Dead Even Page 6

  “You just put those legendary investigative skills to work. If anyone can dig out potential victims from a twenty-year-old slush pile, it would be you.” She paused and looked at his plate, where a small amount of chocolate remained. “In the meantime, are you going to finish that?”

  Genna Snow found her way through the darkened cabin, counting bed frames until she reached her own narrow bed at the end of the last row. She lowered herself quietly to the edge of the mattress and sat, leaning forward to untie her shoes. It was cool in the cabin, so her wool socks were still on her feet when she slid under the blanket and huddled herself to keep warm on the cold sheets. It was snowing again, and the leather shoes she’d worn when she entered the compound hadn’t been made for snow. She wondered what she’d been thinking when she’d taken them out of her closet the day she’d left for Wyoming.

  Of course, she reminded herself, it hadn’t been snowing in Virginia when she left four weeks ago, and hadn’t been snowing here, for that matter, but winter was moving across the mountains more quickly than had been forecast.

  She lay in the dark, her hazel eyes staring at the ceiling. She missed her husband. Missed her bed. Missed the cat they’d gotten from the animal shelter last Christmas. She hadn’t expected to be here, in the Valley of the Angels, for this long. It was now more than a month since she’d first shown up at the gates of Reverend Prescott’s compound and asked to be admitted. She’d made nice with all the gentle folks she met those first few weeks, proved to one and all that she was gentle folk herself. That she’d come into this camp with no weapon, well, that had been an act of faith on her part, one that had made John absolutely crazy when she told him she couldn’t take even a small handgun into the compound. If it was found on her, they’d know she wasn’t who she was pretending to be.

  And so Special Agent Genna Snow transformed herself into teacher Ruth Carey, and had sought a place in the compound. As Ruth, the résumé she’d brought with her had attracted the attention of Reverend Prescott himself, as she’d known it would. Ruth Carey had been terminated from her last teaching position for overzealously disciplining her charges.

  “It’s important, you see,” Ruth had explained to the reverend, “that young girls—adolescent girls—understand that they must tame their emotions. Discipline, partnered with the proper reward, of course, is what children need if they’re to understand their place in society, their function in this world.”

  “And that function is, Ms. Carey?” Reverend Prescott had asked.

  “Why, to submit to the will of their elders. To understand that, as young women, they lack the judgment to know what is best for them. They must accept whatever lot is chosen for them, because they simply aren’t capable of choosing for themselves.”

  “And who chose for you, Ms. Carey?” His eyes had narrowed.

  “My father, of course.” She had met his stare headon. “He met you several years ago, at a lecture you gave in Pennsylvania. He was already ill at the time, but he never forgot your lessons. He bought all of your books, all of your tapes. He did live a very spiritual life, Reverend Prescott. He tried to live up to your example, and encouraged me to do so as well.”

  “You speak of him in the past? Has he . . . ?”

  “I am sorry to say, I lost him last summer. After I was asked to . . . to leave my job, I was at a loss. Then, when my father passed away, it occurred to me that perhaps there might be a place for me here. I’ve heard about the wonderful work you do with runaways, Reverend. How you seek out those poor lost young souls and bring them here to help them discover their true spiritual nature. I’ve been wanting to offer my services to you, and to the young girls whom you’ve taken in, but while my father was alive, I believed that my place was there.”

  “And it was, of course it was.” Reverend Prescott had leaned across his desk and taken her hands between his own. It was all she could do to not pull away in disgust. Not because he was coming on to her, but because she’d been touched by the hands of a pedophile before, and her skin had never forgotten what it felt like.

  She forced a smile.

  “Thank you for understanding, Reverend Prescott.” She looked away modestly. “Do you think there could be a place for me here?”

  “I think perhaps we could fit you into our staff.”

  “Even though I was . . . dismissed . . . from my last teaching position?”

  “I’ve read the reports, Ms. Carey. How shortsighted those fools were to have let go a woman of your moral caliber and obvious spiritual nature.” He shook his head slowly, side to side. “The world out there is awash in misguided theories and adrift on a sea of ignorance. Anyone can see that today’s children need a well-marked course in life. They need guidance—and yes, discipline—to help them chart that course. To help them understand what is expected of them.”

  “Especially the young girls, Reverend.” She’d looked up at him piously. “There are so many dangers to young girls in the world. It’s a challenge to prepare them properly to take their place in the world.”

  “I can assure you, Ms. Carey, when a young girl leaves the Valley of the Angels, she is well prepared for her role.”

  He rose from his chair and extended a hand to her to assist her in rising.

  “I look forward to seeing what you might contribute to our girls’ education, Ms. Carey. You’ll be addressed as Miss Ruth here.” He walked her to the door and opened it. “Now, I’m going to hand you over to Miss Eleanor. She’ll get you settled in as a cabin mother with some of the older girls, and on Monday, you’ll start your new life as a teacher here in the Valley of the Angels.”

  “Reverend Prescott, I can’t thank you enough for taking me in. For giving me a chance to be part of the wonderful work you do here.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll become an integral part of that work, Miss Ruth.”

  A woman in her mid-fifties waited outside the door.

  “Miss Eleanor, please take Miss Ruth to cabin twelve. She’ll be the new cabin mother. Please help her get settled, introduce her to the girls . . .”

  Miss Eleanor nodded and gestured to Genna to follow her. Genna wondered if perhaps her companion had taken a vow of silence until they reached the outer doors of the building and stepped outside.

  “Do you have a suitcase? We’re not supposed to have but two changes of clothing, so you’ll have to go through your things and decide what it is you want to keep. The rest will go into the communal closet.” Eleanor had continued to chat all the way to cabin twelve, explaining the rules and regulations set up by Reverend Prescott to simplify life at the compound.

  Over the weekend, Genna—as Miss Ruth—had acclimated herself to life behind the compound walls and laid the groundwork for her true purpose in being there. In addition to gathering evidence that would shut down the child-prostitution ring that masqueraded as a shelter for the homeless and runaway girls whom Reverend Prescott lured to the Valley of the Angels with the promise of a home off the streets, she searched the face of every girl she met for Julianne Douglas. Late on Saturday afternoon, she found her. Genna was certain that the pretty young blonde girl known as Rebecca was Mara Douglas’s daughter, who’d been kidnapped by Mara’s ex-husband the day after their divorce had become final.

  Before leaving for Wyoming, Genna had studied computer-enhanced photographs created using software that could age faces in photographs. It had been used with a photo of the five-year-old Julianne to show how she might look now, at age twelve. Rebecca was the very image of the sketch Genna had memorized, but even without it, she’d have recognized the girl who bore such a strong resemblance to her aunt. Looking at Rebecca was like looking into the past and seeing Anne Marie McCall at that age.

  Over the next several weeks, Genna had had to earn the confidence not only of Rebecca, but also of Reverend Prescott as well. She was almost there, she knew. Almost at a place where she could leave the compound with Rebecca—Julianne—and disappear with her. Tomorrow would test whether or not he
r scheme would work.

  Genna turned over, restless. If she failed in convincing Reverend Prescott to permit her to spend an afternoon in town with one of the girls as a reward for lessons well learned, she’d have to come up with an alternative plan, and fast. She was running out of time. Soon the worst of the winter snows would begin to hit, and she’d be stuck here until such time as spring decided to arrive. How many months might that be?

  Too many. She shook her head in the dark. She’d already spent too many nights away from John. And in the time she was there, three girls had disappeared from the compound.

  In her mind, she rehearsed what she’d say to Reverend Prescott in the morning.

  “It’s occurred to me that perhaps a bit of competition among the girls might inspire them to even better work,” she would say.

  When pressed, she’d explain, “I’d like to have the girls write weekly essays. On appropriate topics, of course. As a reward, I will accompany the writer of the best essay into Linden for an afternoon. We can ride in with whoever goes in for supplies. As part of her reward, the girl will pick out a small treat—a journal, perhaps, or some colored pencils for her artwork, whatever she fancies—then we’ll have lunch there at the diner.”

  She practiced this over and over, thinking how she might reword this part or that, until she fell asleep.

  And the next morning, it had gone just as she’d suspected it might.

  “What on earth would be the purpose of that?” Reverend Prescott’s eyes had darkened with suspicion.

  “To promote healthy competition.” She’d smiled. “As well as to gain some greater insights into what the girls are really thinking. Besides, discipline without occasional reward rarely works well over time. There has to be some positive incentive.”

  He’d stroked his chin and stared out the window for a long moment, then turned back to Genna.

  “Have you already discussed this competition with the girls?”

  “Of course not. Not without your approval. Though I do have a stack of essays I’ve read through.”

  “I’ll let you try it this week; we’ll see what the results are.” He turned back to her. “But you understand that the girl is never to be out of your sight. That you are not to become involved in conversations with the people in town. And that you are not to call attention to yourself or to the girl in any way.”

  “Certainly not,” Genna responded defensively.

  “People in Linden are naturally curious about the Valley of the Angels.” He softened slightly at her obvious offense. “And there are those who cannot accept that what we do here, what we do for these girls, we do from love, with only their best interests at heart. There are those who are suspicious of our motives, those who would take the girls away from here, but what would happen to them then? They’d simply run away again, just like they did from their own homes, their own families. The last thing I want is for any of these girls to be exploited by someone on the outside. A careless word—”

  She held up her hand. “Please. I understand. And I assure you that the girls’ best interests are my own. We’ll be very discreet. We’ll simply have our little treat, and we’ll be back before the dinner bell rings.”

  “Then go ahead, Miss Ruth.” He watched her gather her wrap around her. “Any idea about who might be the first lucky little girl?”

  “I think perhaps Eileen.” Genna smiled. “She wrote a very lovely paper on submission.”

  He nodded approvingly. “Excellent. I’d like to read it.”

  “I’ll have it brought right over.”

  She’d left his office with her heart pounding, her stomach roiling. He was a disgusting excuse for a human being. He rescued girls off the streets only to clean them up—no one wanted a girl who looked like a junkie or a prostitute—to be sold into slavery, trading one form of hell for another.

  And yet, how clever, preying on girls who don’t want to be found, and dealing only with men who’d been investigated as carefully as modern technology would allow. Prescott’s finances, so far, had withstood scrutiny, since his fund-raising efforts were so successful. Who could refuse a man who showed the before-and-after photos of the young girls he’d rescued from the streets? Besides raking in money from the sale of the girls, he brought in thousands each week in donations.

  But once the first hints of the girls’ eventual fates had begun to leak out, the FBI had looked for a way to get inside and determine if the Valley of the Angels was in fact a front for trafficking children. Genna had demanded the assignment, and even her reluctant husband could not deny that she was the best qualified for the job. As a long-time friend of Anne Marie McCall, finding Julianne Douglas living within the compound walls had been a huge bonus for Genna personally.

  No one had spoken of the girls who had disappeared in the night, except to say that they’d been chosen to do the reverend’s work. That none of the other adults in the compound seemed to question this seemed absurd to Genna, but then, if they’re all involved in this together, perhaps not. . . .

  Well, it was her job to find out all she could about who was involved and where the girls were disappearing to. She still had to determine exactly what role Jules Douglas played here. She’d confirmed that he was there, had even seen him several times, though she’d not recognized him at first. These days, he sported a beard and slightly longer hair than he’d had in the old photographs Annie had produced, and he’d walked with a swagger she hadn’t expected. He seemed more arrogant, more aggressive than she’d imagined, and physically, he was taller, stronger, a far more imposing figure than she thought he’d be. Somehow, she’d expected a man who was quiet, reserved. The man she met at the compound was anything but. The Jules she met in the Valley of the Angels was nothing short of intimidating.

  If she could prove that he was actively involved in laundering the money, and that he knew where that money was coming from, she could make yet another case for a long prison term for Mara’s ex-husband. After all he’d put Mara and Annie through over the years, Genna was more than a little eager to see that he paid the price. The kidnapping charges could turn out to be the least of Jules Douglas’s worries.

  In the meantime, Genna had already confirmed the presence of Julianne Douglas within the compound, and she laid the groundwork for her escape. This week, knowing she’d be carefully watched, she’d take a girl other than Julianne into town. Next week, to avoid any lingering suspicions Reverend Prescott might have, she’d take a second girl. But the following week, she’d take Julianne.

  Genna wished only that she could be there to see the expression on the face of Reverend Prescott—and Jules Douglas—when it was discovered that the conscientious Miss Ruth had left the Valley of the Angels for good, and had taken young “Rebecca” with her.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Miranda stood on the top step of the inn’s front porch, one hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare of the early-morning sun, searching from one end of the street to the other for Will’s familiar form. He had to be out here somewhere. She’d knocked on his door at seven—certainly loudly enough to awaken a light sleeper, as she knew Will to be—but he hadn’t answered. Since then, she’d had breakfast and made several phone calls, but he hadn’t shown up.

  Oh, well. Will’s the proverbial bad penny, she reminded herself. He’ll turn up sooner or later.

  And sure enough, just as she was about to go back inside, there he was, crossing the street, jogging toward the inn.

  “Waiting for me?” he called.

  “You wish.”

  He was barely breathing hard. How annoying.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I just came out to see what the weather was like.”

  “Hey. Navy pinstripes today. I like it.” Before she could respond, he said, “Did you know that Fleming had its own tea party of sorts back in the days of the Revolution? Only they didn’t throw the tea into the harbor—because, hey, no harbor—but they dumped it into the gorge
on the outskirts of town. Pretty neat, huh?”

  “Ummm, neat.”

  “There’s a statue down in the center of town commemorating the event. Right across the street from the tattoo parlor.”

  “Sounds like Fleming has a little something for everyone.”

  “Though you’d have thought the town fathers might have been a little more selective in what type of business moved into that part of town, but then again, when you have a lot of empty storefronts, I guess you have to take what you can get.”

  “I guess.” She backed up as he approached, as if consciously or unconsciously keeping space between them. “Did you finish reading the file?”

  “Yes. We’ll talk about it over coffee, if that’s all right with you. Let me take a quick shower, and I’ll meet you in the dining room. Ten minutes. I have an idea.”

  He went into the inn before she could respond.

  She muttered under her breath and followed him inside to the lobby, watching—despite her attempts not to—as he jogged up the steps to the second floor.

  It doesn’t hurt to look, she reminded herself, as long as she wasn’t tempted to touch.

  And I am not tempted. I am not, am not, am not. . . .

  She helped herself to a cup of coffee from the breakfast buffet and sat down at a sunny table. It was a perfect autumn day, perfect for . . . what?

  What would she do, if she had the day to herself? Walk in the woods, maybe, fallen leaves crunching underfoot, the smell of autumn in the air, geese honking overhead. Or maybe stroll along the shore, breathing in cool salt air and listening to the crash of waves upon the sand. Or visit one of those old churchyards she’d passed on the way into Fleming, and take some rubbings off the old battered grave markers . . .

  Her mind wandered back through pictures in her mind, and she was startled when she realized she’d done all of those things, but not alone. She’d done them with Will.

  Walking along the paths in Rock Creek Park, in D.C., on a crisp late November morning. Layers of leaves crackling as they moved, single file, through the early mist, following the trail of a killer on Miranda’s second day in the field. They’d met in the parking lot at dawn, after they’d been called in to help search the woods for a man believed to have shot and killed several customers in a convenience-store robbery, and had taken a live hostage. The hostage was a woman who happened to work for the Bureau, and the team had been gathered in record time. Later Miranda admitted to herself—though she’d have died before she’d have admitted it to him—that she’d been a bit starstruck at working on a case with Will. He was well known around the Bureau for being intuitive, smart, and capable, and was respected by his fellow agents for his easygoing manner and keen humor. The men counted themselves lucky if they called him friend. Most of the women wanted to call him something else.