FOR THE TWENTIETH TIME, BUCKLEY STUDIED the frozen image on his computer screen. His first viewing had filled him with curiosity and even sympathy. The woman, who he now knew had been called Rebecca Atkins, was obviously scared; he could easily see that in her features. The wild eyes, the unnatural stretch of her jaw, the bulge of her cheeks, the chaotic gap in her mouth—all spoke of crisis. But there was also just the tiniest hint of something else there too—exhilaration, perhaps?
Her physical state was deplorable. The long, thick hair was bushy and filthy, the clothes were near rags, her skin was dirty and scarred; clearly the woman had been through a long ordeal.
Next, Buckley had researched online an “incident” related to the Atkinses in the early 2000s, in a rural Georgia county. It had not been hard to find the account of Joe Atkins having been found dead, and his wife, Desiree, missing and either presumed to have killed her husband or else been a victim of his murderer.
He reclined in the desk chair in his hotel room. There was an extremely curious point to all this. These news accounts had made no mention of a Rebecca Atkins. The most obvious reason for this would be that the authorities were not aware, back then, of the woman’s existence. So how could that possibly have come about?
Buckley once more looked at the woman’s image on his computer screen. Back then there had been no ubiquitous wireless home surveillance camera technology tied to smartphones. So why have a security camera in rural Georgia nearly twenty years ago?
Buckley enlarged the image and studied the edges of the picture. A tree branch, the murky outline of a bush, a darkened path; all of this was behind the woman who was staring at the lens. She was in the woods, which in rural Georgia was not unexpected.
He enlarged the image even more and now could see the wall of the place. It looked dilapidated, with vegetation growing around it.
Not a traditional residence. A cabin in the woods, maybe? But with a camera covering the door? What would be the point unless something of value was kept in there? His first thought was maybe some sort of illegal operation. Maybe they were running moonshine? Or smuggling drugs? Or selling guns? Or perhaps people? Like this woman?
Were the Atkinses running a human trafficking operation? That didn’t seem likely to him. Most times such operators quickly moved their “merchandise” by truck to locations all over the country. They got their full compensation when the product was delivered. This woman looked like she had been a prisoner for a long time. Unless she had been delivered to the Atkinses as a slave.
He looked down at his phone screen where an associate had previously sent him a copy of Eloise Cain’s current driver’s license.
The face that stared out at him seemed carved from granite. There was nothing “happy” about the features. The long dark hair swirled around her shoulders. The photo, not particularly good to begin with, and even grainier as a digital copy, was some years old.
He sipped his drink and made a phone call. Buckley told the man what he wanted done.
Two hours later, through a text, Buckley received copies of the Georgia driver’s licenses for both Joe and Desiree Atkins. Buckley checked the physical descriptions. He was most concerned with height.
Joe Atkins was five five. Desiree was four eleven.
He looked at Cain’s driver’s license. Her height was listed as six one. And in the image he had seen of her on the TV, she looked every inch of it.
Unless a serious genetic aberration had occurred, or there was some ancestor of considerable height lurking in the family tree, Rebecca was probably not the Atkinses’ biological daughter. Height was one of the most predictable genetic traits passed from generation to generation. Short parents typically made for short offspring, the same for tall parents. He looked at the images of the Atkinses on their driver’s licenses. There were no similarities between their features and Rebecca’s, and the hair color, while not decisive, was nowhere close.
So either she was adopted or she’d been abducted and provided to the Atkinses—unless they had done the abducting.
He focused on another aspect of the case. A news article from back then detailing the loss suffered by Leonard and Wanda Atkins, Joe’s parents and Desiree’s in-laws. Buckley reasoned that they had to know about Rebecca. They lived nearby and were the only family Joe had. And they were the only survivors, other than Desiree, mentioned in the news article and the related obituary. The article also said that Leonard Atkins had fought in Vietnam. Buckley checked Len Atkins’s age at the time, which was given in the article, and added on the intervening years. He would be well into his seventies now.
He sent an email with another information request. An hour later he received a reply. It turned out that Atkins was registered with the VA and was getting treatment after having had a stroke. And the reply included his current address. Buckley didn’t know how his associate had obtained this info so fast, but he thought that the VA needed to seriously upgrade its cybersecurity firewalls.
But then don’t we all?
However, this time, he wasn’t complaining.
Buckley was wheels up on his jet in a few hours. When they landed he drove a waiting rental car to a hotel where he had made a reservation. He checked in, went up to his room, and spread his case files out on the desk.
He had some wine from the minibar and pondered what to do next. This was all growing extremely complicated. And intriguing. He opened his laptop and brought the image up. He flicked his finger against Rebecca Atkins’s/El Cain’s picture on the screen.
She would not be easy. He smiled at the challenge.
And since the FBI was now involved, he had a unique asset that he could call on to help him in his quest to find the woman. It was late, but he could always leave a message. He hit the name in his contact list, and a voice answered within two rings.
“Hello, Peter, I trust you have something worthy of me. I’ve been rather bored lately.”
“I do indeed. In fact it has to do with your former employer.”
“The Army or the FBI?”
“The latter,” Buckley replied.
“Excellent, I always love to stick it to the Bureau when given the chance.”
“They’re looking for a woman named Rebecca Atkins, aka Eloise Cain. And so am I.”
“And your interest in her?”
“Entirely personal. She killed my brother, Ken,” said Buckley.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I can send the jet. Just give me a location and a time.”
“I’m a bit tied up at the moment. Just finishing something up. I can be ready to go tomorrow morning around eight. I’m in DC currently. I can go out to Dulles to catch your ride.”
“All right. They’ll fly out of the Signature Terminal.”
“And where are you?”
“The great state of Alabama.”
“Okay, and what is there of interest to you in the great state of Alabama?”
“I’ll fill you in when you get here,” promised Buckley.
“Private jets are so convenient. I wish I could afford one.”
“Well, you’ll always have the use of mine.”
“Aren’t you sweet. Look, I really have to go. A few things to tidy up, like I said.”
“Right, see you soon, Britt.”
He clicked off.
CHAPTER
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