Elizabeth saw it then, so clearly.
“I love her, Detective. I may not show it, not with the houses, the career, the issues with my wife. I may not show it, but my daughter is my life.” He put a palm across his heart, the red now in his eyes. “Channing is my life.”
*
Elizabeth had seen it a thousand times before: people taking others for granted until the others were gone. He was close to tears when she left, a large man, breaking.
She felt the smallest sympathy.
Back at the street, reporters collected at the end of the drive, cameras up and the questions louder. Three of the boldest blocked the exit, and Elizabeth accelerated so there would be no confusion about her intent.
There wasn’t.
When she was through she moved faster, skirting the center of town this time, then turning down a narrow one-way street lined with white picket and wisteria. That was the back way into her neighborhood, and it shaved a few minutes off her time, the old car complaining at the first ninety-degree turn. The next street was hers—a shaded lane—and she raced its length without apology or regret. Everything felt wrong, not just Channing’s message but Elizabeth’s choices, too. She should have kept the girl closer, never left town. Explanations rose in her mind, the possibility of lost phones or resentments or miscommunications. But, nothing was that clean.
Wait.
Please.
Don’t.
Elizabeth made the driveway and left the car running. She found a broken bottle on the porch, and a glass turned on its side.
“Channing?”
The door grated on its broken hinge, and she moved through the empty house, calling the girl. She checked the backyard, then searched the house again. No note. No sign. Back outside, she took her time on the porch, finding a flowerpot out of place and a dark smear she knew was blood. She touched the stain, then tried Channing’s cell again and found it ringing in a bush beside the porch. She stared at it, disbelieving, then broke the connection.
The girl was gone.
29
By the time Elizabeth reached the station a lump of dread had settled in her stomach. Something was wrong, and it was something bad. The message and the blood, the broken bottle and the lost phone. Channing went to Elizabeth’s house, but would have stayed there. She had no doubt. The girl was in trouble. But nothing meaningful could be done without access to police resources, and that could be a problem.
The place was crawling with FBI and state police and enough media to make the collection at Channing’s house seem small by comparison. She parked across the street, a hundred feet down. The feds were unmistakable with their black cars and stenciled Windbreakers. The SBI investigators were only a shade less obvious. Taking out the new phone, she called James Randolph, who answered on the first ring. “Jesus, Liz. Where are you?”
“I’m parked out front. What’s happening?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Christ. Listen.” He paused a beat. “Can you meet me in back?”
“Yes.”
“Two minutes.”
He hung up, and Elizabeth took a right turn to avoid the camera crews and reporters. She worked a wide route, traveling extra blocks to approach the rear of the station from the other side. At secure parking, she keyed the pad and waited as the gate rolled open on heavy-gauge wheels. She saw Randolph on the steps, a cigarette pinched between thin lips. He dipped his head left, and she turned for that corner of the lot, meeting him in a shady place beneath a locust tree that rose from an empty lot on the other side of the fence. “Goddamn, Liz. Where have you been?”
“Good to see you, too.” She exited the car. He was worked up, and that was rare for him. James had been around long enough to see most everything. “Can I have one of those?”
“What? Yeah. Sure.”
He shook out a cigarette, and she watched his face as he lit a match. She wanted him settled. “Thanks.” She leaned into the match. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. Things have been crazy.”
“Because of Adrian?”
“Yes and no.”
“The dead guard?”
“What? Oh. Him.” Randolph raised his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess that’s part of it, him being murdered and all.”
“What’s happening here, James?” He held the gaze; drew hard on the cigarette. “James?”
He flicked the butt; looked miserable. “Ah, shit.”
*
They went through the secure door, and Randolph talked as they followed the long hall and took the stairs up. He told her about the investigation at the church. “Nine more bodies.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that’s the final count. We dug ’em up, hauled ’em out. They’re with the medical examiner, now. Listen, I know this is hard for you, more victims in such a special place.”
She stopped him with a raised hand. Everyone considered it her father’s church, her childhood home. It hadn’t been like that for a long time, but this was too big.
Nine more bodies?
Nine?
“Are you okay?”