“We have some time, since the Bureau has given us an official leave of absence.”
“It was the least they could do after you and Agent Puller solved that case in New York.”
John Puller was an Army investigator who had teamed with Pine to run to ground a blackmail operation that had reached into the highest levels of the country’s power structure. Puller had been shot in the process, but he was on his way to a full recovery.
“You were in on all that, too, Carol. And you almost lost your life because I screwed up.”
“You also saved my life.”
“After needlessly putting it in danger,” countered Pine. As she turned out of the cemetery she added, “If Mercy sees the PSA she might come in. That would be the ideal scenario.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then it could be that she’s . . . no longer alive.” Pine shot a glance at Blum. “I’ve accepted that possibility, Carol. A long time ago. I know Mercy was alive when she got free from the Atkinses. But a lot could have happened in between.”
Blum said, “And it doesn’t seem like the Atkinses did anything to, well, to educate her or . . . ” Her voice trailed off and she looked uncertainly at her boss.
“Let’s just acknowledge it—she looked like a wild person,” said Pine slowly. “And I’m not sure how she could manage to function in society on her own, at least mainstream society. And people who live on the fringes with no support can be exploited.” Pine looked out the window and said dully, “The person I saw in that video . . . could be exploited.”
“But she was resilient and resourceful, Agent Pine. Look at how she survived the Atkinses and then outsmarted them and escaped.”
“And Joe Atkins ended up dead with a knife sticking in his back,” replied Pine.
“I already told you how I feel about that. He deserved what he got.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you, Carol. But I am saying that if Mercy did kill him, if she is violent, then the intervening years might not have been kind to her. She might have done other things.”
“You’re thinking that she could have hurt other people?”
“Or, more likely, had been a victim of violence,” Pine said.
“Which brings me back to my original question: What do we do now?”
“Her last sighting was near Crawfordville, Georgia. She got away that night, or at least it appeared she did.”
“What do you mean ‘appeared’?” asked Blum.
“Desiree Atkins has never been found. There are at least three scenarios that I can see.” Pine counted them off on her fingers. “She killed her husband and fled. Mercy killed her and fled. Or Desiree killed Mercy and fled.”
“Why would Desiree kill her husband?”
“By all accounts, she was a sadistic nut. We heard a gunshot on the video and just assumed it was Joe firing at Mercy. But what if Desiree had the gun and was doing the shooting? What if Joe tried to stop her? He gets the gun away but she stabs him.”
“So you think Joe might have wanted Mercy to get away? I just don’t see that. When the truth came out they both would have been in a great deal of trouble.”
“I’m saying it’s possible, not probable. She might have managed to kill Mercy, then Joe got nervous and wanted to call the police, so she stabbed him and fled with Mercy’s body. Only it would have been a real chore for her to lift the body into Joe’s truck. Desiree was tiny, and Mercy looked to be over six feet and probably outweighed her by seventy pounds. And they brought cadaver dogs in after we found out what happened there. There are no bodies buried anywhere in that area. So that option is out. But what if Joe helped her get rid of Mercy’s body, then got cold feet or regrets? Then Desiree plunged the knife in his back.”
Blum mulled over this. “Or, like you said, Mercy could have killed both of them. She left Joe’s body and maybe took Desiree’s remains and buried them somewhere far away.”
“It’s possible. But that would mean Mercy would have had to drive the truck.”
Blum said, “Surely she could have figured that out.”
Pine shook her head. “The truck has a manual transmission. I don’t know anybody, particularly someone who has been kept in a hellhole for years and never attempted to drive anything, who could have figured out how a clutch works. Certainly not under such stressful conditions. And I can’t see the Atkinses having taught her.”
“So what are you saying then?”
“I’m saying, Carol, that I think it was Desiree who took off that night in the truck. But I think she went alone.”
“Because the jig was up, you mean?”
Pine nodded. “Yes. So, to answer your initial question of what to do now, I think we head back to Georgia and see if we can pick up a very, very cold trail.”
“And Jack Lineberry? Will you stop in to see him while we’re in Georgia?”
To that, Pine said nothing.
She had mixed feelings about her biological father. And their last encounter had been disastrous. She was not expecting anything better the second time around. But ultimately the fault lay with him, not her. That’s just what happened when every word out of your mouth was a lie.
CHAPTER
3
PINE STARED OUT THE WINDOW of the rental car at Crawfordville, in densely wooded Taliaferro County, Georgia. Here, you’d never see an assailant coming before it was too late. Thick foliage was a killer’s best friend, whether they were hunting deer or people.
They had flown into Atlanta from Virginia, rented the car, and driven here. They had already checked in with Dick Roberts. He was the retired, straight-as-an-arrow county sheriff who had helped them when they were down here the first time. It had been Roberts who, years before, had answered the 911 call and found Joe Atkins’s body. The question had always been—who’d stuck the knife blade there? Roberts also had been with Pine when they had discovered Mercy’s old prison cut into a knoll some distance away from the Atkinses’ house, and when they had found and viewed the video chronicling her sister’s escape. Roberts knew that Mercy was Pine’s sister, and that this case was personal to her.
No, it’s not just personal. I’m betting my entire professional life on finally solving this thing. There is no going back for me.
A sense of panic seized her for a moment, like a swimmer who realized they were caught in a riptide with a limited and risky way back to shore. Then she glanced out the window, drew a long, calming breath, and silently chastised herself to get a grip, that she was acting like a child.