Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

Gervase laughed. “Which we never did.”

Simpson looked to be a few years younger than the chief, which still made him rather old to be Charlotte’s father, but Jason knew a bit about that. No one could have been more surprised than his own parents finding themselves pregnant again after having raised their family. Though technically the youngest of three, in practice Jason had been an only child.

He gathered Simpson was a widower and a little overprotective when it came to Charlotte. Not that Jason could blame a guy for being overprotective in a town where it had once been open season on teenage girls.

“I thank God I didn’t let Charlie go to that party,” Simpson said.

Gervase said, “We’re going to have to talk to her again about McEnroe. You know that.”

Simpson nodded. “She’s got nothing to hide.”

“Kids always think they have something to hide. We did.”

Simpson’s frown faded. He grinned at some long-ago memory.

Jason asked, “Were the remains of any of the other victims found in the vicinity of Rexford?”

Kennedy answered. “No. But that’s irrelevant. We’re dealing with a completely different offender. Pink didn’t care whether his victims were found or not. He didn’t stage them, but he was an exhibitionist in his own way. He liked the idea that people would be shocked and horrified by what he’d done. That said, once he was finished with them…out of sight, out of mind. Our unsub may be counting on Rebecca not being found.”

That put a chill on the discussion.

In silence Gervase exited the highway. They followed the road a mile or two until it turned to dirt and gravel. Gervase pulled off to the side and parked in a small clearing surrounded by oaks.

“From here we have to hike in,” Gervase said.

They were testing their radios as Boxner and Dale pulled up behind them and got out.

Gervase pointed to a trail leading through the trees. “We follow this path for two miles until we come to the highway overpass. At that point we’re going to have to crawl through the brambles and brush in order to scale the embankment. That’s the toughest part of this hike. Then it’s another couple hundred yards up on the left. The first thing you’ll see is what remains of the old stone mill. The trail forks there. If you go to the left, the path leads down to the old cemetery. If you stay to the right and follow the trail, it leads to the old road and what’s left of the village. I’d say we head straight for the village. Assuming we don’t find anything, we’ll canvass the cemetery on our way out.”

“Confirmed.” Kennedy pulled back the slide on his Glock and inspected the chamber.

Jason watched him perform the routine weapon check with a rising sense of tension. He couldn’t help noting the dryness of his mouth, the tightness of his chest, the knots in his stomach. What the hell was the matter with him? Did he imagine they were going to get into a shootout?

No, it was nothing that specific, nothing that comprehensible, and this general and irrational anxiety was infuriating.

He pulled his own weapon and checked it briskly, glad his hands seemed steady even if his heart was knocking around in his chest. He reholstered his pistol.

Boxner had already started down the trail, moving quickly as though determined to get this over with. Dale looked after him, looked at Gervase, shrugged, and followed.

“Ready?” Gervase asked.

“Let’s go,” Kennedy said, leading the way.

It took a little over an hour to make the trek, and that was due more to the caution that had to be exercised crawling through the Sleeping Beauty wall of thorns growing under the underpass.

The sun was warm on Jason’s head and shoulders and welcome after the gloomy shade of the woods. The air was pungently sweet with the scent of dead blossoms and baked earth. He could hear the hum of bees, the faraway rush of the main highway, and the crunch—and occasional slide—of Kennedy’s boots ahead of him.

Jason made sure to keep right on Kennedy’s tail, lest Kennedy, now aware of the shooting, get it into his head that Jason wasn’t physically fit either.

Jason had to give him credit. Kennedy was in terrific shape, and Jason was working to keep up with him. Mandatory retirement age for a special agent was fifty-seven, so Kennedy was probably ultra-conscious of maintaining his level of fitness.

Gervase and Simpson followed at a slower pace.

At last Jason topped the rise and spotted the mill below. A long stone building with a red roof—now half caved in—sat on what appeared to be a sand bar. To the side of the building a giant water wheel lying half in and half out of the trickle of water was all that was left of the former river that had powered the mill for a hundred years.

Boxner was right. This was one hell of a distance from the main drag.

And still farther to go. Through a wall of trees Jason could see rooftops and chimneys…a church spire. Rexford.

Jason wiped his forehead and took a couple of swigs from his water bottle.

Kennedy was already halfway down the right fork in the trail. Jason glanced back. Gervase and Simpson were coming up fast.

“That’s the cemetery to your left,” Gervase called.

Jason scanned what looked like a swampy meadow and spotted the overgrown cemetery, headstones like scattered teeth and bones.

“They didn’t bother to move the graves?”

Gervase shook his head.

“That can’t have gone over well.”

“No. People were pretty bitter. Course it was a long time ago.”

Jason continued the rest of the way with the chief and Simpson, listening absently to their conversation, his gaze on Kennedy striding briskly ahead.

At last they reached Rexford, which had been reduced to the long line of its former Main Street. Everything to the east was now at least partially under water. And to the west, the woodland was hungrily reclaiming its own. There were houses all but engulfed in trees—branches bursting through windows and doors and spilling out chimneys like green smoke.

At first glance, Main Street looked almost normal—until you realized in several cases only the front façade of the building was still standing. Most of the roofs were punctured with large holes. The black and gaping eyes and mouths of broken windows formed a line of shocked faces staring at the ruins of what had once been a small but thriving town.

Boxner and Dale waited with Kennedy, who was checking his phone.

Jason asked, “Are you getting a signal out here?”

“No.”

Gervase said, “George, me and you will take the houses down by the water. Boyd, you and Officer Dale go south, and Agents West and Kennedy can take the north part of town.”

“Got it,” Jason said.

“I can’t emphasize enough the need for caution. And if you do find anything…”

No need to spell that out.

Jason and Kennedy started north, going from building to building.

It was not a fast process. Each building had to be checked, room by room. In some cases that could be managed with a glance. In other cases, it meant walking up rickety stairs or crossing loudly creaking floors.

“Why would people just leave everything?” Jason studied a faded horsehair sofa that was now home to a family of rats.

“They’d wait too long, hoping for a reprieve,” Kennedy answered. “It’s what people do. And then some of them couldn’t afford to move everything. Some of them just gave up and walked away.”

It was a relief to step outside into fresh air and sunshine. The air inside the buildings was hot and humid and fetid.

Kennedy unscrewed the lid to his water bottle and took a drink. Jason did the same. His gaze fell on a white one-story building with pseudoclassical architectural elements.