Pamela should have killed him herself years ago.
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Your mother volunteered to be a part of my program.” With nothing but the car’s dash putting off soft light, Pamela was able to inch her right hand into her case. “I really am sorry your mother died.”
“She didn’t just die,” the girl shouted. “She killed herself because of what you did to her. And I know she didn’t volunteer for anything. That piece of shit who raped her took her. Her friend Joanna figured out who he and the blonde woman who helped him were so it was easy for me to find them. I planned their murders for weeks. I made sure they both got exactly what they deserved.”
Joanna Guthrie. That relentless bitch had spoiled everything. She had walked away with her life. What else did she want? Fury swelled inside Pamela. Madelyn was dead and it was Joanna’s fault. She would pay for taking Madelyn from her.
“Wait,” Pamela said suddenly. “Don’t you want to rescue the missing girls first? If you kill me, they’ll die. I’m the only one left who knows where they are. Your mother would never want you to do that.”
Carson looked like a deer trapped in the headlights for a moment. “Show me where they are. Right now.”
“You’ll have to follow me.”
“Just remember I’ve already killed two people,” Carson warned. “I’ll kill you, too. I don’t care how many have to die before I’m finished.”
“I’ll do whatever you say,” Pamela promised.
The girl didn’t know it yet, but she was walking into her own grave.
Joanna Guthrie was going to die, too.
She had taken the one person Pamela truly loved—nothing else really mattered.
47
Day Twelve
Eighteen years ago...
I don’t know how many days have passed with no food. No water yesterday or today.
My skin burns like fire from the intense lights.
My brain refuses to shut down. I cannot sleep.
Ellen lies on the floor, not moving, not speaking, eyes closed.
Carrie doesn’t move much either but she curses every now and then. He—whoever their captor is—has not spoken again.
Has he left us here to die?
It feels as if we are very close to death.
I think we’ve reached a place where we must choose to go on or to give up. I’m so tired and I hurt all over. I’m not really hungry anymore but I am very, very thirsty.
Don’t give up, Jo.
Her brother, Ray, would shake her and say, you’re no quitter, Jo-Jo! You’re just starting. We’re a tough bunch. We don’t give up. Look at what Dad accomplished in his life with nothing more than sheer determination.
Her brother would be right. Their father had no education, no money and no family to back him up when he aged out of the foster care system. But he didn’t let that stop him. He worked hard doing any job he could find. No matter if it was digging ditches or washing cars or repairing cars, he did his very best. A few years later he was the top mechanic at the used car lot where he worked. Before long he was the shop foreman at a dealership. All with a sixth-grade education and pure determination.
I drag myself up. My daddy always says I’m like him. He says we have grit. Well, it’s time I start acting like it.
“We have to get up.” I open my eyes just enough to see. “We have to walk around.” I reach for Ellen and start to pull her up. She doesn’t look happy about it but she eventually stands. Her legs try to buckle.
“Get up, Carrie! We have to move around.”
She groans and curses but she, too, struggles to her feet. I pull her to my side. With Ellen on one side of me and Carrie on the other, we walk around the room, holding on to each other for support.
We alternately laugh and cry but we keep going.
We aren’t going to die today.
48
MPD Public Safety Office
Monday, April 16, 10:00 a.m.
The coroner with the help of a medical examiner from Macon had spent most of the night attempting to determine if Professor Orson Blume had committed suicide. The final conclusion was that he had, in fact, taken his own life.
At daybreak this morning Tony and Jo, along with Nick and Bobbie, had headed out to the Central State Hospital property. Their search had begun with the old cemetery. The idea that all those people were buried there with nothing more than numbered iron markers—most of which were now lost—was mind-boggling. They’d found no indication of new graves anywhere in the area so they’d moved on to join the other search teams.
Milledgeville PD had begun an investigation into Blume and his wife, who was still unreachable. Colleagues and neighbors insisted both were out of the country. Obviously that was not true. One friend of Pamela’s suggested the two were rarely ever seen together anymore. Blume had retired and was busy writing a book on his life’s work while his wife was still striving for the brass ring in her career.
Agent Johnson had checked with the Bureau and Pamela Blume hadn’t left the country unless she’d done so using a passport other than her own. She was still here, somewhere. Tony suspected tying up loose ends before she disappeared.
He needed her to be here. He needed to find her. Otherwise Tiffany and the others might not be found in time. Wherever she was, a BOLO had been issued.
Tony needed to be back out there with Jo, Bobbie and Nick searching the hospital grounds. But Phelps had wanted him here for the morning briefing with the joint task force. This thing had grown far too big to be held in the small campus security conference room.
They’d gotten nothing on the BOLO for Sylvia Carson. She’d vanished the same way Tiffany and Vickie had. MPD had found her Honda Civic in Madelyn Houser’s garage. Phelps had apologized profusely that his detective hadn’t checked the license on the vehicle in Houser’s garage. The vehicle had been backed in so the plate wasn’t readily visible. The detective had assumed the car was Houser’s. Carson had used the Jag to keep a step ahead of the police. There had been no sightings of the Jag either.
How the hell could they lose four women and one Jag in a town this small?
Volunteers from several counties had arrived to help with the search. Tony was grateful for every pair of boots on the ground.
His cell vibrated and he fished it from his pocket. A number he didn’t recognized flashed on the screen.
“LeDoux.”
“Mr. Gates?”
Tony hesitated, then remembered giving that name at the walk-in clinic. “Speaking.”
“Oh, good, hello. This is Renae from the walk-in clinic. I’m sorry to bother you. I know this is a terrible time for your family.”
“No, hey, I’m glad you called.” He stepped out of the conference room. The briefing was over and most had gone on their way. A few uniforms were still mulling over maps. “Do you have some news for me?”
“I don’t know what difference it makes, but I think I do.”
“You never know what might help,” he offered.
“I guess you heard about Dr. Alexander. She was in a terrible car accident the same day you and your wife were here. Well, she died this morning.”
Tony hadn’t heard that news. “That’s a shame. I’m sure she’ll be missed.”
“You know, I almost didn’t call because it felt like I was going behind her back, but she’s gone and there’s no help for that. I want to do whatever I can to help your wife find her sister.”
“I really appreciate that, Renae.”
“I was looking through Tiffany Durand’s and Vickie Parton’s files and I saw where the office administrator had sent a copy to Dr. Blume. You might know him as the psychology professor at the college, though I think he’s retired. Since neither woman was a patient of either one of the Doctors Blume, I found that odd. The report explained how both women were in good health and excellent mental condition. I asked our lead nurse but she’s so upset right now she blew me off.”
“You can’t tell if the reports were sent to Orson Blume or Pamela Blume?”
“Sorry, it just says Blume.”
“What about the address?”