us to stop. She just said it was tough. The last private detective they had drained their bank account."

"That's too bad." Her sympathy extended only so far as was socially expected.

The buzzer rang again, startling Angel.

"That's probably Darcy," said Lincoln as he walked over to buzz his daughter in. Next he went to open the door and glanced down the hall to see Darcy come into the building.

Angel was looking down at Arthur Frank Harcourt's file on the table that Lincoln had been reading. She picked it up, and looked as if she might open it, but then let the folder drop back down onto the coffee table. "Well, I won't bother you," she said icily.

"No, it's all right. You're welcome to stay."

"I don't want to intrude. Just do me a favor and think about quitting the case. I've got... I've got reasons to want you to quit. I can't go into it right now." She glanced back down at Arthur's file.

Darcy made it to the apartment, and Lincoln held the door open for her. "Darcy, this is Angel Harcourt."

"Oh, hi," said Darcy, surprised as she shook the woman's hand.

"Hello Darcy, you're just as pretty as your father says. It's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," said Darcy. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, I was just leaving." Angel turned to Lincoln and said, "Give it some thought, and then come and see me tomorrow evening. If you're free."

"Sure, that'd be great. I'll see you tomorrow."

Lincoln and Darcy watched Angel leave, and then Darcy turned to her father and said, "What the heck was that all about? I thought you were interviewing her last night. Has she been here all day? Did she stay the..."

"Stop," said Lincoln. "Don't make assumptions."

"So the two of you aren't..."

"No, come on. Get your mind out of the gutter."

Darcy started to leaf through the papers on the coffee table. "Is all this from the Klines?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"Bentley told me they came by the office."

"Bentley told you? Are you two..."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Dad." She smirked at him, but he didn't appreciate her idea of humor. "I called him because I wanted him to know I was coming to talk to you tonight."

"Talk to me about what?"

She seemed nervous, and asked him to sit down. Lincoln obliged, and Darcy said, "I like him, Dad. But despite the fact that we live in the 21st century, he's got it in his head that we need your blessing to start dating."

Lincoln cringed. "Baby, you don't want to get mixed up with a guy like him."

"Why? What's wrong with him?"

"He's Daniel Barr's nephew, for one."

"So? What does that have to do with what sort of person he is?" She was frustrated that she even had to have this conversation. "And besides, let's get one thing straight here, mister, I don't need permission from you to date anyone. Got it? The only reason I'm here is because I promised Bentley I'd talk to you about this or else he was going to tell you."

"And he's a liar," said Lincoln. "He lied to me about his intentions with you. I asked him point blank if he was going after you, and he told me he wasn't. So, add that to the list of things not to like about the kid."

"He didn't go after me, you big dummy. I'm the one who went after him. Not that it's any of your business."

"Aw man," said Lincoln as he thought about her visit to the office. "Is that the reason you wanted to work with us? So that you could get close to him?"

"No," said Darcy. "That's just an added benefit. If you want to know the truth, it was Mom who convinced me to quit my job and go work for you."

Lincoln hadn't expected that. "Your Mom?"

"Yeah. I told her about your offer, and she encouraged me to take you up on it. She loved the idea."

"She did?"

Darcy nodded. "She thought it'd be good for you. She knows how you always wanted to be a private detective, back before you got into the corporate consulting stuff."

"What does she care?"

"She wants you to be happy."

"Then tell her to come back and give me a chance." The comment sounded so pathetic that it even surprised him.

Darcy was stunned by the poignant honesty of his comment, and it silenced her until she thought of something else to say. "What did... uh... What did Ms. Harcourt have to say?"

"She wants me to quit the case," said Lincoln, thankful that Darcy had changed the subject. "And believe it or not, the Klines aren't too excited about us looking into it either. They said it's because it dredges up too many bad memories, but I got the impression they're afraid we'll find out Trent was guilty. That would break their heart. They spent so many years certain someone else did it. They were focused on Mr. Harcourt."

"Bentley told me about the toll road photo."

"Yeah, that pretty much takes the steam out of our case here. Back to square one. If it wasn't him, then I don't have any idea who could be responsible."

"What if he was working with Angel?" asked Darcy as she glanced over at the door where Ms. Harcourt had recently been standing.

"Working with her how? To conspire to kill a couple kids?"

"Maybe she did it, and he helped her cover it up."

Lincoln gave it a moment's thought, but was quick to discount the idea, "No, I didn't get the sense she was lying to me. I'm pretty good at being able to tell when I'm being lied to."

Darcy laughed, quick and sharp, and then saw that he wasn't joking, which made her laugh even harder. "You can't be serious. Dad, you're the worst at telling when someone's lying."

"I am not."

"Yes you are. It's not a bad thing. I think it's actually kind of sweet. It's why you were great at motivating people. You always see the good in people, but you're blind to the bad."

"That's not true," said Lincoln.

"Yes it is."

"Like what? Give me an example."

Darcy thought for a minute and then said, "Okay, I'll give you one. Remember Nanner?"

"Your stuffed monkey? Yeah, what about him?"

"I knew Mom stitched him up. I remember her taking him out of my room. The next day I pretended like I thought it was magic. That was around the time I was figuring out the truth about the tooth fairy and Santa Claus, and all that stuff. I kept pretending to believe for your sake."

"What? No. I don't think you're remembering it right. You were positive that monkey was fixed by the band aids you put on it."

Darcy chuckled and said, "Dad, trust me. I remember it just fine." She jabbed her finger into his chest and said, "You're the one who's not remembering it right. You're the one who couldn't tell when his little girl was lying to him. I used to get away with so much. You don't even want to know."

"Like what?" he asked.

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

"Yes I do."

She raised her eyebrows as if already aware of how shocking this would be for him. "All right. Do you remember Pete? My boyfriend in high school?"

"Yeah, sure. What about him?"

"Do you remember my first date with him?"

Lincoln nodded. "Sure. Mom made you wear that babushka because it was chilly and you barely had any hair at the time."

"Yeah, well, that wasn't our first date. I'd been dating him for almost a year, but I didn't want you or Mom to know because I didn't think you'd approve. So we snuck around."

"Snuck around? How? We were with you all the time."

"Not all the time. Remember those trips to the mall, where you'd let me go meet my friends. I was actually meeting up with Pete."

Lincoln groaned, and then couldn't help but laugh a little. "All right, don't tell me anymore. You've made your point. Don't ruin my perception of my perfect little angel of a daughter."

"There's no such thing as a perfect angel. Ms. Harcourt included."

"Maybe, but I still can't buy into the idea that she murdered those kids. I think we're going to have to face the fact that, as it stands, Trent Kline is the most likely suspect. Everything points right back to him. It's like the lead investigator in the case said, you just put together enough pieces that you can convince yourself you know the truth, because you're never going to finish the puzzle."

"Don't give up," said Darcy as she perused the crime scene photographs. "If it was easy to solve then someone would've done it already. But do me a favor and bring Bentley or Hector with you tomorrow when you go see Ms. Harcourt. Just in case."

"You mean you and Bentley aren't hooking up on a secret rendezvous tomorrow night?"

"No. I'm too busy. I've got work, and the cancer resource meeting, and then tomorrow night I've got to get with the girls to practice. We're going to the studio on Saturday to record the EP. I'm not going to have a second to breathe tomorrow."

"And you want your Dad to go spend time with your new boyfriend? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"He's not my boyfriend yet, but you can do me a favor and tell him that you'd be okay with him taking me out. And besides, if you're going to meet Ms. Harcourt, you should have someone along for the ride who's not as gullible as you." She teased him with a nudge and then checked the time. "I'd better get going. I need all the sleep I can get. Big day tomorrow."

Lincoln stopped her by grabbing her hand. "Good luck with everything tomorrow. I love you."

"I love you too," she said, amused by his ardent affection. She tried to move away, but he held tightly onto her hand. "What's up?"

He sighed. "It's just... All this talk about losing your kids." Lincoln shook his head, closed his eyes, and let out a long breath. "It's tough. Listening to Deborah Kline talk about losing her kids... It brought me right back to..."

"Dad, stop."

"I just want you to know how much I love you. You're my whole world. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"I know," said Darcy. "That's why Nanner's still sitting on my dresser."

Lincoln was perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"Moving out was scary for me. You and Mom had always been there to protect me, and then all of the sudden I was going to be on my own. It was nerve-racking. But I know you and Mom will be there for me, no matter what. That silly old monkey's a good reminder of it."

She hugged him, and kissed his cheek. "I've got to go home."

He reluctantly let her leave.

# Arthur

It was the middle of the night, and there were sleeping ducks nestled near the shore of the pond outside of Darcy's apartment building. Arthur stood beside his truck, dialing her number on a new burner phone.

"Hi, is this Miss Pierce in apartment 3-A?"

She was groggy. "Um, yeah. Who's this?"

"Hi, I'm real sorry to bug you like this. I know it's late." Crickets chirped in the parking lot and there were toads croaking in the pond behind Arthur as he stood looking up at Darcy Pierce's balcony. He had on the same outfit he'd worn when he killed Becky Kyle. "My name's Bill, and I work with the maintenance crew here at the complex. There's a leak in one of the units beneath you, and we think it might be coming from your apartment. Could you go check your bathroom to see if there's any standing water – maybe in the tub or under the sink."

"Sure. Hold on."

This was working exactly like before. He listened as she went to the bathroom. He heard her flick on the lights and open the cabinets beneath the sink.

"No, there's nothing wrong up here."

"Oh, well, geez. I really hate to do this to you since it's so late, but I'm going to need to come up there and poke around under the sink. There's a good chance we're dealing with a leaky pipe, and the way these floors are designed I can't get to it from down here."

"Can't this wait until morning?"

"I wish it could. At this rate, your neighbor down here's going to have a flooded apartment by morning."

"All right. Give me a few minutes to pick up a little."

"Sure, no problem. I'll go grab some tools from my truck and I'll be up in a minute. Thanks for this."

Arthur hung up the phone and put the burner in a bag of trash. He stuffed the phone's clamshell packaging in the bag as well, and tied the top. He would throw that out later, in a dumpster somewhere far from here. He picked up the gallon of water and got out of the truck to start dousing himself. As he did, he looked up at Darcy's balcony and saw the faint glow of a light on. He felt giddy. This was it. This would be the kill that matched the one ten years earlier.

He had to get this right.

He remembered Darcy Pierce. She'd been one of Betty's friends. He recalled participating in a bake sale meant to raise funds to help pay for her hospital bills. He found that ironic, considering how he would be the one to murder her.

Arthur wouldn't rush it this time. His experience with Becky Kyle had been ultimately unsatisfying. Over the past ten years, Arthur had experimented with his compulsion. He relegated the murder of Betty Kline to simply an accident, although he'd always known that it was more than that. Since then, he hired prostitutes who were willing to submit to sadism, and it was during his time with them that he discovered how domination was a turn-on for him.

To see a woman tied up and pleading for release; to be the one in total control. That's what he needed.

Since the murder of Betty Kline there'd been two other accidental murders where his lust and passion had gone too far. Both of those women had been cut up and disseminated throughout the state, their chunks rotting or eaten, never to be found. Then came this week, on the cusp of the ten year anniversary of Betty's death. The meth-head prostitute he murdered at the start of the week had been his fourth murder, and the final crack in the dam. Next, Becky Kyle proved to be a good exercise, but only served to strengthen his understanding of his own desires. Her death was over far too quick. Arthur discovered that the lead up to the murder, when the woman was tied up and pleading for her life, was the best part. Now, with Darcy Pierce, he would achieve his ultimate experience. She would die perfectly.

Arthur wound up the leash and choke collar and stuffed it into his back pocket where it bulged. He covered the leash with his shirt, and then put on his tool belt. He stuffed zip ties into his pockets, and then put his pistol in the oversized satchel attached to his belt. Finally, he filled the syringe with the drug that he'd extracted from morning glory seeds. His expertise with the drug would pay off tonight. He was ready, but he took a moment to run through a mental check list. This was too important to screw up with a careless mistake.

After being certain he was ready, Arthur headed up to Darcy's apartment. He paused at her door, took a deep breath, and then pushed the doorbell. He saw a shadow move across the peephole, and he lowered his head so that the bill of his hat covered his face.

"Hi," said Darcy as she opened the door. The chain was still on it. She wasn't going to let him in.

Arthur's heart raced. Something was wrong. Had she heard the news reports about the murder in Loveland?

"How do I know you actually work for the complex?"

Arthur faked a laugh and then motioned down at his sopping wet clothes. "I could take you downstairs and show you the mess if you'd like." He smiled at her, and made the mistake of showing her his face. She looked into his blue/grey eyes.

"Do I know you?" asked Darcy. "Were you at the concert last night?"

Arthur shook his head and said, "You've got me mixed up with someone else. Let me in so we can get this over with."

"Do you have a key?"

"A key to what?"

"A key to my apartment," said Darcy. "You've got one, right? If you're with maintenance then you have to have keys to the apartments. Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to close the door and lock it. If you're with maintenance, then use your key to unlock it and you can get to work. Otherwise, you can go fuck yourself."

"Sure, all right," said Arthur as his mind raced. She was about to close the door, and he knew he had to act fast.

Arthur rammed his shoulder into the door, causing Darcy to yelp out in shock. The chain didn't give, but Darcy fell away from the door, giving him another shot at it. He backed up and charged a second time. The chain's mount ripped out of the frame, taking a chunk of wood with it.

Darcy had a knife. She'd been suspicious of his call since the beginning, and had armed herself before answering the door. As Arthur staggered into the apartment, off balance from his break in, she lunged. Darcy aimed for the intruder's chest, but the knife glanced across him instead of sticking in. She cut a gash across his ribs, bringing an immediate gush of blood.

"Help!" She screamed as she attacked. She aimed better, and plunged the butcher knife deep into Arthur's side, but he'd recovered from his initial imbalance, and his frame towered over her lithe build. He breached the gap between them, and slapped his grubby hand over her mouth to silence her. She bit down hard, ripping at his palm like a dog trying to tear meat off a bone. He ignored the pain and tried to catch her hand as she continued to stab at him. He missed, and she got another good strike at his abdomen before he was able to grasp her wrist.

The door was gaping wide. There were splinters of wood on the carpet. It was only a matter of time before someone came to investigate. He had to put an end to this now.

Arthur saw the nearby counter top of the island that separated the dining area from the kitchen and forced Darcy over that way. He released his hold over her mouth to grab the side of her head. He thrust her down before she could scream, slamming her into the counter so hard that a chunk broke off the corner, revealing the flimsy particle board beneath. Prescription bottles rattled and fell before rolling off the edge to hit the ground beside their felled owner. Darcy whimpered, dazed and badly wounded, but not unconscious.

Arthur straddled her and wrapped his strong hands around her neck, feeling for the pulse. She squirmed, but was too hurt to fight back with much intensity. He squeezed while looking over at the entrance.

"Stupid bitch," he said under his breath as he choked her.

Arthur knew he should kill her and flee. The noise they'd made was certain to attract attention. Any minute someone might show up at the door to see what'd happened. Or worse, someone might've already called the cops. He had to kill her and run.

The pressure against her arteries did the job, and she fell unconscious. He took the opportunity to get up and go to the door. Next he fished out his pistol, choke collar, and syringe.

"Fucking stupid bitch," he said as he looked out through the peephole, certain someone would come along any minute. He thought he heard footsteps on the concrete stairs, and he tried to lock the deadbolt, but when he'd broken in the door had shifted on its hinges, and now the lock didn't line up properly. He pressed his side against the door to keep it shut.

Darcy coughed and rolled to her side. She was already waking up.

"You keep your mouth shut," he said with a snarl. "You hear me, bitch? You keep your mouth shut. If you yell, then I'll kill you and whoever else is here. Got it?"

She was reaching for the knife. There was blood everywhere, speckling the white carpet and gushing from the multiple wounds on his side.

"Don't bring a knife to a gunfight," said Arthur as he pointed the gun at her.

She ignored his threat as she got up on her hands and knees, the knife in her grip. She was a fighter, and he knew that she would attack him again if given the opportunity.

The footsteps outside were growing louder, but Arthur knew he had to leave the door to go and subdue Darcy. He moved towards her, and the door crept open a crack. The situation was already bad, and it was about to get worse. He hurried over to Darcy and put his boot down on top of the blade to pin it to the floor. He put the barrel of the gun to the back of her head and commanded her to get down. She didn't, so he forced her to the floor and then put his knee down on the back of her neck.

Someone was talking outside in the hall. They were coming this way. He aimed the gun through the slight crease the open door afforded, and tried to steady himself as Darcy struggled beneath him.

He heard a man's laugh, and another person saying something that sounded muffled from where Arthur was. Shadows passed across the gap in the door, and Arthur realized the people outside were oblivious to what was happening in the apartment. They were just neighbors returning home after a late night out.

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, and then chuckled as he said, "That was a close one."

Darcy was sputtering beneath him, still trying to fight back.

"You need to keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me? I know everything about you, Darcy Pierce. I know your dad, and your mom. I know your boyfriend. I know everything about you, and if you don't do exactly as I say then I'll go pay a visit to everyone you care about after I'm done killing you. Do you understand?"

He released the pressure on her neck to allow her to speak.

"Fuck you."

Arthur forced the choke collar around her head and down to her neck. She tried to bite at his fingers, so he punched her as a warning. He got the collar on, and then pulled until it constricted her breathing. He was on her back, pulling at the leash and forcing her head up. She clawed at her throat, trying desperately to get her fingers between the cord and her skin to allow her to breathe.

"We're going to have fun together. And you're going to do what I say or I'll kill you right here and now. Got it?" He released the pressure and she gasped for air. She coughed, but didn't answer. "Do you understand?"

"I'm not afraid of you," she said with a raw throat. "You don't scare me."

"Give me time."

"I'm not afraid of dying," she said. "I haven't been afraid of it for years."

"Then I'll figure out something else to scare you. I'm sure I can think of something. I'll figure out how to make you cry, just like Betty did."

That was a shock to her. He knew it would be. He got off her, certain he'd earned her silence and obedience now. He wrapped the leash around his hand, under complete control of her as he moved to stare face to face with her. If she fought back, then he could pull the leash and choke her again.

"That's right. You want to know who killed Betty Kline? Well, you're looking at him." He smiled. "Do you recognize me, Darcy? Do you remember me?"

He choked her before she could answer, and fished out the syringe filled with the drug that would incapacitate her.

# Chapter Fifteen

Bentley's text read, 'Uncle Danny's coming in.'

Lincoln sighed and tossed the phone onto the passenger side seat. He muttered a curse, and then turned up the music, allowing Buddy Guy to drown out his concerns.

When he got to Boulder, he decided to get coffee before heading to the office. As he was standing in line he got another text from Bentley asking when he thought he'd be in. Lincoln answered, explaining he was almost there, and then asked if Bentley or Hector wanted some coffee.

He didn't get an answer in time, and decided to order three coffees just in case. After the barista loaded the cups into a carrier, he left on the short walk to the office. He jogged across 11th, away from the section of Pearl Street that was closed to traffic, and saw a van parked outside of the office, blocking several other cars. At first he didn't pay much attention to the featureless, white van, but then the side door opened and two men stepped out. They looked directly at Lincoln and headed towards him.

Lincoln looked at the van's side mirror and saw the reflection of the man sitting in the passenger seat of the van. It was Clyde Pettigrew.

"Mr. Pierce?" asked one of the young men approaching him. As they neared, Lincoln noticed they were twins. The one speaking had a tuft of black hair on the top of his head, and the other was completely shaved, giving them an individuality their identical faces would otherwise deny.

"You need to come with us," said the bald one. The two men stood before him, blocking his way. They both stood taller than Lincoln, with shoulders so wide that Lincoln guessed their suits had to be custom made.

"Sorry, but I've got..."

The one with hair moved his suit coat to reveal a pistol holstered at his side. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

"You think showing me a gun's going to make me want to get in a van with you? Tell your boss that if he wants to talk to me, he can come up to my office."

A car honked behind the van, and the altercation was getting noticed by people walking along the busy sidewalk. Clyde Pettigrew rolled down his window and said, "Lincoln, get in the damn van. We need to talk."

"I quit taking rides in strange vans back in college. Why don't you and the steroid twins pony up the six bucks to park in the garage and then come up to the office?"

Clyde grimaced, and his mustache twitched. He pointed at his two men and said, "Go with him. I'll be up in a minute." The van's wheels screeched as it headed down the street, leaving Lincoln with the two thugs.

"I'd offer you coffee," said Lincoln as he looked down at the three cups he was carrying, "but I don't like you. So go fuck yourselves."

"We're fine."

He led the way to the office and saw that Bentley had been working on updating the whiteboard with details about the crime they'd learned from the previous investigator's notes. There was a map of Boulder taped to the center of the board with a red line drawn to depict the route Trent supposedly took from the mall to the scene of the crime and back again. A timeline of the crime was written beside the picture, meticulously mapping out all the details that were considered facts versus conjecture. The facts were written in black, like the timestamps from the security video at the mall, and the conjecture was written in red, like the prosecution's account of Trent's trip to the crime scene.

Bentley heard Lincoln come in and said, "There you are." His back was turned to the door as he worked on updating the whiteboard. "I sent Hector to the store to..." He paused when he saw the twins come in next. "Mike, Jason, what are you guys doing here?"

"Bentley?" asked the bald twin. "You know this piece of shit?" he asked in reference to Lincoln.

"Wait, you guys know each other?" asked Lincoln.

"Yeah, this is Jason," said Bentley as he nodded towards the bald twin, "and that's Mike. We used to hang out."

"Are these the guys who jumped Grant?"

Bentley nodded.

"You mean Hedland? Why are you telling him about that shit?" asked Jason, annoyed with Bentley.

"We were interviewing Grant and he recognized me," said Bentley. "I didn't know he was the same guy that worked with you until we met him."

"You need to keep your mouth shut, bro," said Mike as he pointed a meaty finger at Bentley. "What the fuck are you doing sticking your nose where it doesn't belong? And why are you telling this guy about our business?"

"Look, there's been some sort of misunderstanding here," said Bentley.

"I guess so," said Jason as he cracked his knuckles. "You guys have a lot of nerve."

"What the fuck is this shit?" asked Mike as he walked over to the whiteboard. There was a section on the board about Grant Hedland, and featured his mugshot. "Are you trying to get him to rat us out?"

"What? No," said Bentley defensively. "Of course not. We're looking into a murder case, and he agreed to talk with us about it."

Lincoln looked through the glass wall to the lobby below and saw Clyde Pettigrew enter and head to the staircase that led up to the opposite side of the second floor. Lincoln opened the door and called out to him, "Clyde, wrong side. We're over here."

Clyde descended the opposite staircase, frowning as he did, and then hurried over to the other side. "You've got a lot of nerve, Mr. Pierce."

Lincoln held the door open for Clyde and said, "Yeah, so I've heard."

"I've got your business card here," said Clyde as he took Lincoln's card out of his pocket. "Do you know where I got it?"

"I gave it to you," said Lincoln.

"You gave me one, but not this one." He waggled the card in front of Lincoln's face. "I got this one from James. I think you know him. He's the security manager at a property I own." Clyde's face was turning red as he threw the card at Lincoln. "He tells me you were there, traipsing around, asking questions and going places you don't belong. And the way James tells it, you're looking to buy my property. Now, when he first told me your name I didn't know what to think. And then James said you were asking questions about our security system, and you were out in the back lot. That's when this whole thing clicked."

Clyde stepped forward and pushed Lincoln. It was a surprise, and Lincoln was caught off guard. He fell hard against the wall and was about to retaliate when the twins stepped in to intervene. They held Lincoln as Clyde continued, "Who's paying you to shut me down? Is Dan in on this?"

"You've got it all wrong," said Bentley as he tried to calm the situation down. "We're not trying to..."

"Shut up, kid," said Clyde. "No one's talking to you." He turned back to Lincoln and said, "Tell me who you're working for."

"Like he said, you've got it all wrong." Lincoln struggled in the grip of Mike and Jason. "Now call off the dipshit duo and I'll explain it to you."

"Let him go," said Clyde, and the twins obliged.

Lincoln smoothed his suit coat's sleeves and then straightened his tie. "No one's paying me to shut you down. I don't care about your business, or what sort of agreement you have with Dan. What I do care about, however, is that one of your former associates was involved in a murder trial, and you convinced him to lie on the stand to cover your ass."

Clyde's stern expression softened. "You mean Grant? Are you talking about those two dead kids?"

"Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt," said Lincoln as if Clyde's failing memory was an insult to the children. "Someone killed them ten years ago, and one of your dealers got himself right in the middle of it."

"No," said Clyde, looking more perplexed than perturbed now. "They nailed that kid. What was his name? The pale weirdo."

"Trent Kline," said Bentley.

Clyde snapped his fingers and pointed at Bentley as he said, "Yeah, that's it. Trent Kline. They caught him. He killed himself because he couldn't stand the guilt."

"No, he killed himself because he couldn't face life in prison as a child killer," said Lincoln. "He knew what the rest of his life would be like, and he decided it was better to die. Whether or not he was guilty is up for debate."

"No, you're wrong," said Clyde with a surprisingly emphatic tone. "I wouldn't let a child killer get off free. No way in hell. I've got friends on the force who assured me this was an open and shut case. Trent did it, and he went to jail for it."

"Your friends might be wrong. The prosecution put together a timeline that was only possible if Trent left the mall through the back lot where your security camera was turned off. Now, the problem here is that the camera in question was only turned off when Grant was dealing. Am I right?"

Clyde grimaced, and didn't answer. He glanced angrily over at the twins.

Lincoln continued, assuming he was right. "If the camera was off, then that means Grant was dealing. That's why you sent your goons out to scare him into testifying that he didn't have anything to do with Trent."

"They caught Trent red-handed. He did it," said Clyde, but his tone revealed a sense of desperation. "Grant didn't remember whether he met with Trent that day or not, but that doesn't matter. The cops didn't need Grant's testimony screwing up the case. If he testified, then that child-killer might've gone free."

Lincoln came to a sudden realization, and he blurted it out before thinking. "You were working with the cops. That's why they never asked any questions about the cameras. You and the cops worked together to keep any evidence that might exonerate Kline away from the trial."

"That kid was guilty. The last thing anyone needed was to have the defense attorney start building a reasonable doubt case. And another thing we don't need is someone like you out there digging into the past and dredging up this mess all over again."

"Even if a killer went free?"

"I'm telling you, that didn't happen. The investigators showed me some of the details about the case. Trent was the killer. They were sure of it. When questions came up about Grant and the security cameras, they came to me with the evidence they had against Trent. They were worried that the defense would use Grant as an alibi, so we made sure he kept his mouth shut."

"What sort of evidence did they show you?" asked Lincoln.

"I saw that kid's journal, and then they showed me pictures of the shed where he killed the boy. He had drawings in his journal that matched the ones in the shed. They didn't release the pictures to the press until the trial. Trent drew those pictures in his journal, and he drew them in that shed too. The last thing the cops needed was some asshole attorney looking to make a name for himself by building a reasonable doubt case and getting Trent off. I agreed to help them, and they turned a blind eye to what was going on at the mall. We got Grant to lie on the stand so that piece of shit killer would get what he deserved."

"And what if you were wrong? What if they showed that journal to someone else? And that person used the drawings in the journal to make the ones in that shed?"

"They didn't show the journal to many people," said Clyde.

"They showed it to you." Lincoln walked over to the whiteboard and pointed at Frank Harcourt's name. "And they showed it to Devin's parents."

"You're missing the point," said Clyde. "You don't know what you're mixed up in here, pal. Dan's got himself in a big mess, and this scheme of yours was his best chance at fixing things. If you go get the cops involved, then there's going to be a lot of trouble for everyone. Understand? I thought you guys were supposed to be working on stupid shit, like Bigfoot, or aliens, or crap like that. If I knew you were looking into closed cases I would've never agreed to this. And on top of it all, I find out you're digging into a case that involves my property, and people who work for me? You're messing with the wrong person, Mr. Pierce. I can shut you down," he snapped his fingers, "in the blink of an eye."

Daniel Barr opened the door to the office and saw Clyde. "Oh, you're here."

"Welcome to the party," said Lincoln.

"Good," said Clyde. "I'm glad you're here. Did you know what your friend here was looking into? Did you know about the case?"

"I just found out," said Dan. "I was coming here to..."

"Bullshit," said Clyde. "You little rat. You knew exactly what they were doing."

"Clyde, settle down," said Dan, sweat beading on his greasy forehead. "I didn't know anything..."

"Save it, Dan," said Clyde. "If you think you're getting out of our agreement, then you've got another thing coming." Next he pointed at Lincoln and said, "Quit your investigation. Figure out some other case to look into."

"You're going to let the person who killed two kids get away with it?" asked Lincoln.

"He didn't get away with it," said Clyde, seething. "Like I told you, the kid did it, and he's dead. Case closed."

"And what if you're wrong?" asked Lincoln. "What if I can prove who killed those kids without ever bringing any attention to your property?"

"Don't push your luck," said Clyde with his crooked finger pointed at Lincoln. "Quit the case, and find something else to..."

"I'm not quitting this case," said Lincoln, stoically defiant. "Not if there's a child killer on the loose. There's no way in hell I'm stopping until I find out the truth."

"You dumb son of a..." Clyde started to walk towards Lincoln.

Lincoln moved forward as well, confident and unafraid. He spoke loudly, as close to shouting as a conversation could get, "The cameras were turned off because Grant was dealing that day, just like Trent said. That means he didn't do it, and the blood of those kids..."

Clyde's face was red as he yelled, "Watch your mouth!"

Lincoln was louder, "The blood of those kids is on your hands." The room was silent and tense as everyone waited to see what would happen next. Lincoln lowered his voice and said, "Help me make it right. Let me continue the investigation, and I won't say a word to anyone about the security camera at the mall."

Clyde's jaw was clenched and his nostrils flared, but he took a moment to consider what Lincoln had said. "I've got friends on the force. I'll have them keeping an ear out for your name, and if it pops up then I'm shutting you down. I don't want the police to have anything to do with this. Got it?"

Lincoln nodded.

"And as for you," said Clyde as he pointed at Dan. "We'll talk later. Boys, let's go." The twins followed behind, leaving Lincoln, Dan, and Bentley alone in the office.

Lincoln cocked his head to the side and looked at Dan. "Mind telling me what the hell that was all about?"

"He's got a temper," said Dan as if this should all be looked at as just a joke. "Don't worry about it."

"I don't usually worry about people's tempers, but I make an exception when they bring guns."

Bentley spoke for his uncle, "He owes Clyde money. A lot of it."

"Let's just hold on a second." Dan tried to stop the explanation before it started, but Bentley continued anyhow.

"Pettigrew was using the money laundering fronts to move through some of his income, but my Uncle..." he paused for a moment as he thought of the proper term. "...misappropriated the cash."

"It's temporary," said Dan. "My laundry mat got shut down due to code violations. It put a damper on things, and tied up some of Clyde's money."

"You stole from him," said Lincoln bluntly, as if the truth was tiring.

"It's no big deal," said Dan. "We can take care of this. If we put our heads together, we can figure this out."

Lincoln laughed and said, "Oh no, big boy. This is your problem, not ours."

"It just turned into your problem," said Dan as he glanced over at Bentley. "When I found out about your investigation, I knew it could put Clyde in a bad spot. I weighed all the outcomes, and I figured it had a better chance of turning out well for us. The only risk was if Clyde found out, and... well, as you can see, he did."

"You wanted us looking into this?" asked Lincoln. "I don't understand."

"The reason Clyde gave me his money in the first place was because the cops were checking out some of his businesses and he needed to hide some assets. Some of that money..." Dan wavered his hands and said, "Disappeared. Not forever, it just got tied up, and when he came looking for it, I didn't have it. I thought if we got your business here running, then I could convince him to settle down, and if a little heat came down on him for the mall, then that wouldn't be so bad either, so I told Benny to go ahead with the investigation."

Lincoln looked over at Bentley and asked, "And you were in on this?"

Bentley nodded, sheepish and guilty.

"Son of a bitch! Is that why you hid from Grant? Is that why we went to that restaurant where he'd been dealing? Oh Christ, was that place another one of Clyde's fronts?" The twisted web was falling apart as Lincoln realized the deceptions he'd been ignorant of. "That's why you had that stun gun, because you knew Grant might recognize you."

"No," said Bentley in earnest. "I had no idea he was the same person the twins and I beat up. I swear."

"But you knew he was still dealing for Pettigrew. And you wanted word to get back to Clyde that the cops were looking into his business. Well, what a damn fool I am, huh? I trusted you, kid, and this whole time you were playing me."

"Don't blame him," said Dan. "He was just doing what I told him to."

"Well, I'll tell you one thing. I'm not quitting this case."

"I didn't figure you would," said Dan. "But keep the cops out of it. We don't need more trouble than we've already got, and Clyde's got friends in high places in this town."

# Chapter Sixteen

"I didn't want to lie to you," said Bentley after his uncle had left.

"Yeah, but you did, and now I'm stuck in this mess." Lincoln was still angry, and he crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it across the room. He couldn't help but chuckle as he said, "And to think, Darcy and Hector had me convinced you were all right. I guess you fooled them too." His bitterness led him to say something he would later regret, "Did you lie about your wife dying too? Was that just a ploy to get me to trust you?"

Bentley's jaw tightened, and he glared at Lincoln with obvious rage.

Lincoln saw that he'd hit a nerve, and he almost felt like apologizing, but decided not to. "I don't know what to believe anymore. Apparently I can't tell when I'm being lied to. For all I know you made up some sob story about your wife to make me feel bad for you."

"I didn't lie."

"And how am I supposed to believe anything you say?" asked Lincoln as he began to walk away.

There was a short silence as Bentley steeled himself. "It was a Friday," said Bentley, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and apprehension. "She was driving back from work. We were going to meet for dinner. I got to the restaurant, and I waited..." He was struggling to tell the story, a wealth of emotions piercing his heart with every word. "And I started to get mad. I ordered myself something to eat, and I tried to call her. I remember calling her over and over, and each message I left was a little angrier than the last. She was always late." He let out a choked laugh, the sort of chuckle that a person tries to use to alleviate an encroaching breakdown. "I swear, Jamie couldn't make it anywhere on time, like ever." He swiped his hand out in front of him, a useless gesticulation that faded like his laugh. He took a breath, and forced himself to continue. "I was mad, like always. And when my food came I ate it as quick as I could, just to spite her. I wanted her to get there and see I was done – so she'd feel bad."

That last sentence broke him.

Lincoln stepped forward in a feeble attempt to console Bentley, but the young man began telling his story again as if in defiance. "I wanted her to feel bad for being so late. But, that's when I got the... when I got the call. It wasn't her. It was some stranger. Some guy who found her phone in the car. Some stranger... Just some guy. I don't remember his name." The fact that he couldn't recall the man's name vexed him, but he continued on. "He said that... uh..." Bentley took a steadying breath. "He said that there'd been an accident. He was frantic, out of breath, and he kept saying it was bad. He said it was real bad."

His fists were clenched, the scars on his knuckles bone white. "She was driving too fast, because she knew how mad I got when she was late. She knew, and that's why... that's why she was in a hurry, and she took that corner too quick. Her car hit the rail, and she tried to pull it..." He used his hands to demonstrate as if he were the one driving. "She tried to get back on the road, but it just made her go across to the other lane. She hit a concrete median and flipped over. Smashed the top of the car and pinned her in there as the..." He struggled through the description of the crash, and slid one hand over the other to mimic a car sliding along the pavement. "She slid right off the mountain and landed on a road about seventy feet down the side of a cliff. The car rolled the whole way down."

"Oh God," said Lincoln in sympathy, any distrust of Bentley erased.

"I got the call, and I didn't know what to do. I kept asking him if she was dead, but he just kept saying it was bad. Then the police got there, and they took the phone. They told me what hospital they would take her to, and then hung up. I threw down some money on the table, it must've been a couple hundred dollars. I'm not sure. I just threw it down and ran to my car."

Bentley closed his eyes, as if intent on recalling the images that'd burned themselves into his memory so he could get every detail right. "I had to pass by the scene of the accident on the way to the hospital. The car was still there – or what was left of it. It was mangled, and the traffic... Oh God, it took so long to get through. I remember sitting there crying and screaming - cars in front and behind me. I kept honking, but I was stuck. There wasn't anything I could do. I had to sit there with everyone else while the best woman in the world was dying. I got out and ran to the cops on the scene and told them who I was. I had to stand there and look at the wreck as I begged them to let me through. I had to look at the yellow tarp they'd laid over the car because they didn't want anyone to see the blood. They let me through, and I drove to the hospital to find out that Jaime was in intensive care. She'd broken... God damn. She broke so many bones, and her face..." He put his hand to the side of his face. "Her face had been pressed up against the roof when she was sliding, and glass got pushed up into her eye. She lost that... they had to take the eye out. It was too messed up. And her jaw was broken. It was crooked. And when I finally got to see her, she didn't even look like herself anymore. She was so swollen. They induced a coma."

"I believe you," said Lincoln, wishing Bentley would stop.

He continued, determined to finish. "They said they had to, but then they weren't sure if she'd ever wake up. And I remember throwing up that Indian food that I'd wolfed down." He smiled despite the obvious pain. "That fucking hospital bathroom... I ruined that place. Spicy chicken vindaloo all over. Oh, and it burned so bad coming up. I can't even tell you. It ruined me on Indian food. And the bathroom just had that horrible, thin toilet paper. You know the type that's on those giant rolls. Imagine trying to wipe off spicy vindaloo vomit with that worthless toilet paper."

Lincoln smiled and nodded, appreciating Bentley's attempt at levity.

"It took her five days to wake up. And during that time her family and I listened to doctor after doctor tell us how she might not be all there. You know? That she might be handicapped. They had a counselor come and talk to us about tempering our expectations, and how we should hope for the best but prepare for the worst – that sort of thing. But Jaime was a fighter. She was tough, and when she got up she was," he snapped his fingers, "just as sharp as ever. She was sore, and drugged up, but we knew she'd be fine."

He almost seemed happy for a moment, and then his smile faded. "I think I told you the rest."

"The pneumonia, right?" asked Lincoln.

Bentley just nodded.

After a moment of silence, Lincoln said, "I'm sorry I accused you of lying about her. That was shitty of me."

"Yeah, it was," said Bentley. "But it was also shitty of me to lie to you about Clyde, and about what my uncle was up to."

"We've all got secrets and demons kicking around in our closets. I'm no saint, that's for sure." He thought of his dinner with Angel, and how during their conversation he'd said something similar. That made him start to think about the other things she'd revealed.

Lincoln thought about how the police had shown Pettigrew the journal, and how Angel had said that she'd seen it as well. Suddenly there were a variety of people who could've drawn those symbols in the shed with Devin's blood.

"Where do we go from here?" asked Bentley after a moment of introspection. "Are we moving ahead with the case?"

"Of course," said Lincoln. "As a matter of fact, I'm supposed to go visit Angel Harcourt tonight. Darcy convinced me that I'm terrible at telling when someone's lying to me, so maybe you should come along."

"Sure. What are we meeting with her about?"

"I don't know. She came by my place last night and said that we needed to talk. And I've got some questions for her about Frank. I'm starting to get the feeling Angel's been hiding something. Maybe tonight we'll find out what."

They spent the next couple hours getting things in the office back in order. Hector returned, and they filled him in on what he'd missed. Lincoln asked him if he could come with them to see Angel, but Hector had to get ready for his trip to Arizona.

They were on their way out of the office when Lincoln's phone rang.

"Hey Mark," said Lincoln. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to check in on Darcy," said Mark, a family friend who was part of Darcy's Cancer Resource group. The group met once a week, and Mark always called Lincoln to check in on Darcy whenever she was absent. The entire group lived in fear of the news that another friend had fallen ill.

"Did she miss another meeting?" asked Lincoln, already guessing why Mark called.

"Yeah, I just wanted to make sure everything was all right. I tried to give her a ring, but she didn't answer."

Lincoln and Bentley were headed to his car. They were leaving the office later than they'd planned, and the sun was down behind the mountains, offering the sky a blazing orange warning of impending nightfall. The wind was chilly, erasing the warmth of day and replacing it with blustery air that cascaded down from the mountains. A front was moving in, bringing an early threat of winter.

"She told me that she had a busy day lined up," said Lincoln. "Her band's recording their EP this weekend. I bet she's out with them, practicing. I'll try and give her a call to make sure."

"So there's nothing we should be worried about?" asked Mark as if he didn't believe that everything was all right. "She's not... you know."

"No, she's fine. Last I heard, her blood tests were perfect."

"Good, good. Glad to hear it."

"Thanks for calling," said Lincoln.

"No problem," said Mark. "If you talk to her, tell her we miss her. She brings a lot of positive energy to our meetings. When she's missing, it's like someone stole our sunshine."

"I'll tell her you said that. Talk to you later," said Lincoln, thinking nothing of his daughter's forgetfulness. Even still, after he hung up with Mark, he called Darcy to see if he'd have better luck reaching her. The call went to voicemail. It didn't worry him. He was certain she was with her friends, practicing.

"Where's Angel live?" asked Bentley when they reached the car.

"Up in Eversprings." Lincoln pointed vaguely west, towards the mountains. "It won't take us long."

Bentley paused and looked over at the foothills. "Ah the mountains. Boy do I hate driving in the damn mountains."

* * *

Angel Harcourt hadn't expected two of them, evident by her expression when she saw Bentley get out of the car. She had a timid smile that faded further when she saw Bentley, and she uttered a disappointed, "Oh."

"This is Bentley," said Lincoln, picking up on Angel's disgruntled greeting. "He's working with me on the case."

"Hello, Bentley."

"Hi, Ms. Harcourt. Thanks for having us up here. This is a beautiful place. Was this one of your family's cabins?"

She nodded, and forced a smile. Something was making her nervous, and she fidgeted with a necklace made of shells. She had on another sun dress that was shorter than the last, and she wasn't wearing shoes. Her naked legs looked cold, almost bluish, like the faint color of her eyes.

"I thought you were coming alone. It's all right, I guess." She moved aside, and motioned towards the door. "Come in."

Her hand was trembling.

"Is everything all right?" asked Lincoln.

Angel was about to say, 'Yes,' but then she conceded the truth. "No, not really." She crossed her arms. "Come in out of the cold. I'll make tea. We've got a lot to talk about."

Lincoln and Bentley went inside, and Angel got the tea from her cabinet. A kettle was on the stove, steam rising slowly from the spout, barely whistling. She took the kettle off the stove and poured them each a cup. Next she meant to place the kettle on a metal trivet, but missed. The kettle tilted and rattled on the counter. She apologized for her clumsiness as she picked the kettle back up. Instead of putting it on the trivet, she turned around and placed it back on the stove, causing it to whistle for a moment before fading away. Her mannerisms seemed frantic, disjointed, and nervous.

"What's wrong, Angel?" asked Lincoln.

The three cups of tea sat on the counter between them, steeping. Lincoln saw that there was also an unopened bottle of Tanqueray, his preferred brand of gin, on the counter. He wondered if Angel had bought it in anticipation of his visit.

"I wish you would've come alone," said Angel, forcing a timid smile. "What I need to say is... it's embarrassing."

"I can step outside if you want," said Bentley.

She shook her head. "No, that's okay. You'd find out eventually." She sighed and looked down at her pale, cold hands. "Everyone's going to find out. Heck, you probably already know."

Lincoln waited a beat for her to continue before asking, "Know what?"

"The truth." She looked up at him with glassy eyes. "The truth about my marriage. You said that the Klines gave you the last investigator's notes, right? Did you see what he found out about Frank?"

"What about him?" asked Lincoln. He wanted let her speak, and didn't want to reveal anything about what he did or didn't know.

"About his... uh, activities."

"Are you talking about..." Bentley started to ask, but Lincoln put his hand out to silence him.

"What activities?" asked Lincoln.

"His sexual activities." Angel seemed frustrated that he made her say it. "The things he was into; the prostitutes; the things he made me do. The abuse. He was violent, but I never went to the cops about it. I let him do what he wanted. The only thing that bothered me was what Devin would think. Frank didn't care, though."

"The Kline's investigator found out that Frank used to abuse me, and they were going to use it as evidence about his character. They were planning on going public with it. But then their investigation hit a wall. Frank had proof that he couldn't be the killer, because he was on the toll road at the time. The Klines came after me, threatening to release everything. That was right before Frank went to Mexico. The Klines blackmailed us. Their investigation almost bankrupted them, and they came after us for money. Frank wanted to let them release the information. He didn't care. He said it wouldn't matter. He even threatened to go to the press himself, before the Klines even had a chance. But I couldn't... I couldn't let them. I was afraid it'd get picked up by the media, and that we'd have another circus with reporters digging into our private lives. I couldn't let that happen, so I sold some of the property I own out here on the mountain and I used the money to pay them off. Frank and I had been trying to work things out. We were thinking of getting back together, but he... The whole mess with the Klines convinced him he needed to leave. He left right after we paid the Klines off."

"That explains a few things," said Lincoln.

"I'm not sure how much you already know about it. Deborah and her husband said they would keep it quiet, but I know they sent you the last investigator's files. I saw Frank's file at your place last night. I wanted you to hear the truth from me instead of reading about it."

"I appreciate that," said Lincoln. He reached across the counter to pat her hand, but she pulled away.

Angel held her tea cup with both hands as she backed up to the other side of the kitchen. "Frank wasn't a good person, but he didn't kill Betty." She paused, and then added, "Or Devin."

Bentley's cell phone rang, and he apologized as he reached into his pocket and switched off the ringer. He didn't take the phone out to check who called, affording Angel the respect her revelation demanded.

"I was going to tell you last night, but I didn't feel comfortable." She gave a weak laugh. "I still don't. That investigator found out things I never wanted anyone to know. He found out about how Frank used to..." Her emotions got the better of her, and her voice stilled as she looked down into her tea. "He used to... choke me. He would do it in front of Devin. And he would hit me. Devin used to scream at him to stop. He used to try and protect me."

"How can you be sure a guy like that didn't have something to do with Devin and Betty's deaths?" asked Lincoln. "Maybe things didn't happen the way you think."

"He didn't have anything to do with it," said Angel. "That's exactly why we didn't want anyone to find out about it; because they'd say the same sort of thing that you just did. They'd use our past as another reason to say Trent was innocent, and I didn't want to go through all that again. I'd rather just sell off some land and be done with it. So that's exactly what I did."

Angel set her cup on the counter, looked down, and shaded her eyes as if too ashamed to look at them. "I probably should've just called you, but I felt like I should tell you in person."

"I appreciate that," said Lincoln. "As long as everything you've said is true, you don't have anything to worry about. We've all got things in our past we're not so proud of."

Angel reached for her tea cup, but she struggled to hold it with her trembling hand. She tipped the cup over, and cursed as the steaming hot tea spilled onto the counter. "I'm sorry... I'm just... I'm upset. I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want things to turn out this way."

"It's all right," said Lincoln as he came around to comfort her. "We're not planning on releasing any of the info about your private life. We just want to figure out what happened to Devin." He reached for her hand.

She bristled at the attempted consoling. "Maybe this was a bad idea. I'm sorry. I've just got to think things through. I shouldn't have made you come all the way out here. Do you mind if we put this on hold for now? I'll come down to the office tomorrow, and I'll tell you everything. I'm just not... I'm not ready to do it tonight. I thought I was, but I'm not."

She was on the verge of tears.

"Of course," said Lincoln. "Give me a call in the morning and we'll set a time for you to come in." He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder despite how she seemed to want to avoid contact. "You've got nothing to worry about, Angel."

Angel clasped his hand with surprising intensity. She looked into his eyes, and the anguish she felt was evident as she said, "Quit the case. Just let it go. You're not doing anyone any good here. I want you to stop, the Klines want you to stop... Just quit the case. Tell me you'll quit the case."

"I can't do that," said Lincoln as if in apology. "Call me tomorrow. We'll sort this all out."

She turned away, and didn't say goodbye.

Lincoln and Bentley left, and looked at one another with raised brows. They stayed silent until they got in the car, and then Bentley spoke with exasperated flare, "All right then. I didn't see that coming."

"It explains a lot," said Lincoln. "It explains why the Klines were dodgy, and why we're missing so much of that report."

"Do you believe her?"

Lincoln was about to say, 'Yes,' but then thought about how Darcy had chastised him for being gullible. "I don't know who to believe anymore, but it sure seemed like she was telling the truth."

"It would explain why the Klines' debt issues disappeared." Bentley took out his phone to check who'd called a moment ago. "And it explains..." he stopped as he saw who'd left a message.

Lincoln was backing up to turn around and head down the long, gravel driveway when he saw Bentley's concerned expression. "Is everything all right?"

"I got a text from Polly."

"What's it say?"

"She's asking if I'm with Darcy."

Lincoln became suddenly concerned, almost to the point of panic. "What?"

"I thought Darcy was meeting up with Polly and the rest of the band for practice," said Bentley.

"She was," said Lincoln as he took his phone out of his pocket. "I'll call her mom. Maybe she's with her."

Lincoln started to dial his ex-wife's number, but Bentley stopped him. "Wait. Why don't you check the geolocator? She uses it too. Maybe it'll show us where she's at."

"Good idea," said Lincoln as he handed his phone over to Bentley. "You check it while I drive."

Bentley set his own phone in the cup holder and took Lincoln's. He quickly opened the app as Lincoln drove down Thatcher road and approached the switchback.

Bentley was stunned by what he saw. "It says that Darcy's up here."

"What do you mean?"

"She's up here in Eversprings, not even a mile up the road." He turned to look behind them and said, "Back that way."

Lincoln looked in the rearview just in time to see a truck approaching fast behind them with its lights turned off.

# Arthur

Arthur sped up as they approached the switchback. He collided with the back of Lincoln's car. The impact jostled his vehicle, but he didn't hit the Mercedes with the intention of causing massive damage. Instead, he hoped to push it off the side of the mountain.

Once their bumpers were against one another, Arthur sped up as Lincoln tried to stop. Red lights colored the front of Arthur's truck as they neared the switchback, and then Lincoln tried to turn, but their momentum was too great. Lincoln's tires squealed and smoke filled Arthur's truck as they both sped towards the edge.

The guardrail was already weakened. Arthur had taken care of that earlier by sawing its wooden posts. There was nothing but trees to stop Lincoln from tumbling down the side of the mountain.

Lincoln's attempt to turn caused his Mercedes to move to the right as they neared the edge, but not enough to save him. Arthur hit the brakes just as they came to the curve, and watched as Lincoln's car slid off into the short expanse of dirt preceding the drop. His attempt to turn became more successful after Arthur stopped pushing him, and the front end of the Mercedes collided with a tree. Lincoln's car stopped, teetering at the edge, and Arthur could see that the airbags had deployed inside, momentarily protecting the occupants.

Arthur felt a surge of rage at the thought of Bentley and Lincoln surviving the crash, and he hit the gas again. He planned to collide with the car and send it off the cliff.

His front end hit the passenger side door, and the Mercedes' back end spun. The impact against the tree had been damaging enough that part of the car's wheel well was stuck, clasped to the tree as if gripping on for dear life. Arthur continued to push the front end of his truck into the car, but now he was getting dangerously close to the edge himself. Part of Lincoln's back end was dangling off the cliff, and Arthur heard the wrenching of the Mercedes' frame as it clung to the tree.

Arthur had to back up. He was getting too close to the edge. His tires spun uselessly, the back ones squealing on the pavement as the front dug into the dirt. In his haste to push Lincoln off the mountain, his truck had become pinned on an obstruction beneath him, causing the truck to teeter on the edge.

The passenger side door of the Mercedes opened.

Arthur scrambled for his gun. He grabbed the pistol and then opened his door to get out and shoot Bentley and Lincoln. They would die one way or another.

As he got out, his foot slipped in the mud that his tires had kicked up, and his left leg slid out from beneath him. He fell and nearly slid off the cliff, but was able to stop himself and crawl back up towards the road. The cliff wasn't a straight drop down, but was a steep slope dotted with trees and rocky outcroppings. Stones fell away from beneath him as he clambered back up, and he heard them banging against rocks as they bounced down.

He walked around the back of his truck, nervously gripping his pistol. He could hear the men in the car yelling.

"I got you," said Bentley. "Come this way."

"Get out of the car," said Lincoln. "Get out before it falls."

Bentley's back was to Arthur. He was half out of the Mercedes, and was reaching in to help Lincoln escape. Arthur took aim, and then stepped closer. He didn't want to miss.

The Mercedes creaked, and its tenuous hold on the tree gave way. A chunk of wood broke free, and the car slid a few feet further down the cliff. The wheel well was now wedged into the tree with a stronger hold, but the car was in a more precarious position, with its front end facing the road and its rear dipping down. Bentley fell out of the car, and was about to try and get back in to help Lincoln when he caught sight of Arthur.

Arthur fired.

Bentley curled and screamed out, his arms wrapped around his midsection as he fell to his knees on the rocky hill. He put his left hand down, and Arthur saw blood.

He aimed and squinted, hoping that his second shot would hit his target in the head.

Bentley took his right hand out from beneath his suit coat, and Arthur was startled to see that he had a gun as well. Arthur fired in haste, but his shot missed as Bentley raised his weapon and fired.

Arthur was struck in the chest, but not by a bullet. Bentley wasn't wielding a pistol, but a stun gun. The three prongs lodged in Arthur, their leads hanging loosely between the two men like a dog leash. Arthur was overwhelmed with sudden pain and shock, and he fell to his knees, involuntarily shaking. He dropped his gun and fell to his side, still shaking as electricity coursed through him.

It took several moments before he regained his composure. His hands tingled, and his head was pounding as tears fell down his cheeks. He gasped for air and tried to push himself up, but his muscles had been drained by the electrocution. His arms wobbled, and he rolled to his back as he listened to Bentley moan in pain.

The tree that was anchoring the Mercedes finally gave way. The wheel well's edge tore free, and the car slid off the edge of the cliff, rolling over the rocks and then slamming into trees further down that spun the vehicle as it was hopelessly mangled. The entire mountain was dominated by the horrendous sound of twisting metal and breaking trees as the wreck tumbled away.

Arthur found the strength to get up to his knees, and he searched for his gun. Now that Lincoln was surely dead, crushed along with his car, he just had to finish off Bentley.

But the gun was gone.

He crawled off the road and into the dirt, certain the gun had to be close by. Arthur felt a tinge of pain from the barbs stuck in his chest, and he gripped the flimsy wires to yank them free. Then he spotted the Beretta, resting close to the wounded tree, stuck in the mud where the Mercedes' tires had dug a trench.

There was a man beside the gun, and Arthur was stunned to see that it was Lincoln. Somehow the private detective had managed to get out of the car, and was now only a few feet from the pistol. Lincoln saw Arthur's gaze, and discovered that the gun was within his grasp. He lunged for it, and Arthur almost leapt down the hill to fight for the weapon, but he knew he didn't stand a chance of getting to it first. Instead, he turned and fled.

He chose to run instead of fight. There was more left for him to do tonight.

# Chapter Seventeen

Lincoln scurried for the gun and then aimed up at the road where the stranger had been standing. All he saw was the front of the truck, looming above with the front end dangling over the edge. The motor was still on, growling like a beast of prey waiting to deliver a killing blow. Liquid was leaking from the radiator, plopping in the mud and creating a miniature stream that trickled through the gouges that Lincoln's car's tires had made in the earth.

Bentley was beside him, groaning in pain.

"It's going to be okay. I've got you. You're going to be all right."

Lincoln knew it was a lie. Bentley had been badly wounded. There was blood everywhere.

The accident had been jarring enough, but the battle with their attempted murderer had left Bentley pale and quickly losing blood. The bullet had entered his abdomen, and went straight through him, leaving an exit wound that was gushing. Lincoln searched for his phone, but then realize it was several hundred feet below them, in the wrecked Mercedes that was now lost in the forest below.

Where was the killer?

Lincoln kept the gun aimed up at the last place he'd seen the stranger, and he yelled out, "I've got your gun!" The last thing he wanted to do was use it, but he wouldn't hesitate. "Why don't you come try and get it, you coward?"

Even the birds stayed silent, scared off by the accident and the previous gunshot. Grey clouds dominated the sky, shrouding the mountain in a wintery hue.

He couldn't sit there and wait forever. Despite the noise they'd made, this was a remote area, and it was unlikely that anyone was coming to help. Also, he couldn't be certain that their attacker didn't have another gun.

Lincoln climbed up the steep hill, slipping in the slick mud and loose stones as he went. He kept the gun pointed in the direction of the truck, terrified that the killer would appear wielding another pistol or a shotgun. He reached the road on his hands and knees, and peered beneath the truck in search of feet on the other side. He saw that the truck had been pinned on a wooden post from the guard rail that'd been knocked over.

There was no sign of the truck's owner, so Lincoln got to his feet. If he'd suffered any injuries in the accident, he wasn't aware of them yet. The adrenaline pumping through his veins masked any signs of trauma as he reached for the handle of the truck's passenger side door. He flung the door open and pointed the gun inside, but there was no one there. The seat was stained with dry blood.

Bentley groaned in pain below, and Lincoln looked down to see that his friend was trying to make his way up the hill. Lincoln looked around again, afraid that their attacker was simply waiting for an opportunity. Finally, he decided to go back down and help Bentley.

He thought about carrying Bentley away from the scene of the accident, but the closest place was Angel's house, which was too far to attempt to haul an injured man. He got down to him and hoisted him up as best he could. They fumbled their way back up to the road, and the severity of Bentley's injuries became apparent as blood seeped down his pants and mixed with the fluid leaking out of the truck's radiator.

They made it to the road and Lincoln tried to give Bentley the gun. "Here, you keep this. I'm going to go get help."

"No," said Bentley as he grabbed at Lincoln's cuff instead of taking the gun.

"I've got to go, Bentley. I've got to go try to get help." Lincoln assumed the young man didn't want to be left alone. "You keep the gun in case that bastard comes back."

"Listen to me," said Bentley through clenched teeth. "Darcy..."

"What?"

"You have to save Darcy. She's up there. Whoever that was... He's got her."

The terror that the accident inspired made Lincoln forget about Bentley's discovery just before the crash. Darcy was somewhere on the mountain, or at least her phone was.

"You stay here. I'll get help," said Lincoln in a panic. "I'll send someone."

"Go find Darcy," said Bentley as he leaned against the truck, his arm wrapped around his midsection.

Lincoln knew that he should help Bentley wrap up his wound, but he was too scared for his daughter's safety to waste any more time. He ran, leaving his friend behind to fend for himself.

Thatcher road was far steeper on foot than it'd seemed when driving, but Lincoln refused to slow down. He went as fast as his body would allow, but now the aches and pains of the accident were revealing themselves. His right knee was throbbing, and when he looked down at it he saw there was a sizeable gash in his pants. He was bleeding, but not bad enough to worry about. He ignored the pain and continued to run. The thin, chilly mountain air stung his lungs, causing him to cough as he went, but he refused to slow down. Every time he noticed that his legs were starting to move slower, he forced himself back to top speed, cursing his old body and weak muscles.

Lincoln made it to Angel's driveway, and was tempted to stop and catch his breath, but he forced himself to continue running. His dress shoes lost their traction on the gravel, and he fell hard. The gun skittered away, and his palms slammed down into the stones, causing him to yelp in pain. He regained his composure and got the gun. As he was walking to the house, he saw that the detached garage at the end of the driveway was open. There was no vehicle inside. All that was in the garage were cardboard boxes in the back, stacked to the ceiling, and a few over-sized Igloo coolers. Angel's truck was missing.

He hoped that Angel hadn't left, but then remembered that there was nowhere for her to go. She would've had to of driven down the mountain if she'd left, which would've sent her past the accident.

Did she have something to do with this?

There was a light on inside, which helped alleviate his concern that Angel had left. He went up the porch and opened the screen door. He tried to open the door, but it was locked, so he pounded on it with the butt of the gun.

"Angel, open up."

He saw her shadow move across the drapes in the window to his left, and then heard the door unlock. He didn't wait for her to open it.

He pointed the gun at her and asked, "Did you do this?"

"Do what?" she asked, frightened. She'd been crying. Her face was bone white, colored only by the faint freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her blue/grey eyes were bloodshot. Her cheeks were streaked by tears, and there were used tissues on the couch beside a cup of tea.

"Who was it?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked, her fright turning to terror. "Stop pointing that at me."

"Someone tried to kill us," said Lincoln as he barged in. "I need your phone."

"Lincoln..." She was surprised and flummoxed. "I..."

"Where's your phone? We need to call an ambulance. Bentley's hurt. Someone shot him." He pointed the gun at her with conviction, and she gasped in fear. She was confused, and he didn't have time to explain. Her surprised reaction seemed genuine, and he started to wonder if his suspicion about her involvement in the attempted murder was wrong. "Where's your phone? Just tell me and I'll get it. Is it in the bedroom?"

"Is he still out there?" asked Angel, frightened. "Did you kill him?"

"No, he's out there somewhere. He rammed the back of our car and tried to push us off the mountain, but we got out. Then he tried to shoot us."

"Where is he?" she sounded desperate as she went to the door.

Lincoln stopped her, and went to the door first. He peered outside and then locked it. "He's still out there somewhere. Now get me your phone. We don't have time to waste."

"Okay," said Angel meekly as she went to her bedroom.

Lincoln stayed near the door, and pulled aside the window's drapes so that he could look outside. He glanced down the driveway, and then back up in search of the killer. Daylight had faded, but night was still being held off by the hazy glow of early dusk. The shadows of evening were swallowing the forest, allowing only vague outlines of trees that could easily be men hiding in the dark. Then his gaze paused at the open garage, the cement stained with oil that'd dripped from Angel's missing truck.

Next he looked at the bottle of gin on the counter, and everything fell into place.

He stopped breathing, suddenly aware of the trap that'd been set for him.

Angel reappeared from her bedroom with a shotgun pointed at him. He ducked away just as she took a shot at him.

The blast deafened them both, and shattered the window that Lincoln had been looking through. He knew that he'd been hit, but he was still alive and didn't have time to worry about anything other than defending himself. He was on the floor, sitting against the back of the loveseat, although he wasn't certain how he'd gotten there. His ears were ringing, and suddenly his right eye was forced closed as liquid rushed into it. He aimed as best he could, looking out over the breakfast counter that separated him from Angel. She was walking around, ready to take another shot, but he fired before she had a chance. He kept pulling the trigger to make sure he hit her.

The second shot sounded like nothing more than a distant firework to his deafened ears. The bullet went through Angel's upper arm and into her chest, causing her to fall back. He fired again, and again, and again until the pistol clicked uselessly. There was blood splattered on the white walls, covering the pictures behind where Angel had been standing. Her shotgun laid on the floor between them, and he dropped the pistol as he reached out for it.

Now, finally, the pain of his injury came. The right side of his face burned as if someone had forced his head down onto a stove, and he felt the warm rush of blood pouring down over his chest. He ignored it, for now, as he aimed the shotgun at Angel like she was a horror movie monster feigning defeat, ready to leap at him the second he let down his guard.

She was still alive, her eyes as wide as they'd ever been, staring at him as she breathed shallow gasps. Blood soaked her formerly white sundress, and the crimson blooms grew wider as he watched. One of her hands was draped over her lap, and the other was on the floor, palm up, fingers twitching.

She tried to speak, but no words escaped. She tried again, "I'm sorry."

Lincoln used the shotgun like a crutch as he forced himself to stand. He was frazzled, but tried to piece together what'd happened. "Who is he?" he asked, now certain that Angel and his attempted murderer were working together. "Is it Frank? Is he hiding up here in the mountains with you? Did you plan on getting me drunk and then pushing me off the cliff to make it look like an accident?"

Angel shook her head, and then let out a startlingly sharp cry of pain. Her face contorted in agony as she tried to sit up straighter, and she gripped her abdomen to cover one of her wounds. She was dying. They both knew it.

"Frank's got Darcy. Do you hear me? He's got my daughter."

Her look of surprise was honest. "What?"

"My daughter!" Lincoln screamed at her, devoid of pity as she lay dying. "We tracked her here, to this mountain. She's up here somewhere. Where is she?"

"I don't know," said Angel. "I begged him not to hurt her."

"Where's my daughter? Where's Frank?"

"Frank?" she asked, puzzled. "Frank's dead. He's been dead for years."

"Then who has my daughter?"

"I didn't mean for this. I never meant for..."

Lincoln pointed the shotgun down at her and yelled, "Who has her?"

Angel flinched at the sight of the gun, but her momentary fear abated. Death was a certainty, which muted his threat.

"You'd die for her, wouldn't you? You'd die for Darcy?"

"Yes, of course. She means everything to me. Don't let him kill her. Help me save her. Tell me where she is."

"There's nothing a parent wouldn't do for their baby." Her voice was fading, and her eyelids drooped.

Lincoln suddenly understood, and he lowered his gun as the realization stunned him. "It's Devin."

Angel looked up at him, the truth revealed in her glassy, regretful gaze.

"Devin killed Betty. You helped cover it up."

She nodded.

"And he lives up here on the mountain now, with you. You've been hiding him all these years."

"I protected my baby."

"And now he's going to kill mine."

"I never wanted that."

"Then tell me where he is! Help me save her. Help me protect my only child, my baby. Help me, Angel!"

Angel looked away and pursed her lips.

Lincoln screamed, "You've ruined enough lives. Do one goddamned good thing before you die. Tell me where she is."

"Cabin 12," she said, pained by the admission. "He lives in cabin 12, up the hill that way." She pointed north, in the direction of the garage.

Lincoln turned to leave.

"Don't kill him," said Angel. "Please don't kill my baby."

Lincoln coldly responded, "No promises."

He left the cabin, and went out into the cold dusk. Grey clouds hid the stars, and fragile flakes of snow drifted slowly down around him, dying immediately upon touching down, their life snuffed out in an instant, leaving no trace except for an insignificant wetness on the grass.

Lincoln spared no time to consider his own injuries until he heard the plop of his blood hitting the ground at his feet. The shotgun blast had ripped into the side of his face, and now his brow was swollen and gushing blood. He knew the wound was bad, but he couldn't afford to care.

Darcy was here, and he had to save her.

As he climbed the hill behind the garage, his mind raced with fearful predictions about what he'd find. Darcy could already be dead. He might make it to the cabin to discover her body, cold and lifeless – finally stolen from him like he'd feared for so long. Snuffed out by a murderer instead of cancer the way everyone had expected.

"No," he whimpered aloud as the thought of holding her dead body quaked his nerves. "No, no, no."

He remembered her frail, cold, thin body in a hospital bed, tubes coming out of her arms and nose, and her big, tear-filled eyes. She'd flirted with death so many times, wasting away as her body fought a battle it had no hope of winning. Her tiny, six-year-old body... The way she would only cry when she was alone and thought her parents couldn't hear, because she never wanted them to suffer. How she would smile and try to sound upbeat when she saw them.

The hill got steeper, and Lincoln lost his footing. He fell hard, and his left elbow struck a rock, sending a shot of sudden, intense pain through him. He slid down several feet, and the fragile grass ripped away from its shallow hold, leaving a deep skid in the dirt. As he forced himself back up, he saw a similar mark in the dirt beside him. Then he saw a footprint.

His heart leapt.

The killer had come this way. It was the only explanation. Lincoln scurried to move faster, and partially crawled as he made his way up the hill.

The cabin was in sight. There was a light on in the front room. This building was larger than Angel's, but in the same style, with a wraparound porch and designed to look like a log cabin. There were two rocking chairs beside the front door, and a 'Welcome' mat at the top of the steps. Muddy footprints led up to the door.

"I'm coming, Darcy."

# Arthur

He locked the door behind him and then rushed to the basement. Arthur knew he should flee the area, but he couldn't leave before dealing with one last thing.

The door to the 10' x 10' room that was in the center of his otherwise unfinished basement was closed. He went to his computer desk that sat just outside of it. He wiggled the mouse to bring the machine out of sleep, and the monitors came to life. He looked at the camera feed of Darcy Pierce tied down to the bed, her wrists bloody from her multiple attempts to break free.

He smiled, pleased to see that she'd finally woken from her drugged state. He'd been waiting all day for her system to recover from the intense dose of the psychedelic drugs he'd injected her with. He'd delayed her death because he wanted... he needed her to feel it. He needed her to know that death was at hand, and to fear it.

Now it was time for her to die.

He thought about putting on the surgeon's mask and gloves, but decided there was no need for anonymity here. He wanted her to recognize him. He wanted her to know that she was dying at the hands of the same person who killed Betty Kline.

Arthur opened the door to her cell, and Darcy jolted at his approach. She stiffened, scowled, and tried to scream despite her gag. The bleached sheets were stained with her blood. He'd given her plenty of time to become frightened. The defiant zeal she'd displayed the night before had certainly faded by now.

"Ready to die?"

The gag barely stifled her pained scream as he straddled her on the bed. Her arms were tied above her head, and her feet were secured to the posts behind him. He slid his hands up her side, tickling his way over her breasts and to her neck.

"I'm going to let you feel it, just like Betty did."

She jerked her head away from him, but he gripped her thin throat in his strong hands. He felt the carotid arteries on the side of her neck, and resolved not to press them. That wasn't how Betty died, and it wouldn't be how Darcy died either. When Arthur killed Betty, he was just a child. He didn't know how to do it properly. That was back when his name was Devin, before he took on a new identity.

"Just like Betty," he said again as he leaned in closer to Darcy and kissed her cheek, just above the leather strap that held the gag in her mouth.

He'd been dating Betty at the time of his first murder, and convinced her to let him try out something that he'd seen his father do. His parents never knew how often their son watched them make love, and how he saw his mother get choked. They'd caught him once, and always locked the bedroom door after that, but by then he knew what those gasping sounds coming from their room was.

He wanted to choke Betty, just like his father, but she was hesitant to let him. They went to the shed behind Arthur's house and kissed, like they'd done several times before. He put down a blanket for them to lay on. They continued to make out, and then he began to choke her without her permission. It'd been a struggle, and Betty broke free several times. At first, he hadn't meant it to be a violent act, but her attempts to fight back enraged him. He continued to choke her, squeezing her windpipe with all his strength, but she wouldn't succumb.

Finally, he used the extension cord to the electric mower in the shed to wrap around Betty's neck. That's how she finally died, clawing at her throat as he stood behind her, pulling at the cord until she finally stopped moving.

Now it was Darcy's turn, but this time he wouldn't need the cord.

Arthur squeezed with all his strength, easily cutting off Darcy's oxygen without compressing the carotids. He wanted her to stay conscious through the entire act, all throughout the agonizingly long time it would take to finally die.

"This is what you get! This is what you get for coming after me." He throttled her, banging her head up and down on the thin mattress as he choked her.

Her eyes bulged, and her skin began to turn a purplish grey. She tried to fight back, but there was nothing she could do. This was how Darcy Pierce would die, choked to death in a dank basement by the killer she'd tried to unmask.

Arthur's phone vibrated in his pocket.

Darcy was so close to death. He didn't want to stop, but there was only one person who could be calling, and he knew it was urgent. He thought about finishing with Darcy before answering, but the call was a distraction that robbed him of the pleasure of the kill.

He cursed, and then let go of Darcy's throat. She coughed and gasped, and then wretched as if about to vomit. Arthur reluctantly got off her, and then left the room.

"What is it?"

"He's... alive."

"Who? Lincoln? Did he go to your house?"

"Do you..." his mother sounded odd, weak and labored. "Do you have his daughter?"

He didn't answer.

"Please say no," she said, as if the alternative might break her heart.

"Where is he? Where's Lincoln?"

"Do you have his daughter?"

Darcy screamed as loud as her gag would allow, and Arthur knew his mother had heard it.

"I've got to go," said Arthur.

He heard her pleading with him before he hung up the phone. He set it down on his desk beside Darcy's broken cell phone and a two dollar bill.

That's when he heard someone kick in his door upstairs, and he knew he had to think fast. He looked over at Darcy's room and came up with a plan. He moved quickly, and pushed the door to Darcy's cell wide open.

Arthur heard footsteps above him, and heard Lincoln Pierce yell, "Come on out you son of a bitch!"

Arthur picked up the sledgehammer that was leaned against the wall, near where he'd used it to pulverize the prostitute's hands and feet. Arthur walked slowly around to the back of the makeshift prison cell and leaned against the wall. He peered around the corner at the stairs, and saw light suddenly beam in as the door was opened. He heard the creak of the wooden stairs as Lincoln began his descent.

"Devin?" asked Lincoln.

Darcy heard her father, and began to try and scream out to him, just like Arthur had hoped she would.

"Darcy, is that you?" asked Lincoln, his wariness eased by the revelation that his daughter was still alive. He ran to her, and Arthur hurried to the door of the cell. He slammed it shut, and then flipped the latch to lock them in.

A shotgun blast tore through the door, sending wood and soundproofing foam flying out. Arthur hadn't expected that, and the shot barely missed him. There was a hole in the door now, but the lock was still intact.

Arthur crouched down to the right of the door. He could see his monitor's feed of the camera within the room. Lincoln, beaten and bloody, was poised beside his daughter with the shotgun pointed at the door. The hole in the door afforded Lincoln a view of the stairs, and Arthur knew he couldn't escape without the risk of being shot in the back.

This had to end here and now.

"Come on out, Devin," said Lincoln. "It's over. Don't make me kill you."

Arthur watched the monitor, and saw that Lincoln was still pointing the shotgun at the door, but he was only holding the weapon with one hand as he used the other to dig in his pocket. He pulled out a pocket knife, and then knelt beside his daughter to cut one of her wrists free. After that, he gave her the blade so that she could free herself as he focused on the door and the stairs beyond.

"Don't make me kill you, Devin."

Arthur bided his time. He knew they would have to try and bust down the door eventually. Until they did, he would sit tight and wait.

# Chapter Eighteen

"Stay behind me," said Lincoln to his daughter as he inched closer to the door of the featureless room. He used the barrel of the shotgun to test if the door would open to no avail. He cautiously reached out and fiddled with the handle, but it was locked. He backed up a step, and then kicked the door near the handle in an attempt to bust it open. His kick was weaker than intended, a victim of the abuse his body had suffered over the past hour. He tried again, with a similar result. He was out of shots, and couldn't blow the door open, but he also didn't want to set the gun down. He didn't want Devin to know it was empty.

Lincoln kicked again, this time achieving his goal. The lock broke free, and the door swung violently open. He moved forward, ready to lead the way to freedom, but then he heard a man's grunt just a fraction of a second before the head of a sledgehammer came swinging in at him from outside of the room.

Lincoln only had time to turn away. The hammer struck him on the left side with enough force to send him careening back into his daughter and then fall to the floor. The gun clattered on the cement beside him as he gasped for breath. The strike had been devastating enough to steal his air, leaving him broken and beaten, gulping like a goldfish out of water.

Devin was at the door, recovering from the swing and preparing for another attack. There was nothing Lincoln could do. He'd been beaten.

But Darcy wasn't.

She regained her footing beside her father, crouched, and then lunged at their attacker with Lincoln's pocket knife in her bloody hands. Lincoln tried to get up, but his body revolted against him. His arm was badly broken, and his lungs were desperately trying to pull in air. He was forced to watch as his daughter battled with a ruthless killer.

Darcy got to Devin before he could swing his hammer a second time, and she plunged the blade into his stomach. Devin dropped the hammer, and it slammed down on the concrete as he pushed Darcy away. She retreated, the blade still in her hand, and Devin grabbed his new wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, but this only seemed to enrage him.

"I'll kill you," said Devin as he rushed at Darcy, undaunted by her weapon. She slashed at him, this time cutting deep into his arm, but he wasn't deterred. He grabbed for her throat, as if intent upon choking her no matter what damage she inflicted on him in the process.

Darcy's back collided with the wall behind Lincoln, rattling it as Devin gripped her throat. He looked demonic, his face twisting in anger as he squeezed the life out of her. From Lincoln's vantage, he saw his daughter doing her best to fight back, stabbing at him again and again, but Devin seemed content to die as long as he took her with him.

Lincoln struggled to get up. All he wanted to do was help his daughter in any way possible, but he was helpless, still unable to breathe. He grasped at Devin's pant legs, hoping to pull him away from Darcy, but nothing he did made any difference. This was her fight.

Darcy quit attacking Devin's midsection, and went for his throat. She stuck the blade deep into the side of his neck, severing the carotid, and issuing forth a torrent of hot blood that spurted out of him with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Blood sprayed out against the wall beside the bed, covering the former brown stains of old blood left there by previous victims. Yet even still, mortally wounded, Devin continued his assault.

The knife fell to the ground and bounced on the concrete.

Darcy was losing, despite how hard she'd fought.

Lincoln reached out for the knife, and his lungs finally allowed him to draw breath. He picked up the blade, and was about to try and stab up at Devin when the killer backed away.

Darcy fell, lifeless.

Devin staggered back, his hand pressed to the gushing wound on his neck. His skin had already turned deathly pale, and he fell against the wall beside the door. He pivoted, as if about to flee to the stairs, but then fell forward and crashed into his computer table. His monitors collapsed, and Lincoln saw the image of Betty Kline's school photo on one of them as it struck the floor beside Devin's head.

The monster was finally dead, the cracked image of his first victim staring out at his fallen form.

"Darcy, baby," said Lincoln as he crawled over to his daughter, terrified that he'd lost her.

She coughed and then fell into his embrace, weeping as he held her.

"It's okay, I've got you. I've got you. You did it. He's dead."

Her gaze was transfixed on the dead man, and Lincoln looked back at him as well. Devin was lying face down, blood pooling beneath him.

Lincoln looked back at his daughter, and put his bloody hand on the side of her face to adjust her line of sight. He wanted her to focus on him instead of what she'd done. "You're okay. He's dead. You beat him."

They heard a commotion upstairs, and then several footsteps above as a male voice yelled out, "Police Department! Is anyone here?"

"Down here," yelled Lincoln. "We're down here."

A police officer hurried to the stairs, his pistol held out ahead of him, and he paused near the top of the stairs when he saw Devin's body. "Hands where I can see them."

"He's dead," said Lincoln, attempting to calm the confused officer's nerves.

"Hands where I can see them!" The officer made his way cautiously down the stairs, the gun pointed through the door of the cell.

Lincoln raised his right hand, and tried his best to raise his left, although his arm was almost useless. He encouraged Darcy to raise her hands, but she was too stunned to comply. Lincoln screamed out to the officer, "We're the victims!"

"Get your hands where I can see them."

"Darcy, put your hands up," said Lincoln.

She looked at him, as if whatever spell had been cast on her was slowly being broken. She raised her hands, and began to cry.

Lincoln ignored the officer's commands and wrapped his arm around his daughter. He held her tight, and she reciprocated. He never wanted to let her go.

* * *

The closest hospital to Eversprings was twenty miles down the mountain. Lincoln and Darcy were in too bad of shape to answer many of the officers' questions about what happened at the cabin, and the police resolved to wait.

Lincoln was placed on a stretcher, and he finally understood the enormity of his wounds. He'd lost a lot of blood from Angel's shotgun blast, and he'd suffered several broken bones, including his arm and three ribs, when Devin hit him with the sledgehammer. Darcy had been hurt badly as well, but she was able to sit in the ambulance with Lincoln instead of being taken on a stretcher separately. The EMT riding with them explained that the hospital only had two ambulances, and one of them had been sent to get Bentley, who'd survived his gunshot but was in critical condition.

Lincoln asked if they'd sent an ambulance to get Angel, and was informed that she didn't need one. He didn't need to ask why not.

The next few hours were a blur, and Lincoln passed out at least once. He was given a wealth of pain killers, and lost track of time as he was stitched up and mended as best he could be. He was finally moved to a single bed at the hospital in the early morning hours, where he was left alone to recover with the warning that the police would pay him a visit soon.

An officer arrived sooner than he expected, just as the sun had barely started to lighten the horizon.

A tall, thin detective woke Lincoln gently, and apologized.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Pierce, but we've got a hell of a lot of questions we need answered."

"I bet," said Lincoln, woozy and feeling spacey from the pain killers. His stomach churned, and he was reminded of waking up with a hangover, but this time the room didn't spin. Instead, he felt all the symptoms of a pounding headache except, oddly, the pain. The right side of his face was bandaged, including his eye, and he had to lay his head on its side to see the officer. His arm was in a cast that was affixed to his side, limiting his movement.

"My name's Detective Blythe with the Boulder PD, but you can call me Jim. I need to get your side of the story here." He looked down at the pad of paper he was carrying and raised his brow. "It's a hell of a tale, that's for sure."

"Yeah, tell me about it. Where should I start?"

The detective took out a digital recorder, showed it to Lincoln, and then turned it on before placing it on the hospital bed's over table.

"Well, how about we start with your investigation. From what I've been told, you were looking into the case of Betty Kline and Devin Harcourt's deaths. That's what led you up to Angel Harcourt's home. Is that right?"

Lincoln tried to sit up, but he was weaker than expected and just slumped back down again. He groaned and said, "Yeah, that's right. She asked us..." he paused, and his loose grip on reality tightened with concern about his friend. "Hey, do you know how Bentley's doing? Is he going to be all right?"

"Too early to say for certain, but they think he'll pull through. They downgraded him from critical to serious condition, so that's a good sign."

"Oh good," said Lincoln. "He's a good kid."

"I'm sure he is," said the detective. "Now back to the story."

"Right, right. Angel asked us to come up there because she wanted to confess that she'd paid off the Klines to keep some secrets about her ex. But it was a trap. Her son tried to run us off the side of the mountain."

"Devin Harcourt," said the detective before he took a deep breath. "The media's going to be all over this one. You've got no idea what sort of circus is headed your way here, pal. Let's start with what you think really happened ten years ago."

"What department did you say you were with?"

"Boulder," said Jim. "You'll have some other local officers coming by later to talk about what happened, but I thought I should get here first. This investigation's going to end up dipping into a lot of departments before the end of it. Even Loveland's anxious to talk to you. They think Devin might be the culprit in a murder there as well."

"No kidding?"

Jim nodded. "Looks like you caught yourself a real nasty one here, Mr. Pierce. My hat's off to you. Now why don't you tell me your version of Devin's story so that we can make sure we're on the same page before the press gets involved."

Lincoln nodded and tried to clear his muddled head. "Well, I think that Devin Harcourt watched his father abuse Angel, and it twisted up his head. He was in love with Betty Kline, and thought he should treat her the way that his dad treated his mom. It went bad, and he killed her. Then he told his mom, and she helped him cover it up. I wish I had my notes, but I think they're in my car at the bottom of a mountain."

"It's all right, just do your best. We can compare notes after you're done."

"All right. Angel must've found out what happened, and she was scared that her son would be put in jail, so she decided to cover it up. She called her ex, and he faked his computer logs at work to try and hide the fact that he left to go help her, but he took the toll road to get around traffic. They got a picture of him on the toll road, but it was time-stamped after the crime, so no one suspected him of anything other than lying to his work. He must've picked up Devin and Betty's body and took them somewhere." Lincoln raised his brow as he considered a new possibility. "Hell, they probably took Devin up to Eversprings to hide out in one of the cabins that Angel's family owned. Then they got rid of the body, and Frank came back down to join in the search for the kids. Angel did a good job of acting like a concerned mom – she was a pretty good actress, from what we heard."

Lincoln was trying his best to piece the final pieces of the puzzle together, and he took a moment to consider the details before continuing. "She must've been drawing Devin's blood." He nodded, convinced he was right. "She was a phlebotomist."

"A what?"

"A phlebotomist," said Lincoln. "That's someone whose job is to draw blood. She probably knew exactly how much blood she could take from Devin without hurting him, and how to preserve it. She must've drawn his blood over the course of a few weeks, or however long it was before they found the shed. It was around that time that the detectives started to focus on Trent Kline, and they showed her the pictures from his journal. Then she took Devin's blood to that shed and mocked up a crime scene. She's the one who drew those pentagrams and symbols all over the place in there, to trick people into believing that Trent had done it. She must've also been the person who planted the evidence in Trent's back yard."

The detective corrected him, "Not according to her confession."

"Is Angel still alive?" asked Lincoln, surprised.

The detective shook his head. "She passed."

"But she confessed?"

"She called the police after you left her cabin. She's the one who told them that her son had your daughter. She said she called Devin, and she could hear Darcy screaming. So she called the police and confessed to everything. I guess it was her attempt to clear her conscious before she died." The detective reviewed his notes and said, "According to her, everything played out pretty much like you said. Her son accidentally killed Betty Kline in their shed, and she worked with her ex-husband to cover it up. They hid Devin, and gave him a new identity. He became Arthur Harcourt."

"His dad?"

"His brother," said the detective. "Frank and Angel had a premature son who died shortly after birth. They named him Arthur. It was a family name. Frank's first name is Arthur too. They got a social security card for their first son when he was born, because they thought he'd survive. He didn't, and so they let Devin take that number and assume his identity when they needed to help him disappear. He didn't use it very often though, except to get a driver's license and things like that. He's been living up here ever since, hiding with his mom."

The detective continued, "Angel said that it was her ex who planted the evidence at Trent's house. He buried it there just before Angel got her church to start putting pressure on the media about supposed satanic activity related to the crime. Although we're going to have to take her word for it. I doubt we'll ever find Frank. Angel's garage was filled with his things. I think the story about him going to Mexico is bull."

"She told me he'd been dead for years," said Lincoln.

"Makes sense."

"Do you believe everything she said?"

"Don't have much of a reason not to," said the officer. "She told us where Betty's body's buried. A crew dug her up an hour ago, up on the mountain in an unmarked grave."

"Do you think she killed Frank?"

"Probably. It wouldn't be surprising to find out two conniving pieces of shit eventually turned on each other. The whole thing's a damn shame. They played everyone like a fiddle, and that Trent kid got railroaded. He took the blame for one of the most infamous crimes this area's seen in recent history; until today, of course. Like I said, Mr. Pierce, you're about to get an awful lot of attention for this case. I hope you're ready for it."

"After last night, I'm ready for anything."

The detective took back the recorder, switched it off, and then slipped it into his pocket. "I've got something you should see." He had the morning paper, and placed it on the over table, pushing aside a Styrofoam cup of water that a nurse had placed there earlier. "Your story didn't make today's edition, but check out the bottom of page one."

Lincoln groaned as he got in a better position to read. He flipped the paper over to look at the bottom of the first page, and his stomach dropped.

'Convicted Dealer Found Dead.'

The story was about how Grant Hedland had been found dead, shot execution style in his apartment. Apparently he'd been preparing to flee the area, but had been caught before escaping.

"You think Angel did this?"

The officer smirked and shook his head. "I'm pretty sure someone else we know took care of him."

He looked at the officer with new suspicion. "Who are you?"

"I told you who I am," said the officer.

"Who are you really?"

"It doesn't matter who I really am. What matters is that you've never met Clyde Pettigrew. You've never spoken with him about his businesses, and you certainly have no reason to suspect he influenced Grant Hedland to lie on the stand."

"Jesus Christ," said Lincoln, annoyed.

"I'm here to help you, Mr. Pierce. I'm here to keep you off the front page of the papers." He winked and then said, "Or at least keep you off it for the same reason Grant ended up there. It's in everyone's best interest that Clyde's name not come up in your discussion with the other detectives. Do we understand each other?"

"That son of a bitch has his tentacles dug deep, doesn't he?"

"You've got no idea." The detective grinned. "Just do yourself a favor and keep his name out of things."

There was a light knock at the door, and then a nurse opened it and asked, "Sorry to interrupt. Is it okay for Mr. Pierce to have a visitor?"

"Sure thing," said the detective. "I was just leaving. Thanks, Mr. Pierce. You've been very helpful."

Lincoln flipped him off and said, "It's been a delight."

Hector came in as the detective left. "Hey there, bossman."

"Hector," said Lincoln, happy to see his friend. "Boy did you dodge a bullet by not coming with us last night; a bullet, a shotgun blast, and a sledgehammer to be exact."

"How're you feeling?"

"Like hell, but they've got me pumped up with so many drugs I couldn't tell you where it hurts. There's just an all-around, full-body ache going on."

"Ellen's here. She's with Darcy."

"How's Darcy doing?"

"Um, well, she's banged up and all, but they're taking good care of her."

"And what about Bentley? I heard they took him off critical care."

"I'm not sure. They're not telling us much about him. Dan's on his way here, along with some of Benny's family."

Lincoln could tell that Hector was distraught. "Don't worry, man. Benny's going to be fine. That kid's a fighter."

"Yeah, I know. I'm not worried about him."

Hector still seemed upset, and was looking down as he walked closer to the bed. Lincoln said, "Don't be so glum, man. We might be a little worse for ware, but we just solved a major case. You should be happy."

"Yeah, well, there's something else that you need to know."

"Oh great. What is it?" The last thing he needed was more bad news. He wondered if Danny was pissed, or if Pettigrew's men had confronted Hector. However, Lincoln was convinced they could handle whatever trouble was headed their way next. Maybe it was the pain killers, or barely surviving multiple attempted murders, but he was feeling invincible.

Hector sighed, and said, "It's about Darcy..."

There was another knock at the door, and then Lincoln's ex-wife revealed herself. She'd been crying, and her eyes were puffy as she asked, "Can I come in."

Hector was quick to say, "Ellen, hi. Yeah, please."

"What about Darcy?" asked Lincoln as he forced himself to sit up despite how his beaten frame demanded he stay still. "What's the matter?"

"I haven't told him," said Hector to Ellen.

"Okay, I will," she said.

"Tell me what?" asked Lincoln, his racing pulse was displayed on the monitor beside the bed.

Ellen walked closer as Hector left the room. She knew that Lincoln's stress needed to be eased, so she said, "It's okay, Darcy's fine. I mean, she's stable, or whatever. She's in the next room, and she'll come see you as soon as the doctor meets with her and says it's okay for her to get out of bed."

"What's going on, Ellen?" asked Lincoln, aware that his ex-wife was merely softening the coming blow.

She walked over to Lincoln's side and gingerly took his hand.

Lincoln knew this day would come. He'd been dreading it. He spoke before Ellen had the chance, "The cancer's back."

Ellen nodded. "That's what they think. They did a CT scan on her, because of what that bastard did to her, and they found a mass. It's nothing for sure yet, but it looks like... They think it's..."

Lincoln's stomach clenched with grief, and the painkillers did nothing to stop what he felt rolling through his entire body, ravaging him from head to toe. "Where?"

"In her left breast. It could be nothing. They still have to do a biopsy."

"How's she taking it?"

Ellen smiled and said, "Better than me, I think. You know how she is. Nothing scares that kid."

Lincoln squeezed Ellen's hand.

"If it does turn out to be... you know." She struggled with the word. She always had. "We're going to need you back for this. She's going to need her Dad there."

"Of course," said Lincoln. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for..."

"You have to be back a hundred percent. Darcy needs you. I need you. No more hiding, and drinking, and wasting away."

"Ellen, come on. I never..."

"Stop," she said as she let go of his hand. "Just stop. I'll be damned if I'm going to let you break her heart by drinking your way through this. Not again. Not this time."

Ellen headed for the door, and Lincoln wanted to protest, but he just watched her leave. He could hear the faint cries of his daughter in the next room as he sat there helpless, staring out into the hall through teary eyes.

"Hector," he yelled out for his friend.

"Hey bossman," said Hector as he came back in.

"I need you to do something for me."

* * *

Lincoln spent the morning reciting the story about the night before to a variety of police and detectives. The press was already pushing for information, but the police promised to keep them at bay for the time being. Daniel Barr came by to express his sympathies, and to give an update on Bentley's improving condition. They expected the kid to make a full recovery, and the doctors were astounded by his fortitude.

Hector returned a couple hours later, and apologized for taking so long. Darcy's apartment was now considered a crime scene, and it'd taken Hector a long time to convince them to give him what Lincoln had asked for. He got the present and even wrapped it before bringing it to the hospital.

"Help me up," said Lincoln with Darcy's present sitting on the bed beside him.

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea, bossman," said Hector. "They said you're supposed to stay put."

"You know me. Since when do I listen to what people tell me to do? Come on, help me up."

"What about all these machines?" asked Hector as he reluctantly helped Lincoln to his feet.

"They don't put them on wheels so they can stay in one place." Lincoln grasped the pole that his IV bags were attached to and tried to steady himself. His feet hit the cold floor, which sent a shiver up his spine. "You carry the present."

"I can just take it to her," said Hector. "You don't need to..."

"I'm going to see my daughter. I don't care if leave a trail of blood and piss the whole way, I'm going to see her."

He made the arduous journey, cringing with each step. Hector helped, and they managed to avoid the spying eyes of the nurses on duty. Lincoln got to Darcy's room, and Ellen gasped when she saw him.

"What are you doing?" asked Ellen.

"Hush," said Lincoln. "Don't let the nurses see."

"You're not supposed to be up," said Ellen.

"I want to see my girl."

"Dad, what are you doing?" asked Darcy. She was sitting up in bed, in far better shape than her father. Her head was bandaged and bruised, but somehow she still managed to look beautiful.

"I had Hector pick up something for you."

"Dad, please," said Darcy as if embarrassed as Hector handed over the box. "I don't want any presents. All I want is for you to get back in bed and get better."

"I'll be fine. Go ahead, open it."

Ellen stood and glanced at her ex with a surprised, bemused sort of fancy.

Darcy ripped off the wrapping paper to reveal a plain, cardboard box. She opened the box, and then laughed before clasping her hand over her mouth as tears sprang to her eyes. She looked at her father, her blue eyes immediately glassing over as her words were silenced by welling emotion.

"What is it?" asked Ellen.

Darcy lifted the gift out, and then laughed again as she showed her mother the old, tattered, stuffed monkey with the stitching under its armpit. Then she took out the box of bandages that Lincoln had asked Hector to include.

"It's Nanner," said Darcy.

"We're going to fix you up, kid. And I'll be there for you. Any way you need me."

# Author's Note

Lincoln Pierce's journey won't end here. I've got a feeling there're a lot more mysteries for him to stick his nose into.

I wanted to make sure that this first novel ended with the mystery solved, but with more trials and tribulations for the characters still ahead. My goal was to provide a satisfying mystery, while also introducing readers to a family who they could become attached to. That way when the next book comes along, readers aren't simply following along with the series to read a new mystery, but also to discover what's going on in the lives of the characters they got to meet here.

Does Darcy have breast cancer? Will Lincoln quit drinking? How will this case affect their burgeoning business? What's going to happen with Daniel Barr and Clyde Pettigrew?

These are all things that I hope to explore in the next book.

One of the things I'd like to talk about is the climactic battle in this book. Conventional wisdom would insist that the protagonist go toe to toe with the antagonist at the end, but here Lincoln's forced to watch as his daughter fights with the killer. Lincoln's helpless, and I did that on purpose. In my mind, Darcy's fight with Devin is an allegory to her battle with cancer. Lincoln did everything he could to protect his daughter, but ultimately it was her fight, and he was forced to sit back and watch it unfold.

Throughout the entire book, Lincoln frequently recalls his daughter's battle with cancer, and you get the sense that his alcoholism was a coping mechanism to help him forget the daily struggle he was forced to watch her endure. Yet that habit outlived her battle, and ultimately tore apart his life.

As the book starts, I wanted Lincoln to appeal to the reader as a cocksure, dapper, confident man. He rattles off quips and challenges authority every step of the way, exuding masculinity and control, even going so far as to be compared favorably versus James Bond, who has terrible taste in martinis. Yet as the book progresses, our opinion of him changes. For instance, when he first meets Bentley he chastises him for his ill-fitting suit and gold chain. When that happens, I hope the reader is amused by his take on Bentley's lack of style. Lincoln chides Bentley, guessing that the kid reached into his closet to grab a suit he probably hadn't worn since the last funeral he went to. Much later we discover that Lincoln was right, and that the suit Bentley was wearing was the one he wore to his own wife's funeral, shortly before he tried to kill himself. Likewise, that gold chain Lincoln made fun of was holding Bentley's wife's wedding ring.

About halfway through the book, I hope that readers started to question Lincoln. This is around the time that he begins to make wrong assertions about who killed Betty and Devin, and the reader is well aware of the fact that the killer is still at large as Lincoln muses about the possibility of it being Trent who attacked Betty at the stream. I don't want readers to look at Lincoln as an infallible protagonist, because he is clearly not. He's a deeply flawed individual – A former motivational speaker who's fallen in a hard way. To me, he feels very real, and I hope readers think so too.

Something else that I'd like to say about this book is that there are a lot of things here that I look at as a nod to former works of mine. In my opinion, this book has a structure that's influenced by my work with the '314' series, as evidenced by the chapters labeled 'Arthur' interspersed within. And the biggest callback is the inclusion of the stuffed animal at the end, which is similar to what happened at the end of 'Deadlocked 4'. That last one's a nod to all of those readers who've stuck with me since early on.

Finally, I've got to give my thanks to a man who's going to play a bigger part in future books in this series, Mark. He's only mentioned in this first book, and makes a call to Lincoln near the end. I just barely introduced you here, my friend, but just wait until you see what's in store for you next time.

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Sex, Drugs, and Dead Things

# 314 Sample

CHAPTER 1 - It Begins Again

Widowsfield

March 14th, 1996

"It's going to happen in three minutes."

Mark Tapper sat on the edge of his son's bed and tried to comfort the eight-year-old. He considered calling an ambulance, but didn't know if what Jeremy was suffering from qualified as an emergency. He decided to wait for his wife to get home, since she'd be there in just a few minutes anyhow. She'd left work early when the school called, but Mark was able to get to Widowsfield Elementary to pick Jeremy up first.

"What's going to happen in three minutes?" Mark glanced at the clock on the nightstand that displayed 3:11 on the stomach of a Batman figurine.

"I told you," said Jeremy. The desperation in his voice terrified Mark. "The Skeleton Man's coming."

"I don't know what that means, kiddo. Help me out here." Mark tried to wipe sweat from his boy's brow, but Jeremy jerked away as if frightened by contact. "Who's this Skeleton Man you keep talking about?"

"He's coming, and then everyone's going to go crazy. Dad, I don't want to kill you again."

The statement was more than a little disconcerting. Mark stood up and put his hands on his head in exasperation as he stared down at his quivering child. He'd tried to stay calm through all of his son's outbursts, but he couldn't take it anymore. "That does it. Mom can meet us at the hospital. Do you think you can walk, or do you want me to call an ambulance?" This manic episode had confounded the school nurse, and it was getting worse the longer it went on. When Mark picked his son up from school, Jeremy had simply been crying, but now his mania had gone from concerning to disturbing.

"There's no time. I can already hear his teeth." Jeremy looked at his father and chattered his teeth, as if he was freezing cold. Then he looked at the clock and they both saw the time change.

3:12

Jeremy put his hands under his pillow and bunched it up so the sides covered his ears. He clenched his eyes shut and continued to weep. "You should just kill yourself. Make it easy. Just shoot yourself in the head and get it over with. You can't handle what's coming. No one can."

Mark was frantic now. His hands were shaking and he rushed out of the room to compose himself. The last thing Jeremy needed to see was his father breaking down. Mark felt helpless and terrified. Something was happening to his son, and he had no idea how to fix it. When he'd been called in by the school he expected to hear that his son had thrown up, or got in a fight, or anything other than this. Jeremy had never shown signs of a mental disorder and Mark was utterly unprepared for what was happening. He broke down after he closed his son's door, but there was no time for weeping. He rushed down the stairs to get the phone and call 9-1-1.

The cord on the kitchen phone stretched long enough to accommodate his pacing as he listened to the automated voice tell him that his call would be taken in the order it was received. He glanced at the green numbers displayed on the microwave's clock.

3:13

"Widowsfield County 9-1-1," said a woman's voice on the phone. "What is your emergency?" She sounded elderly, and kind, immediately affable.

Mark didn't know where to start. "Hi, my name's Mark Tapper."

"Howdy, Mark," said the operator. "What's your emergency?"

He'd been struggling to answer that question himself, and had trouble relaying it to her. "It's my son, Jeremy. I got a call from his school because he was having a, like, I guess a mental breakdown or something. I don't really know. I had to pick him up early from school because he was crying and talking about how someone named The Skeleton Man is coming." He chuckled out of nervousness and felt embarrassed for it.

The clock held steady at 3:13, seconds away from the time that Jeremy had warned about.

"It's okay, sir. We can get someone out there if you'd like."

Mark stared at the clock, dreading the coming change.

"Sir?" she asked after he didn't respond. "What's your address?"

It changed.

3:14

Nothing happened and Mark breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't know why he was so scared. "Sorry, what was that?"

The operator didn't respond.

"Hello?" asked Mark.

She gurgled on the other line, a wet, throaty expulsion of sound, as if the woman had started to choke. Then he heard a shrill scream. Someone else in the operator's office had become frightened. The gurgling continued.

"Hello?" Mark asked again and looked at the phone as if expecting to be able to see what was wrong. He pushed in the wire that connected the phone to the base on the wall to make sure it hadn't fallen loose.

He was in the kitchen when he caught sight of the green fog outside. It had been a gorgeous spring day just moments earlier, but there was no sign of sunlight now. The town had been blanketed in fog that glowed as if illuminated deep within by a pulsing green light. Mark took tremulous steps toward the window above the sink. The phone went dead, and he let it drop to the floor where the cord pulled it skittering backward across the tile.

"Holy hell," said Mark as he leaned over the sink.

The fog was thick enough to cloud his view of the houses across the street. Even the Oak tree in the front yard was hazed. Waves of green light flashed within the fog, as if he were watching electricity roll out from some machine within. It crackled and coursed along metallic objects, giving shape to things lost in the mist.

Then he saw a man lean out from behind the tree. The fog was too thick to see any details, but the stranger was very tall and thin, and he retreated back behind the tree as soon as Mark saw him.

"Dad," said Jeremy from upstairs. He didn't sound panicked anymore.

"Yeah, Jeremy," said Mark as he backed away from the window. He wanted to go out and confront the stranger, but was afraid of the mist and still concerned for his son. "Are you okay?"

Jeremy didn't answer.

He heard small, light footsteps running across the floor upstairs, headed down the hall from the bathroom to Jeremy's room.

Mark stopped staring out the window and ran to reach Jeremy. He bounded up the stairs and was confronted by his son at the threshold of the boy's room.

"Jeremy," said Mark as he paused at the top of the stairs. "Do you know what's going on?" He asked as if afraid his son was somehow responsible for what had happened outside.

"I tried to warn you."

Jeremy held a straight razor to his own throat.

"Buddy, put that down." Mark took a tentative step, like a cop approaching a suicidal man.

Jeremy looked at the blade and smiled. "This isn't for me, Dad. It's for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Skeleton Man's here, and he taught me how to hate."

"Put the razor down, Jeremy." Mark's authoritative tone was beleaguered by fear.

The razor reflected green light from a nearby window. "We're going to try something new this time. The Skeleton Man remembered something that he wants to try on you." Jeremy giggled, as if talking about something cute a puppy had done. "He's so excited. He doesn't want to hurt me, but if you take another step then we won't have a choice. He'll slit my throat just to watch you cry."

"What's going on, Jeremy? Who's The Skeleton Man? How did you know that something was going to happen at 3:14?"

"I think we've done this before," said Jeremy. "I think we've been doing it for years." He seemed confused, but then shrugged off his uncertainty. "We'll keep doing it until we get it right, I guess. Do you want to hear what we're planning for you?"

"I just want you to put the razor down."

Jeremy looked down at his father's feet as the man came closer, and he pressed the razor harder against his own throat. "Don't do it, Daddy."

Mark retreated a step and held his hands out. "Okay, Jeremy. Okay, I'm backing up. Now just put the razor down. Can you do that for me?"

"Dad, I told you, this isn't for me. It's for you. He's only going to hurt me if you don't do what he says. Don't you get it?"

"No!" Mark's terror overwhelmed him. "I don't get it, Jeremy. Please tell me what's going on."

Jeremy nodded, his cherub visage turned wicked by the blade he held to his own throat. "The Skeleton Man wants me to put you in the bathtub, and then we're going to pour boiling water over you until we can peel your skin off."

"What?" Mark's question escaped as a whimpering whisper.

"And if you can stay awake, then we'll pour the chemicals on you." Jeremy grinned. "It's going to be a lot of fun, Dad. And you want to know the best part?" He didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "You're going to let us do it. You know why?"

Mark didn't know what to do other than comply with his son's insanity. "Why?"

"Because if you don't, I'll slit my throat. You can either die like we want you to, or watch me kill myself. Daddy, I don't want to die; I know how much it hurts. So you're going to have to do what we tell you. Okay?"

The front door opened. Mark didn't want to turn and look, fearing that if he took his eyes off Jeremy then his son might hurt himself. He hoped that his wife had come home, or that the 9-1-1 dispatcher had been able to track the location of the call and send police. Instead, he heard several light footsteps running through the house, followed by the happy chatter of children.

"My friends are here," said Jeremy. "They'll start boiling the water. Are you ready for your bath?"

"What the hell is going on?"

"My best guess," said Jeremy as he glanced up. "God gave up."

Mark thought about rushing his son to steal the razor from him, but Jeremy seemed to anticipate this and pressed it harder to his throat. The blade sliced the boy's skin and Jeremy winced as blood coursed down the black handle.

Jeremy's eyes welled with tears. "Please don't kill me, Dad! I told you, I don't want to die. All the Daddies hate their babies!"

"Put the razor down!"

"Don't come any closer," said Jeremy. Blood dripped off his knuckles. "This hurts! I'm scared." It was as if it were someone else holding the knife to Jeremy's throat.

"Okay! Okay!" Mark backed up a step.

Jeremy relaxed the blade, but the small cut continued to bleed as the boy cried. "You need to go get in the bathtub. Please? Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

"This is insane," said Mark. "I don't understand what's going on. Why are you doing this?"

"Because it's what The Skeleton Man wants."

"Who the hell is The Skeleton Man?"

Pots and pans rattled as they were taken out of the cabinets downstairs. Mark could hear the children laugh as they filled the pots with water. He heard them trying to work the microwave as well.

"He's the man in the mist," said Jeremy. "He's the one that keeps the children safe. He's our only friend. Without him, we'd be as lost as you, and none of us want that."

"Safe from what?" Mark was in the bathroom now, edging backward as his son stayed out of arm's reach.

"All the ones that came with him. The ones that will poison you unless we stop it from happening. You'll turn evil, like you did all the other times. We can't let that happen. The Skeleton Man showed us what the Daddies do."

"What other times?" The bathroom was small, with a porcelain tub that took up the opposite side. The toilet and sink sat between the tub and the door where Jeremy stood with the razor still pressed against his neck. Mark backed up against the tub and staggered. He grabbed the plastic shower curtain to steady himself and two of the rings that held it up snapped loose. He fell to a seated position on the edge of the tub.

Jeremy shook his head as if he felt sorry for his father's ignorance. "All the other times we tried to save you. You're one of the dead ones. There's no saving you, but you can still save me."

Mark felt helpless. He was a big guy, over 220 pounds, and he worked out in the basement every night. His job kept him fit as well, and he prided himself on his physique. However, none of his strength could help him now. He often said that he loved his son more than life itself, and that he'd do anything to protect him, but now he was being forced to prove it.

"You've lost your mind, Jeremy. Something's wrong with you. Trust me, I'd never hurt you." He started to stand back up and reach out to his son.

Jeremy reacted as if his father was threatening to strike him. His eyes grew wide and he moved back as he yelled. "You're hurting me now! Can't you see that? Look at my blood, Daddy! You're killing me."

"Stop it, Jeremy." Mark cried out, but didn't dare to move forward.

Jeremy dug the blade into his neck and cringed in pain as he shouted for mercy. "Daddy, don't hurt me like this! Please don't hurt me."

"Okay, Jeremy, tell me what I have to do. Tell me what you want."

"Get in the tub, Dad!"

Mark stepped into the bathtub with his arms outstretched as if to assure Jeremy that he was being submissive. "Okay, I'm in. Now put the razor down."

"Take your shirt off," said Jeremy with the razor still pressed to his bleeding throat.

Mark did as he was told and tossed the shirt to the floor. A chill came over him as a waft of green fog trailed across the hallway behind Jeremy.

"You can't expect me to just sit here and let this happen," said Mark.

"If you don't, then The Skeleton Man is going to make you watch me kill myself. Is that what you want?"

"I'm not going to let that happen," said Mark. He got angrier the longer this went on.

Jeremy stepped back and leaned to the side as if listening to someone in the hall. Then he came back into the bathroom. "If you step out of the tub, or try to knock away the pots of water, then I'm going to kill myself. It's important that you know that. You have to do as you're told, Dad. Okay? Do you understand?"

"No, God damn it! No, I don't understand, Jeremy. Why are you doing this? Please just put the razor down."

"We've tried to let you live before, but The Skeleton Man was right about you," said Jeremy. Blood ran down his arm and dripped from his elbow. "This is the only way we can save the children. It has to start with the Daddies dying."

"Then why are you going to boil me? Why did you say that you're going to strip my flesh and pour chemicals on me? Don't you think this Skeleton Man is the evil one? Buddy, I'm your Dad, you've got to trust me."

"No," said Jeremy. "I've made that mistake before. There's only one person that I trust now, and we're going to do this the way he wants."

A pair of cautious footsteps came from the hall. Mark heard water slosh over the side of a container and hit the floor as two children yelped in surprise.

"Be careful," said one of the high pitched voices.

"I am, you be careful," said the other.

Jeremy stepped into the hall so his friends could come in. Mark recognized the two boys that carried the water. They lived in the neighborhood, although he didn't know their names. They were wearing oven mitts and carrying a large Pyrex bowl filled with steaming water between them.

"We got this one from the micowaver," said the younger of the two boys. His childish wording belied his horrific intent as he waddled into the room. Water spilled over the side and the boy swiftly moved his barefoot to keep the water from burning him. Both of the boys had muddy feet that left tracks across the linoleum as they approached.

"Don't you dare," said Mark. He backed into the corner of the tub and knocked over a bottle of shampoo as he did. "You get away from me with that."

The two boys stopped and looked back at Jeremy as if to ask what they should do. Jeremy looked at his father, disappointed. "Don't fight this, Dad. You need to sit down and let them pour the water on you."

"Fuck that," said Mark. He tried his best to avoid cursing in front of his son, but the current situation absolved that concern.

"You want to watch me die?" asked Jeremy.

"No, of course not," said Mark. "But I'm not going to sit here and let your little friends pour boiling water on me either. This is crazy." He stared at the bowl instead of looking at Jeremy. The water wasn't bubbling, but he had no doubt it was searing hot. He was familiar with how water heated in a microwave doesn't bubble, but can still get hotter than water boiled on a stove.

"What happens if you die?" asked one of the boys of Jeremy. Then he looked at Mark and added, "What if he tries to fight back?"

"Then The Skeleton Man will slaughter all of us and start over." Jeremy spoke with utter certainty, as if this was a possibility he'd known for years and had come to accept. "My Daddy will have killed us all."

"No, Jeremy," said Mark. "You've gone insane. This is crazy!"

"Just throw it on him." Jeremy spoke like a callous war criminal instructing his soldiers to execute a prisoner.

"Okay," said one of the boys. They stepped forward and tipped the bowl on its side as they threw it into the tub. The glass bowl slammed into Mark and the water seared his skin. He staggered back as the wave hit him. He fell against the cold tile wall where he slid down as the water stung his skin. He swiped away the wetness as he screamed and writhed.

"The water's going down the drain," said Jeremy, disappointed. "Someone plug the drain or else we won't be able to cook him!"

One of the boys stepped forward to do as Jeremy instructed, but Mark slapped the child on the side of the head, sending him smashing into the wall. The child crumpled on the bathroom floor and cried out in pain.

"Hey!" Jeremy screamed at his father. "Do you want me to die?" He swiped the razor across his cheeks and cried out in pain before pressing the blade against his throat again. "Is this what you want? Don't hurt my friends or I'm going to keep cutting myself up."

Mark looked at the skin on his arms where he'd tried to block the wave of scalding water. His arms were brilliant red and the thick black hair seemed to be melting off him. He growled in pain and anger and then slammed his hand down on the tub's plunger. He seethed as he glowered at his son. "Fine. Bring it on. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you, Jeremy, not even yourself. If this is how I have to prove it, then so be it. Do your worst. But just remember what I did for you. I'd do anything to protect you. You're my son. I'd do anything for you."

Two more children appeared at the door with another bowl of water. The steam swirled in the bathroom and mixed with the fog that had started to fill the house. As the torture continued, and Mark suffered wave after wave of boiling water, he thought he saw a man lean in from the hallway, peering through the thickening steam to watch Mark's agony.

The Skeleton Man's teeth chattered as he watched another daddy die.

16 Years Later

March 9th, 2012

"I love these kids," said Alma Harper. "I've had some great groups this year."

"That's wonderful to hear," said Principal White. She walked with Alma through Trenton Elementary. Class was in session, so the halls were empty except for the hum of teachers and children speaking behind closed doors. The walls were papered with drawings of mythical creatures that the third grade class had done for a recent project. Half of the pictures were of smiling unicorns and the other half were demonic monstrosities, probably drawn exclusively by boys. The charter school prided itself on ignoring many of the social norms associated with gender, but that didn't change the fact that most boys liked to draw monsters while the girls preferred flowers and smiling faces.

Alma had her guitar strapped over her shoulder and adjusted it as they walked. She towered over Principal White, who was a short, pudgy woman in her fifties. Alma's tall, lanky figure was accentuated when standing next to her boss, and she often felt embarrassed by it.

"Alma, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

Alma was aware of recent budget cuts, but she'd been assured that her music class was safe. Of course, employees on the brink are rarely warned before the axe falls, and education jobs suffer more from callous cuts than just about any other industry.

Alma slowed her pace and her dread must've been revealed by her pallor because Principal White was quick to console her. "It's not that bad," said Mrs. White. "You're not losing your job. We still need a music program."

Alma put her hand over her heart and was surprised by how fast it was beating. "Thank goodness. You scared me."

"We love you around here, Alma. And more importantly, the kids love you."

"Thanks," said Alma as she started to walk at a regular pace again. "But you said you had bad news."

"I do," said Mrs. White. "I know you've been in your room for a couple years now, but we're having a lot of trouble with the budget. We're doing everything we can to deal with it, and I'm afraid we had to give your space to the new remedial math program."

"Okay," said Alma, a mix of concern and sorrow in her tone. "So where am I being moved to? The old room was already too small for us. I can't imagine trying to cram all of the kids and their instruments into a smaller space."

"I know, Alma. Trust me, I've been trying to figure this out for a long time. I had to come to a decision because Mr. Franks wants to start building his new math room over spring break."

Mrs. White guided Alma down one of the school's hallways that led to the lab rooms, auditorium, and cafeteria.

"You're kidding," said Alma. "Spring break starts tomorrow. I thought you were talking about this happening at the beginning of next year. Are you saying I only have a week to get a new room set up?"

"I know this is last minute," said Mrs. White.

"Yeah, you're not kidding." Alma had always been told that she was too nice for her own good, but this situation tried her patience. She ran her hand through her long, dark hair and scratched at the top of her head as she sighed. "I'm glad I didn't have any spring break plans. Looks like I'm going to be busy."

Mrs. White put her hand on Alma's back and smiled up at her. "As soon as I heard about this, I knew we had to come up with a good solution for you. I got together with a few of the other teachers, and some of your students, and we came up with a plan."

"Thanks," said Alma.

"You've got people looking out for you," said Mrs. White.

They came to a stop in front of a lab room door and Mrs. White had an odd grin, as if she was desperately trying to hide something from Alma.

"How long have you known this was going to happen?" Alma was suspicious of the principal's giddy demeanor. "What are you up to?"

Mrs. White shook her head and giggled. Her face was turning red and she refused to look directly at Alma as she swung the door open. She pushed Alma into the room and suddenly the deception was revealed.

"Surprise!"

A chorus of voices greeted Alma as she was pushed into the room. Her knees buckled at the sight of over a hundred kids lined up on stadium style seats along the far wall. Music notes had been painted on the walls, and a piano was situated to the left of the entrance, its black lacquer reflecting the sparkling lights high above. The cherry wood floor vibrated from the applause of the teachers, children, and parents that had gathered for the surprise.

"What's this?" asked Alma as tears sprang to her eyes. She put her fingertips over her mouth as Mrs. White continued to push at her back to force her further in. "What did you guys do?"

Mrs. White took Alma's guitar case and handed it to a teacher's assistant who then placed it against the wall. The crowd was still clapping and saying a myriad of kind things as Alma pressed her hands over her mouth as she cried.

There was a camera crew in the corner with a news reporter who waited with a microphone. They walked into the center of the room as Mrs. White finally backed away. Alma turned to look at the principal and saw that she was overjoyed. Mrs. White's face was beet red and she waved at her eyes in an attempt to stop crying. "Surprise," she squeaked, hardly able to speak.

A tall woman in a black and grey pants suit stepped forward from the bleachers. It was Blair Drexler, the head of the PTA. "The local news station contacted us and set all this in motion. They heard about how the recent budget cuts were going to threaten your music class, and got together with us to try and stop it from happening. Not a single one of us on the PTA were going to let that happen. We knew we had to protect your class."

Alma had trouble standing. She stumbled and Blair rushed forward to provide support. "How did you do this?" asked Alma as she gazed around the room.

"We voted and unanimously agreed to use the proceeds from the jog-a-thon to fund the construction of a new music room. And the Channel 7 news team helped out a lot too." She turned to look at the news crew and a thin, strawberry blonde woman stepped forward. The reporter quickly wiped away a tear and composed herself.

"Hello, Miss Harper," said the reporter. She was a gorgeous young woman, with a thin waist that tapered to wide thighs. She wore massive heels that shamed Alma's penny loafers, but even the three inch boost couldn't raise the petite reporter to the music teacher's height.

"Oh my gosh," said Alma as she wiped away tears. "I can't believe this. How did this happen?" She burst into laughter and Blair joined in. They hugged and then Alma continued to try and compose herself for the cameras. "I must look like a wreck."

The kids on the bleachers laughed and spontaneously started cheering again. One of the second graders, a sweet boy named Billy, ran off the stands and past the gathered teachers and parents, several of whom tried to catch him. He collided with Alma and wrapped his arms around her legs.

"Surprise, Miss Harper," he said as he embraced her.

She knelt down and pulled him into a tight embrace. This initiated a rush from the stands as the other children decided to join in. Everyone was laughing as the kids pushed their way to Alma, each wanting to get their chance to hug their favorite teacher. The cameraman and reporter were forced back as the swell of children surrounded Alma.

After a few minutes of chaos, Principal White was forced to try and get things back in order. "Okay everyone, that's enough. Let's get back to our places so Miss Harper can breathe!" She clapped her hands, which was a familiar move of hers that signaled she wanted attention. "Let's go, kids. Back to your places." The crowd dispersed and Alma was left crying in the center of the room.

Blair held Alma's hand as she spoke. "We're lucky to have you, Alma, and we thought this was a good way to show it."

"I still can't believe this," said Alma.

"Miss Harper," said the reporter as she stepped back into the middle of the room. "I'm Rachel Knight, with Channel 7 News." She reached out to shake Alma's hand. "We're honored to be a part of this, and I just have to ask, how does this feel?" She put the microphone in front of Alma.

"Oh my gosh, I can't even think of how to say it. Look at me," she held her hands out in front of her and watched them tremble. "My hands are shaking. I'm stunned, shocked, overwhelmed, absolutely in love with all of you." She raised her hands and shouted out to the students, parents, and fellow teachers. They reciprocated with another round of applause. "Thank you all so much."

Mrs. White stepped beside Alma and rubbed a circle on her back. "I don't think you have to worry about spending your spring break putting together a new music room!"

Alma pulled the principal in for a hug. "You got me, Helen! I can't believe you did this."

"It was my pleasure," said Mrs. White. "You're a good teacher, and we want to keep you around here for a long time."

"Well, this was a pretty good way to do it," said Alma.

"Good," said Mrs. White. "Then my plan worked." They both laughed and embraced again.

The reporter interviewed Alma about how she felt, and what it was like to be surprised this way. They discussed how Alma had always wanted to be a music teacher, and that this was the best day of her life. Then the reporter asked if Alma had any siblings, which seemed like an odd question, and Alma struggled to answer. "No, not exactly. Why?"

"No reason, just curious," said the reporter.

"So what's next?" asked Helen White. "Do you need to interview Alma any more?"

"Oh please say no," said Alma. "I'm a total wreck right now."

Rachel laughed and shook her head. "Don't worry. We don't have to do anything right away. We'd still like to get a follow-up interview with you, but we can do that later. We'll just need you to sign a few release papers, and then we'll spend some time getting exterior shots and maybe speak with a few of the kids. If you want, we'd be happy to buy you dinner tonight for an interview. That way you can have a chance to relax and absorb all of this."

"That'd be great," said Alma.

The man behind the reporter lowered his camera. He set it on the floor and then wiped off his sweaty hand before offering it to Alma. "Hi, I'm Stephen."

"Hi," said Alma as she shook his hand.

"Do you mind if I just ask you one quick question?" He didn't wait for permission before asking. "Are you the same Alma Harper that was involved with the Widowsfield incident in 1996?"

Rachel put her hand on the cameraman's chest and pushed him backward. "Not now, Stephen." She smiled at Alma. "We'll talk to you tonight. Okay?"

Alma nodded.

All of the joy of the moment dissipated at the mere mention of Widowsfield. Alma's hands still shook, but now it was for a new reason.
