Stillhouse Lake Page 18

  "Want me to call anybody?" He asks it of the empty air, as if he's asking the dead girl. I'm not really looking at him, either. It's a conversation in which neither of us is willing to commit. So typical of both of us.

  "I think that's a little late," I say, and I mean that for the dead girl and me both. We're both lost and adrift now, exposed to the world without any hope of shelter. I'm instantly ashamed of myself for thinking of us as being in any way alike, though. I didn't spend hours, maybe days, suffering at the hands of a sadist and then experience the horror of dying at his hands. I'd only been married to one. "I told Prester, but if you could just make sure he looks after Connor and Lanny--the word's gotten out, Sam. About where we are. Did you do that?"

  He snaps his attention to me with a suddenness that feels completely natural. I can see the pulse of surprise, the shift in the way he feels. "Did I what?"

  "Did you dox me out on the Internet?"

  "Of course I didn't!" he blurts with a frown, and I believe him. "I wouldn't do that, Gwen. No matter what. I wouldn't put you or the kids at risk like that."

  I nod. I don't really think it was him, though he'd be a logical suspect. No, I imagine some bright bulb in the Norton Police Department decided to get some righteous, anonymous justice on. Could even be a clerk. Anyone in the chain of discovery with knowledge of my old identity, ending with Detective Prester. I can't even really blame them. Nobody's forgotten Melvin Royal.

  Nobody's forgotten Melvin's Little Helper, either. There's a certain rabid, unhealthy fascination people have with male serial killers, but female accomplices are hated so much more. It's a toxic stew of misogyny and self-righteous fury, and the simple, delicious fact that it's okay to destroy this woman, where it's not okay to destroy others.

  I can never be forgiven for being innocent, because I'll never be innocent.

  Sam looks away again, and I think, somewhat irrationally, that he wants to tell me something. Confess something. He rocks back and forth some more, says nothing, and then he shakes his head and starts to walk away, toward my house.

  Detective Prester says, without turning or shifting his attention, "Mr. Cade. I'll be needing a word with you, too."

  "You can find me at Ms. Proctor's house," he says. "I'm going to make sure the kids are okay."

  I can see Prester debating whether or not to push it, but he clearly decides it can wait. He's got his big fish on the line. No point in catching more than he can fillet at one time.

  I text Lanny quickly that it's okay to let Sam in, and when he gets to the door, she throws it open and flings herself into his hug. So does Connor. It's surprising how easily they welcome him, and I admit I feel a little stab of hurt.

  For the first time, I wonder if me continuing to be part of their lives is actively, constantly damaging them, and the question is so big, so awful, that it makes my breath catch and swell painfully in my throat. That question might be out of my hands now. My kids might be swept away into the Social Services system, and I might never see them again.

  Stop. You're thinking like HE wants you to think. Like a helpless victim. Don't let him take away what you've achieved. Fight for it.

  I let my eyes drift close and will myself to let go of the worry, the pain. My breath eases, and when I open my eyes, I find Detective Prester has finished with the two boaters who found the body. He's coming my way.

  I don't wait; I turn and head for his sedan. I hear the slight scuffle of his shoes on the deck as he is caught off guard, but he doesn't tell me that I'm wrong. I know that he wants to question me in private.

  We get into the back seat, me on the passenger side, him behind the driver's spot, and I sink into the warm, cheap upholstery with a slow sigh. I'm tired suddenly. Still scared, on some deep animal level, but I know that whatever's happening now I can't change.

  "You said the information about you is on the Internet," Prester says. "Before we get started, I want you to know that's not my doing. If it was anybody in our shop, I'll find out and tear them a new asshole."

  "Thanks," I say. "But that doesn't help now, does it?"

  He knows it doesn't and hesitates only a second before he pulls a digital recorder from his pocket and turns it on. "Detective Prester, Norton Police Department. Today's date is--" He checks his watch, which I find funny, until I see he's wearing a vintage one with a calendar built right in. "September twenty-third. The time is seven thirty-two. I'm interviewing Gwen Proctor, also known as Gina Royal. Ms. Proctor, I'm going to read you your rights; it's just a formality."

  It isn't, of course, and I quirk a smile at that. I listen as he lists them with the droning ease of a man who has a lot of practice at Mirandizing, and when he finishes, I tell him that I understand the rights he has explained. We're both pleasant, getting the basics out of the way. Two old hands at this.

  Prester's voice changes to a low, quiet rumble. "Would you prefer I call you Gwen?"

  "That's my name."

  "Gwen, this morning a second body was found floating in the lake within sight of your front door. You have to understand this looks bad, given your--well, your history. Your husband is Melvin Royal, and he has a very specific kind of past. The first girl we found in the lake, that might have been a strange coincidence, I'll allow that. But two of them? Two are a plan."

  "Not my plan," I say. "Detective, you can ask me a million questions a million ways, but I'm going to tell you everything I know, straight up. I heard the scream. It woke me right out of bed. I came out of my room the same time as my kids; they can vouch for that. I came out here to find out what was going on, and I saw the two people in the boat and the body in the water. That is absolutely everything I know about this situation. I know even less about that first body."

  "Gwen." There's so much reproach in Prester's voice that he sounds like a disappointed father. I appreciate his tactics, intellectually. Many detectives would go at me hard, but he instinctively knows that what disarms me, what I don't know how to parry, is kindness. "We both know that isn't going to be the end of it, don't we? Now, let's go back to the beginning."

  "That was the beginning."

  "Not this morning. I want to go back to the first time you saw a body mutilated like this. I read the trial transcripts, watched all the video I could get. I know what you saw that day in the garage of your house. How'd that feel?"

  Cognitive technique. He's trying to lead me back to a traumatic moment, put me back in that feeling of helpless horror. I take a moment, then say, "Like my entire life collapsed under my feet. Like I'd been living in hell and not even knowing it. I was horrified. I'd never seen anything like that. I'd never even imagined it."

  "And when you realized that your husband was guilty, not just of that murder but of others?"

  I put an edge in my voice. "How do you think I felt? And still feel?"

  "No idea, Ms. Proctor. Bad enough to change your name, I guess. Or maybe that was just so you could get people to stop harassing you."

  I glare at him, but of course he's right, even though he minimizes it. For most people who exist in the normal world, the regular world, the idea of taking some Internet mob's threats seriously is a sign of weakness; Prester is probably no different. I'm suddenly very glad that Sam is with the kids. If the phone starts ringing, he can handle the torrent of abuse. He'll be shocked at the intensity and volume of it. Most men are.

  I feel weirdly empty and too tired to care. I think of all the effort, all the money, and I think maybe I should have just stayed put back in Kansas, let the assholes take their best shot. If it all ends the same way, why put all the time and energy into trying to build a new, safe life?

  Prester is asking me something, and I've missed it, and I have to ask him to repeat it. He looks patient. Good detectives always look patient, at least at first. "Walk me through your days the last week."

  "Starting when?"

  "Let's start with last Sunday."

  It's an arbitrary place to begin, but I comply. It isn't tough. My
life isn't normally a whirlwind of activity. I assume that the second victim disappeared on or around Sunday, given the state of her body. I give a thorough accounting, but as I'm moving forward, I realize that I have a decision to make. The flight I took to visit Melvin in El Dorado falls inside this timeline. Am I going to tell Prester I paid my serial killer ex a call? Am I going to lie about it and hope I don't get caught out? That's really not an option, I realize; he's a good detective. He'll check visitor logs in Kansas, and he'll realize I've been to see Mel. Worse, he'll see I visited him right before the body came up.

  No good choices. I get the sense that whatever unseen force is pushing me has designed this moment, too. I look down at my hands, then up, staring out the front window of the sedan. It's warm in here and smells of old, stale coffee. As interrogation rooms go, it could be worse.

  I turn and look at Prester and tell him about the visit to El Dorado, about the copies of letters he'll find in my house from Melvin Royal, about the torrent of abuse and threats that keep coming at me. I don't make it dramatic. I don't weep or shake or show him any sign of weakness; I don't think it will matter if I do.

  Prester nods as if he already knew all that. Maybe he did. Or maybe he's just a great poker player. "Ms. Proctor, I'm going to have to take you in to the station now. You understand that?"

  I nod. He takes handcuffs out from behind him; they're in a worn old case on the back of his belt, and I turn without complaint and let him lock them on. As he does, he tells me I'm under arrest for suspicion of murder.

  I can't say I'm surprised.

  I can't say I'm even angry.

  The questioning is a blur. It goes on for hours; I drink bad coffee, water, eat a cold sandwich of turkey and cheese sometime in there. I nearly fall asleep, because I'm so tired and--finally--the numbness is gone, and I can be afraid, so afraid it feels like a constant, cold storm inside. I know that if the news hasn't gotten out yet, it will in a matter of hours, and in less than a day it'll be around the world. The twenty-four-hour news cycle feeding an endless appetite for violence and spawning thousands of new, eager recruits to punish me.

  My children are exposed, fragile, and it's my fault.

  I stick to my story, which is all the truth at this point. I'm told there are witnesses to swear that I was seen in town the day the first girl disappeared; turns out she was also eating at the bakery where Lanny and I stopped to gorge ourselves after her suspension from school. I barely remember her--the girl in the corner, with the iPad and tattoo. I wasn't focused on anyone but my daughter, and all my petty problems.

  It prickles needles all up and down my spine to think that no one saw that girl after the bakery. That someone abducted her out of that parking lot, maybe while we were still inside, maybe just after we'd gone.

  Whoever was doing this, I think, watched us the entire time. Even worse, they must have been following us, following me, waiting until there was proximity to a victim who matched the profile that they could safely grab. Even then, it was a huge risk, not something for amateurs; even in a small town, especially in a small town, people notice anything out of the ordinary. Abducting a woman in broad daylight . . .

  Something slips across my mind, something important, but I'm too tired to make sense of it. Prester wants to start at the beginning again. I go through my life since fleeing Wichita. I describe in detail my movements, from the time the first girl disappeared to the time the second surfaced in the lake. I tell him everything I can remember of my conversation with my ex-husband. None of it helps him at all, but I'm trying, and I know he can tell.

  A knock comes at the door, and another detective offers another sandwich and a soda, and I accept. So does Prester. We eat together, and he tries casual chat; I'm not in the mood, and besides, I recognize it as technique, not interest. We finish our food in silence, and we're just getting back to the questions when the knock comes again.

  Prester sits back in his chair, frowning, as the other officer leans in. I don't know him--he's also African American but far younger than Prester. Barely old enough to be out of college, I think. He glances at me, then turns his attention to the detective. "Sorry, sir," he says. "There's been a development. You should probably hear this."

  Prester looks irritated, but he shoves back from the table and follows.

  Before the door is closed, I see someone being led down the hall past the door. It's only a glimpse, but I take in that it's a white man, in handcuffs, and I have an instant impression of recognition well before I can think who it is.

  When I do, I sit back hard in my chair, clutching the half-empty can of Coke so hard it crackles with pressure.

  Why the hell is Sam Cade here in handcuffs?

  And where the hell are my kids?

  9

  The interrogation room door is locked, of course, and though I batter at it and yell, I get no response at all . . . not until my voice has grown hoarse and my knuckles red from knocking.

  It's Prester who finally unlocks the door and shoves himself in the way to keep me from charging out. I don't quite make contact with him. I back off a step, breathing hard, and say in the harsh, growling voice I've developed, "Where are my kids?"

  "They're fine," he tells me in that low, soothing tone as he closes the door behind him. "Come on, now, Ms. Proctor, you sit down. Sit. You're tired, and I'll tell you everything you need to know."

  I find myself sinking into the chair again, wary and tense, hands fisted on my thighs. He stares at me for a second before he sits and leans forward on his elbows. "Now then. You must have seen Mr. Cade being brought in a while ago."

  I nod. My gaze is fixed on his. I wish desperately that I could read him. "Did--did Sam do something to my kids?"

  Prester's face goes a little slack and then tightens, and he shakes his head. "No, Gwen, not at all. They're just fine. Nothing's happened to them. I expect they're a little scared about what's going on and where they are right now."

  "Then why do you have Sam?"

  Prester stares at me for a long while this time, reading me. He has a file in his hand, I realize. Not the same one he had before. This one has a new buff-colored exterior. Hasn't even gotten a label on it yet.

  He puts it on the table but doesn't open it. He says, "What exactly do you know about Sam Cade?"

  "I--" I want to scream at him to just tell me, but I know I have to play the game. So I control my voice and say, "I ran a background check on him. Credit check. All that kind of stuff. I do it for anyone who comes around me or my kids. He was clean. A veteran who served in Afghanistan, just like he said."

  "That's all true," he tells me. He opens the folder and takes out a formal military photo: Sam Cade, a little younger, a little less ragged, in a sharply creased blue air force uniform. "Decorated helicopter pilot. Four tours, Iraq and Afghanistan. Came home to find out his beloved sister was dead." He opens my folder now. Takes out the picture of the nightmare, the dead woman dangling from her steel noose. Suddenly I am there again, standing in the sun on the ruined lawn, staring into the shattered sanctum of Mel's garage. I smell the stench of dead flesh, and it takes everything I have not to shut my eyes, hide myself from it.

  "This," Prester says, tapping the photo with one thick fingernail, one time, "is his sister, Callie. No surprise you missed his relationship to her; they got orphaned in a car wreck when he was eight and she was just four. Sent to separate foster homes. He kept his birth parents' name, but she didn't. She got a full adoption and grew up not even knowing him. They started corresponding when he was deployed. I guess he was really looking forward to reconnecting with her when he got home. And he comes back from serving his country to find this."

  My mouth has gone dry. I think about how close I came to discovering the connection. I think about the searches that turned up nothing. He must have gone to some lengths to keep his name off the web. Or he hired someone to clean it off.

  Sam Cade has been stalking me. I have no question about it now; he moved in after I had
, into that cabin, though he made a point of not encountering me until much later on. He made it seem natural. He worked his way in the door, into my life, into the lives of my kids, and I hadn't seen a thing.

  I wanted to throw up. Gwen Proctor wasn't a new person. She was just Gina Royal 2.0, ready to fall for anything sold to her by a man with a nice face and an easy smile. I'd left him with my kids. Jesus. God forgive me.

  I can't get my breath. I realize I'm sucking in air too fast, and I duck my head and try to control my breathing. I feel light-headed, and I hear the scrape of the chair as Prester gets up and comes around to rest his hand gently on my back. "Easy," he tells me. "Easy, slow down now. Deep breaths. In, out. Good."

  I pant the question out, ignoring his advice. "What did he do?" Anger is what I need. Anger steadies me, grounds me, gives me a purpose and forces the panic right out. I straighten up, blinking away the spots, and he takes a step back. I wonder what he's just seen in my face. "Is it him? Is Sam the one who killed those girls?" Because wouldn't that just be perfect. Gina Royal falls for a serial killer, twice. Can't say I don't have a type.

  "We're looking into that," Prester says. "Point is, Mr. Cade is a person of interest, and we're questioning him. Sorry about springing it on you that fast, but I wanted to know . . ."

  "You wanted to see if I already knew who he was," I snap back. "Of course I fucking didn't know. I'd never have left my kids with him, would I?"

  I can see him taking the idea out for a spin. No way I'd willingly allow a victim's relative into my life, into my house, if I had known better. Prester's trying to fit some scenario together where Sam Cade and I have done this together, but not only do the edges not fit, they're not even from the same damn puzzle. Either I killed these girls or Sam Cade did, in some crazy attempt to implicate me and earn me the prison sentence he thought I'd cheated . . . or neither of us did it. But we didn't do it together. Not by the facts he's got before him.

  Prester doesn't like this at all. I can see him working at it, and I don't blame him for looking like he needs a bottle of bourbon and a day off.