Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake Series Book 2) Page 16

  “It started as postings. What do they call them on the Internet? Memes. One day he woke up and discovered he was the butt of a thousand jokes, and I can only imagine it devastated him; he never told me about it. He tried to handle it himself, and that only put fuel on the fire. They came after him like a pack of wild dogs. Put his personal details online. Posted stolen therapy records. They went further every day. My son had a three-year-old daughter. They first claimed he molested her, then forged paperwork that purported to prove it. Pictures. They posted these—horrible videos of—” Rivard’s voice fails him, and for the first time, I feel sorry for him. I know this story. I’ve lived it.

  He clears his throat. “The worst was, people believed it. There were websites formed around hounding him. Police investigated the claims of molestation. There was no truth to it, the case was dismissed, but that didn’t stop the crusade. There were avalanches of vile letters. Faxes. Phone calls. He couldn’t—he couldn’t get away from it. After a while, I suppose he didn’t even see the point of trying.” Rivard’s watery eyes suddenly shift to lock on mine. “You understand. I know you do, given what was done to you.”

  I slowly nod. From the day that Melvin’s horror chamber was broken open, my kids and I have been targets. You never understand how vulnerable you are in this age of social media until something breaks against you, and then . . . then it’s too late. You can shut down Facebook, Twitter, Instagram; you can change your phone number and your e-mail. Move to new places. But for dedicated tormentors, that isn’t a barrier. It’s a challenge. They enjoy hitting. They don’t particularly care if the blows ever land, and it becomes a contest of who can post the most shocking, degrading material. The torrent comes from nowhere, and everywhere, and the hatred . . . it’s like poison, seeping from the screen into your brain.

  It doesn’t take much of Absalom’s brand of abuse to erode your sense of balance, your confidence, your trust in those around you. When your enemies are faceless, they are everywhere. Paranoia becomes reality. At any given moment, even now, I can log on and find a firehose of hatred directed at me, and at my kids. I can watch it happen in real time. It’s a self-perpetuating engine of outrage.

  So I can sympathize with the hopelessness Ballantine Rivard’s son felt. I had days where ending things felt like the only way out of the trap. I’d survived, just barely. He hadn’t. It isn’t fair, or right, but it’s dreadfully human, the way we tear each other apart.

  “I’m sorry for what he went through,” I tell Rivard. I let a beat go by before I come back to the topic. “How did he kill himself?”

  Rivard’s eyes go distant and blind. “He jumped from this tower. He had an apartment here. The glass was thick; he had to make a dedicated effort to break it. I believe he used a marble bust. Then he jumped. Twenty-eight stories.”

  I give that a respectful moment of silence before I continue, “And, after he died . . . you hired this investigator to track down the people who went after him?”

  “No. I hired Mr. Sauer to investigate who was driving him to the brink of madness well before that. But Mr. Sauer disappeared just prior to my son’s death.” His hands tap restlessly on the armrests of his chair. Grip them tightly, until I can almost hear his knuckles crack.

  Now we are getting to it. “Did he give you regular reports? Information?”

  “Some,” he says. “Not as much as I’d hoped. He was due back to me with more details on the day he vanished. And now it’s time for you to explain to me how exactly you located my missing man.”

  We do. We leave Lustig out of it, but we tell him about the video we recovered—though not where we found it. Mike Lustig has the thumb drive, but Sam has taken the precaution of uploading it to the cloud, and he offers to play it for Rivard. Rivard provides a laptop, and Sam gives him the link. I don’t watch. I try not to listen, but I hear when Sauer gives up the name Rivard.

  Rivard stops the video. We are all silent for a moment, and then Sam says, “Do you recognize anyone? Any voices?”

  “No,” Rivard says. He sounds subdued and thoughtful. “And you found his body there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find anything else? Any clues?”

  “Just his wallet. The police will have it all now.” I consider mentioning the FBI, but I decide not to.

  “Would you be willing to give us what you have on Absalom?” Sam asks. My impulse would have been to demand it, but Sam’s right. Rivard’s sense of entitlement responds better to what he considers politeness. Whatever works. My ego isn’t at stake. “Mr. Rivard, I know you can hire a hundred investigators to go at this, but we’re here. We’re invested. And we’re going forward with or without you, so you might as well join with us, don’t you think?”

  “You’re proposing an alliance.” He glances at me, then back to Sam. “You realize that I’m a very public figure. I would have to ask you to withhold any mention of my involvement. I can, however, offer you resources to help you along. You’ll keep me informed of what you discover?”

  “Yes,” Sam says. “At every step.” He sounds completely trustworthy. But then, he lied to me successfully, too, for quite a while. He’s good at deception when he needs to be.

  Rivard seems to accept that at face value. “All right. He gave me a few names. Most of who Absalom seems to recruit are just kids, fifteen and sixteen years old. Sociopaths, yes, but too young to be held criminally responsible, and followers, definitely not leaders. Of the adults Mr. Sauer was able to track down, two were already dead when he located their identities.” Rivard takes in a raw breath. “He’d called that information in the morning he vanished, but I was hoping for more. He said he’d be back in touch. He wasn’t.”

  I try to keep my voice quieter. Softer. More feminine, which is what Rivard seems to favor. “Will you give us the last name that Mr. Sauer reported to you?” I ask it carefully. Quietly. I don’t look at him directly, for fear of raising his hackles again.

  Rivard considers. He does it a long time. There’s a knock—a discreet one—at the door, and it opens a small amount for the man in the blue suit to lean in. “Sir,” he says. “It’s almost time for treatments.”

  “So it is,” Rivard says. “A moment, Mr. Chivari.”

  Chivari waits inside by the door. Rivard works in silence for a moment on the laptop. As he punches keys, he says, almost absently, “The last name I was given by Mr. Sauer is Carl David Suffolk. He lives in Wichita, Kansas. Your old home, I believe, Ms. Proctor. I leave locating him up to you. Ah. Here. I believe that there is one last thing that you should see.”

  He faces the computer out toward us. I glance at his face, then down at the screen, and Sam leans forward. I’m expecting to see something about Carl David Suffolk, but he’s sucker punching me, and I don’t even see it coming.

  I recognize the house in the video. It’s . . . it’s mine. It takes me just an instant before that creeping sense of familiarity clicks in, and I feel like I’m drifting out of my body. For a second I think, Someone must have fixed our garage, but that’s stupid; the garage was never fixed after the wreck that broke open that brick wall and poured out my husband’s secrets. The house was torn down instead. There’s a park there now. I’ve been to it.

  But this video is of our old house, before. Before the world knew who we were, what Melvin was.

  I don’t know what I’m looking at, and I quickly glance up at Rivard’s face.

  “Wait for it,” he says.

  The video’s a little rough, but perfectly clear. It’s night, and the security lights fixed around the roof of our house—Melvin’s insistence—are all dark just now. They were motion sensitive, I remember. There’s a streetlight right at the curb that casts an unrelenting glow over the side of the house, and the one next door, and I remember how much trouble I went to, to find blackout curtains that Melvin liked because he hated sleeping in a room that wasn’t dark, and . . .

  I see an SUV come into the video frame. Its lights turn off, and it glides q
uietly into the driveway of our house.

  That’s our old minivan. I have a visceral memory of being in that vehicle, of driving it on the day that everything went wrong. That feeling of the world turning over sweeps through me again. I don’t know why Rivard is showing me this, but I’m afraid.

  The minivan triggers the motion light at the back of the house. Whoever’s filming moves jerkily and gets an angle on the driveway as the vehicle pulls beneath the carport at the end. It’s dark under the canopy. Brake lights flash, then go dark, and when the door opens, the video zooms forward and jumps around before fixing on the person getting out of the driver’s side.

  It’s Melvin. Younger than the last time I saw him. Eerily present. He glances around, and as he does, I think, He looks so normal. Just a normal man in a checked shirt and dad jeans. Just a normal monster.

  Then I realize that someone is getting out of the other side of the truck, and that someone is me.

  No. It’s Gina Royal.

  She looks different than I do. Her hair is longer, curled, and styled. She’s wearing a dress (he always liked me in dresses) that looks pale blue in the dim light. Heels. I don’t remember the dress, but I feel sick to my stomach, looking at Gina, at a person I used to be. Her head is down. Her shoulders are rounded. I never, ever thought I was an abused wife; I never even saw the way he controlled me, bullied me, manipulated my life. But it’s clear to me now as I look at the woman I used to be. Like seeing a ghost.

  Melvin opens the rear door of the van and says something. Gina moves to the back, and I’m struck by a weird sense—the strangest yet—of unreality.

  What am I seeing? I don’t remember this. Any of it.

  Melvin reaches in and slides something out.

  It’s a woman. A limp, unconscious woman. Her long hair sways as he lifts her under the arms, and Gina Royal picks up her feet. The young woman is wearing a gray top and blue shorts and running shoes, and Gina’s grip fastens around the girl’s ankles. She almost drops the weight as she fumbles to get the minivan’s door closed.

  I am numb. Silent. Stunned by a sense of utter wrongness.

  Because I didn’t do this.

  It never happened.

  And yet, I recognize the house. The vehicle. Melvin. Myself. The motion lights that snap on as I help Melvin Royal carry a victim into our house.

  The numbness shatters as the light falls full on the face of the woman not-me is helping to carry in, and I hear Sam’s groan, a deep, low sound like someone has reached inside and torn it out of him. It’s his sister. Callie.

  This isn’t right, I think. My head feels odd and weightless, and the world is wrong; everything is wrong. I am not this. I have never been this.

  The video goes dark.

  Rivard closes the laptop and hands it back to his assistant with a calm nod of thanks.

  I want to scream. Choke the bastard. Vomit. But instead I just sit, numb and frozen, waiting for the world to make sense again. Could I have? No. No, I would remember. I would know. I don’t remember this.

  I am not Melvin’s Little Helper.

  I finally lick my dry lips and say, “That isn’t me.” My voice sounds faint and weak and not my own. “It’s not me.” I feel cold and alone. I feel like I’m falling to the center of the earth.

  “That was my sister,” Sam says. “That was Callie—” Unlike me, Sam doesn’t sound cold. He sounds hot, boiling, barely in control. I feel the sofa shift as he launches to his feet and stalks away. I don’t turn to look, because I can’t. I can’t see the horror and revulsion in him right now. Rivard’s pale eyes follow his progress. “Is that real?”

  “No,” I say. “It can’t be. I didn’t do that. Sam, I—”

  “Is that real?” It’s a shout, raw and horrifying, and it isn’t directed at me, but I still flinch. He’s talking to Rivard. If I turn just a little, I’ll be able to see Sam’s face. But I can’t look. I don’t look.

  “No, I don’t believe that it is,” Rivard says calmly. “I believe this is an escalation of their ability to fake evidence. Still, you should know that this piece of artful fakery is out there on the dark web. So far, not many people have seen it, and fewer still understand what it implies.” He activates the controls on his sleek, expensive wheelchair, and behind him, the big double doors open. Chivari holds one side. The security man, Dougherty, holds the other. I sit and watch, not sure what I’m supposed to do now, as Rivard turns his chair in a neat half circle. He stops and slowly rotates it back to meet my eyes. “Mr. Sauer discovered that one of Absalom’s primary sources of income is making and selling a variety of false evidence . . . such as the falsified video of molestation they used against my son. When you called today, I purchased this particular piece of special-effects artistry from them.”

  “You . . . you bought it.” I don’t know what’s happening. I feel ill and cold. “Why would you do that?”

  “Perhaps I should say I purchased a copy. Because I believe in having leverage against those I don’t know, and I don’t know you, Ms. Proctor. Or you, Mr. Cade. Absalom clearly created this video with a plan, I believe, to discredit you should you ever decide to come against them. I can stop them by offering to buy it outright, remove it from the market; the price is tremendous, but if you cooperate with me, I will pay it and ensure your safety. In return, here is my price: go to Carl David Suffolk and tell him that I want to speak with him. Tell him that I am willing to offer him a great deal of money to that end. I will give you a sealed message to give him regarding his payment. I believe it will induce him to accompany you back.”

  “Why? What are you going to do with him?”

  “If it leads you to the rest of Absalom, and your ex-husband, what do you care?” he asks me. “I understand you might need a moment. Mr. Dougherty will see you back downstairs when you’re ready. Good day, Ms. Proctor. Mr. Cade.”

  I don’t want him to go. I don’t want those doors to close. I don’t want to be left alone, in silence, with Sam.

  The minefield we reached across before, the one we didn’t cross, has grown to miles of deadly traps, and I’m afraid to even look at him now. I sit back on the couch and wait for him to say something. He doesn’t. The silence is unbearable.

  Finally, I say, “Sam, I—”

  “We should go.” The words are an iron bar, slamming into my stomach, and I can’t breathe. “We should find Suffolk. If anyone ever sees that video, you’re finished.”

  I want to tell him that I didn’t do it, that I never saw any of Melvin’s victims, that I would never have helped him, never. But it sounds weak, and worse, it sounds like lies. Even my own confidence has been shaken by what I saw on that screen. Reality has bent and warped and shifted around me. And I don’t know what’s true and what’s a lie anymore.

  Sam walks past me to the door. He doesn’t look at me.

  I follow.

  12

  SAM

  I can’t look at her. Gwen. Gina. Her. After all the horrors we’ve seen, I thought I knew her. I thought she was . . . someone I could trust.

  And now, sitting in the same car with her is hard to take. I want to scream and pull the ejection lever and get the hell out of this, because everything is poisoned and toxic and wrong. The sight of Callie’s face has destroyed my world. Last time I saw her it was on a Skype call. I was in Afghanistan, getting ready to fly a mission. She was excited about something mundane—a new job she’d just landed, I remember now. A job she didn’t even live to start. I hadn’t known my sister, not for many years; we’d been separated when our parents died, adopted out separately. I’d never even seen her until I was deployed. I’d never seen her in real life at all. Only on video screens.

  This was another distant picture of her, light from a dead star, and suddenly I remembered how her lips curled when she smiled, and how her eyes shone when she laughed, and how she’d had a cat named Frodo, and I want to kill this woman who’s sitting so silently next to me. The one I don’t know at all.

&nb
sp; We’re back in our street clothes, the Rivard Luxe tracksuits left in changing rooms. We have our backpacks, our weapons, our phones. We should be back to normal. We are anything but that.

  I hurt all over, and I feel exhausted and wounded. We’ve left our rental behind—Rivard’s security chief guaranteed it would be returned for us, and the damage fees paid—and we’re in a Rivard-branded town car, heading for the airport. Not to the huge sprawl of Hartsfield, but to a smaller, more exclusive one: DeKalb-Peachtree. It’s the sort of place the Atlanta rich keep their jets and helicopters, and for a moment I miss flying again, the sheer mindless freedom of being up there in the blue. Being a passenger sealed inside a cabin isn’t the same.

  I could walk away, I think. It’s very clear to me, clear enough to touch. I could get out at the next stoplight, hail a cab, get a flight, go anywhere but here. I owe her nothing. Rivard can’t touch me. The sight of Callie’s unconscious face, knowing what would happen to her in the hours or days after that . . . it’s broken something inside me. I thought I was tougher than this. I was wrong.

  The only thing that makes me hesitate at the next red light is that it wouldn’t be just Gwen I walk out on. There are her kids, too—innocent kids who never did a damn thing wrong, who were born to a killer and don’t deserve to be torn apart by the wolves that are bound to come for them. If this video gets out, Gwen won’t be safe, not anywhere, not ever. And the kids will be just as endangered. I think about Connor, the quiet, introverted kid who came out of his shell in our hours together nailing shingles on the roof of their Stillhouse Lake house; I think about Lanny, a bright, stubborn girl who hides wounds under armor. Brave kids. Good ones.

  You’re not their savior, I tell myself. You don’t owe them a thing. That’s true. I just want to feel whole again. I thought revenge would do it, when I first started all this. Then I thought I was finding something like peace without that bloody price.

  Now, I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again.