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“Why didn’t you run toward the fire?” I ask. “You knew everyone at camp wasthere.”
“Because it was too far away through open space,” she says. “You’ve seen the area between the fire and the cabins. You know it’s just open. There’s nowhere to hide and nothing to use for defense. I would also have to run out right in front of the door to the cabin where he was. It felt safer to go into the woods where it was dark, there were trees to hide behind, and I would get a head start because I could go in while he was getting out of the cabin and running around the side.”
The explanation makes sense. It means she was thinking far more clearly during the ordeal than most people would. That’s what kept heralive.
“What happened after that? You’ve been missing for days. Where have you been?” I ask.
Her face loses a bit more of its color and Miranda swallows hard as she prepares to continue forward with the story. She describes running through the woods, hearing the screams coming from the camp and being so terrified. Like most of the survivors, she feels guilty for not doing anything to help her friends. She feels like she should have gone back and done something, anything forthem.
I have to reassure her just as I did everyone else who’d expressed the same thoughts that she did exactly what she was supposed to do. She protected herself. If she had turned around and gone back to the camp, she would have just been handing herself over to the man who’d attackedher.
This seems to comfort her in a way and she keeps talking. She tells me she got into the woods and hid when her leg started hurting and she realized she had badly twisted her ankle coming out of the window. There must have been so much adrenaline that she didn’t realize it when it happened, but eventually she wasn’t able to run on it anymore.
“I was in so much pain and was so exhausted. I know I was losing a lot of blood. I don’t know which injury caused it, or if it was a combination of all of them, but I ended up passing out. When I woke up, I was in the house and he was there, waiting for me to wakeup.”
“Wait,” I frown. “What house? What are you talkingabout?”
“I wasn’t in the woods the entire time. I got away from him, but he caught back up to me and took me to hishouse.”
I’m reeling from this new revelation. It’s something I hadn’t even considered. When she was found, I just assumed she’d spent the last few days in the woods, either lost or hurt, not able to get back to camp until yesterday. But now she’s telling me the killer actually took her captive and held her. I’ve been trying to give her the space to tell her story without my interference, but the time has come for me to be more direct.
“Miranda, I know I said I didn’t want to lead you in any way with these questions because I want to know what you remember, but I need to tell you something that someone else told me and have you confirm it ornot.”
“What is it?” sheasks.
“Did Holden tell you anything about the end of that night? How the police were called, anything?” Iask.
“No,” she shakes her head. “We haven’t talked about it. I told him I didn’t want to. Not with him. I just wanted to be with him and pretend nothing else washappening.”
“Lisa Clayborne escaped from the camp and ran to a nearby neighborhood to call for police. She ended up having to use a two-way radio, but that’s how the police got to the camp. Lisa is the first person I interviewed. When I asked her if she had any idea who did this, who was behind the mask, she said it wasMike.”
Miranda looks back at me in bewilderment and blinks a couple of times.
“Mike? Mike Kirkland? The camp director?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
She shakes her head adamantly. “No. I saw the man while I was at his house. It wasn’t Mike who hadme.”
“Do you know who it was?” Iask.
“I don’t know his name, but I can show you where he keptme.”
The door to the weathered farmhouse splinters beneath my boot and I rush in with my gun drawn. Inside the house is quiet and warm, with only a ceiling fan circulating the air. Everything looks well-worn and old, not in a neglected, broken-down way, but in the way that exemplifies how grandparents talk about things not being made the way they used to be. These things were made generations ago and are still strong enough to be used.
A man comes around the corner out of a hallway and I turn my gun onhim.
“Get down!” I shout. “Show me yourhands.”
“What the hell is going on?!” he yells.
“FBI. Get on the ground,” Idemand.
He does what I command and I look behind me to the flank of uniformed officers with Sam in the center. He can read my thoughts by looking in my eyes.
“Get him out of here,” he tells the officers. “Bring him down to the station and put him in a room towait.”
“E-excuse me,” the man stammers as the officers pull him to his feet. “I demand to know what’s going on. You can’t just barge into my house like this and drag me away without telling mewhy.”
