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Ahead of him, so close that if it were daytime he may be visible from the street, a boy lies facedown among the undergrowth. Bill doesn’t rush forward to check on him or try to help. Instead, he backs up carefully and returns to the street in time to see the next car show up. There’s nothing else he can do. He can’t save him. It wasn’t the crash that killed thatboy.
Several miles away in a darkened Sherwood bedroom, the shrill sound of the phone ringing jostles Sam Johnson out of his sleep. His heavy hand searching the space beside the bed knocks the phone from its cradle and onto the ground. He groans as he leans down to pick it up.A quick glance at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table tells him there are still several more hours beforesunrise.
“Hello?” he grumbles, unsure if whomever is on the other end of the line will even understand him.
He’s still half asleep, but the grogginess doesn’t last for long. The words that come through the line dissolves it away and he’s soon sharplyawake.
“We need you out at Camp Hollow. The Cherry Hill department is calling in everyone they can get their handson.”
“What’s going on?” Samasks.
“I can’t talk about it over the phone. You just need to get out here right away. And, Sheriff? Bring yourwife.”
The storm stopped a couple of hours ago, but there’s still that threatening feeling in the air, so I tug on my navy slicker before getting out of the car onto the unpaved parking area. The gravel beneath my feet isn’t the large, sparkling stones of a freshly laid or carefully maintained patch. Instead, my boots settle into well-worn, crushed rock that feels almost like dirt in places. Grass and ferns have overtaken much of the perimeter of the lot, changing its dimensions and making it smaller than it used to be.
Responding officers who arrived before Sam and I got the call to come to the camp have set up massive floodlights to combat the remaining nighttime hours. They create a low hum that fills the entire area and splash yellow light over the lot, the nearby office building, and some of the grassy space beyond. It’s easy to imagine what this place once was.
Under that green growth are parking spots where parents would have parked to bring their children to camp. Those were the parents who didn’t want to bring them to the drop-off points to get on the big cheerful buses that would bring them out here for the summer. Usually the littlest ones or the first-time campers. Sometimes just the ones with worrying mothers clutching papers filled with meticulous notes about how to handle their child’s sprawling list of care requirements.
I’m all for giving children opportunities and letting them try new things, but I don’t understand the thought process behind a parent sending a child with allergies to everything, night terrors, sun sensitivity, balance problems, and lactose intolerance to a summer camp where the very nature of being at the camp and participating in the activities requires exposure to all those things.
It’s one way to develop character, I suppose.
Or lifelong cripplingtrauma.
There are no cheerful buses tonight. No parents parked in the lot. There would be, if any of them knew what was happening. If any of them had any idea that the camp where they’d sent their teenagers for a week of summer fun, perhaps against better judgment, certainly against popular opinion, was now swarmed with police. But they haven’t found outyet.
I see a cluster of uniformed officers to one side, struggling to hold one of their own back, and I realize some have.
“Let me go. Let me go!” the officer shouts, thrashing against the hands holding his arms and pushing against the center of his chest to force him further back away from the entrance to the camp. “Ben! Myson!”
My heart clenches in my chest. I don’t know what’s happening. No one has told us why we’re here. But nothing good can come of red and blue lights washing over a silent summer camp in the inky black moments before daybreak.
I think about what Jeffrey and Sam told me about Camp Hollow less than twenty-four hours ago. It was the first I’d heard of the summer camp and now I’m here, walking toward a ruffled-looked detective who’s staring out over the camp with haunted eyes.
“Detective Garrison,” Samsays.
The man looks over and something close to relief crosses over his face when he sees Sam. He takes a few steps to close the space between us and extends his hand. My husband takes it and clamps the other over it in a silent gesture of support.
“Sheriff, it’s good to see you. Thank you for coming,” hesays.
“Of course.” He gestures to me. “I don’t know if you’ve met my wife, Emma. Emma, this is ClancyGarrison.”
“I’ve never had the privilege,” Detective Garrison says. “But, of course, your reputation precedes you. I appreciate you coming, AgentGriffin.”
I’m not wrapped up enough in the feelings and approval of others to feel flattered or warm and fuzzy about his reaction to having me here, but I can say it’s nice to have him feel that way and to start this investigation in that place rather than already feeling like I’m battling the others on the team at the same time as trying to investigate and unravel the crime at hand. His recognition of me, and obvious respect for me stands out against many of the other officers and detectives I’ve worked with throughout my career.
I have my husband’s support, of course, and several strong allies at headquarters in Quantico. But even some of them don’t recognize the condescension in their words when they tell me to be patient with the men who are uncomfortable with my title and shield. After all, they say, it’s only been twelve years since the FBI got its first two female Special Agents. Every time they say it, I have to grit my teeth to hold in my reaction.
The fact that they are being ridiculous, close-minded bigots about my inclusion in, and often leadership of, their investigative teams aside, twelve years is more than enough time for them to have gotten used to the idea and settled in for the ride. And even if it wasn’t, they are conveniently forgetting that Susan Roley and Joanne Pierce Misko aren’t actually the first two women in the Bureau. They lose that distinction by 50 years. Alaska Davidson was a badass who got hired at the age of 54 in 1922 to investigate sex trafficking for the Bureau of Investigations.
That’s where that trip-up happens. As it turns out, that little “F” carries a lot of weight. The judgmental ones love to point out she was hired for the Bureau of Investigation, not the FBI, because the FBI hadn’t even been officially formed yet. And that she was promptly sent on her way as soon as Hoover became the head and added that so-vital “F.”
And I love to let them puff out their chests and make fun then trip over their own feet while I add to my track record of bringing down criminals no one else has been able to.
“Detective,” I say in greeting, shaking the hand he offers me. “I’m happy to help however Ican.”
He lets out a breath and gives a twist of his neck like the offer of help somehow underscores how overwhelming the situation is. A tingle starts at the base of my spine. The feeling like cold fingers tracing over the bones is the victims whispering to me. The story tells itself. It’s up to me to listen to it.
