There were items she didn’t recognize. A pair of boys’ sneakers, a baseball mitt, a deflated soccer ball, some girly magazines. Maybe the people living in the house now had kids and they had found this place and used it as a hideout or something. In fact, the more she thought about it, maybe that was how the place came to be found by the cops.

  And then she saw it.

  Sally, her doll, which lay in a corner on the floor. She went over and picked it up. It looked so tiny in her hand now, though the last time she had held it she was nearly fully grown. She had come to regret leaving it behind, but in the heat of the moment, in the sheer exhilaration at being free, she had forgotten all about Sally. She stuck it under her bulky sweater. Sally would not be left behind this time. She rose and left, closing the door behind her.

  And that was when the voice called out.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  Chapter 22

  THE TEENAGE BOY HELD A FLASHLIGHT in his hand and was pointing it at Cain. He was medium height and skinny with a mop of unruly hair. She estimated he was around fourteen or fifteen.

  She found her voice and said, “Hey there. Look, I just heard about the stuff that went on here. I was driving by and decided to take a peek. Sorry, I didn’t mean any harm.”

  His expression softened, but his look remained wary. “O-okay, I…I guess I’d be curious, too.”

  “You live around here?”

  He looked over his shoulder. “In the house back there. This is our property.”

  “Wow, okay. Did you use to hang out in there?”

  “Yeah, me and my brother, when we were younger.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?” he said sharply.

  “I’m Donna.”

  “Okay, I’m…Kyle. And…and I don’t think you should be here.”

  Cain had shifted Sally to the back of her sweater, so Kyle couldn’t see the lump. “Look, you have every reason to be freaked out, but I’m sort of freaked out, too, you know?”

  His features softened. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, you’re a girl and I’m a guy. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” he added hastily.

  Cain almost smiled at this because she could have knocked Kyle out with one lazy kick.

  “Thanks, Kyle. I really appreciate that. So, I saw on the local news the FBI was on the case. Damn, that’s not something you see every day. Were they here, too?”

  Kyle came forward, his features now full of excitement. “Yeah, they were. It was like being in the middle of a cop TV show. They were asking about some girl. And about the people who used to live here before us. I forget their names. Anyway, I remembered this place. And I was the one who showed them,” he added proudly. “My dad talked to the cops and it seems like they were keeping a girl out here. I guess they were weird-ass people. I mean, she was like a prisoner or something.” He frowned. “Totally sick stuff.”

  “Totally. Somebody I know said she saw a picture of the girl on the news.”

  “That’s right. It was on a tape. You see that camera there?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kyle frowned as he looked at the camera pointing the other way now. “Hey, somebody moved it. Maybe it was the cops. Anyway, the asshole who used to live here had a cable that ran all the way back to our house. I found it. And there was one of those old VCR things under the floor. And there was a tape in it. We played it and that picture was on it.” He shone his light on the door. “That girl they made live in there busted out.”

  “Wow, no way,” said Cain.

  “Oh, yeah. And that’s not all. The dude who owned the house? He got killed. My dad said the girl might’ve done it and that the jerk deserved it.”

  Cain felt something like a molten lava rock in her stomach. “Did they say how he died?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “And was there anyone else involved?”

  “The dude’s wife. She disappeared. They don’t know what happened to her. Or the girl.”

  “But I guess the cops are looking for her, the girl, I mean.”’

  “Yeah, I guess so. I mean, if she killed that guy, she should get a medal, least I think so. But I guess if she killed him she broke the law, too. Probably why they want to find her.” He looked up at her appraisingly. “Man, you are tall. Like that FBI lady.”

  “FBI lady?”

  “The one who was here asking about everything. But you’re taller.”

  “Yeah, I’m taller than most girls, unless they play basketball. Again, I’m sorry I trespassed, Kyle. I don’t want to get into trouble.”

  Kyle waved this off. “No problem. I won’t tell anybody. Hey, you want me to show you around in there?”

  “No. It looks way too creepy.”

  Kyle nodded. “I know. When me and my brother found it, we thought it was creepy, too, but it was a cool place just to hang out. That’s why we didn’t tell our parents. But when we found out some little kid was being held in there? They must’ve been really, I don’t know, screwed in the head. That’s what Dad said, anyway.”

  “I think your dad’s probably right about that.”

  “When we were watching the video and the girl busted out of that door?” Kyle grinned. “I don’t know. I mean, it was scary, but now that I know why she did it? It was so dope. I was like rooting for her to get away.”

  “Yeah, you’d think most people would think that. But then again, the law can be funny.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “What are you doing out here so late?” she asked.

  He pulled a camera out of his jacket pocket. “I’m putting together a little video about all this for my Instagram account. I’m going to call it Flight to Freedom, or something like that.”

  “Right. Okay, that sounds cool. Well, thanks, Kyle, it was nice meeting you.”

  “Same to you, Donna.”

  Cain turned and walked quickly off. She made her way back to her car and sat there for a couple minutes as she steadily processed all she had just learned.

  The FBI was looking for her. They probably thought she had killed Joe, and possibly Atkins. Maybe it would be justified and maybe it wouldn’t be. To Cain’s mind, she had done nothing wrong. But she had had enough experience with the law to know that they saw things in a different way. And that way of thinking could land her right behind bars. She’d already been in a prison once, for committing no crime at all. She didn’t intend to ever go back again.

  She drove toward town and took a room at a motel.

  She stripped down to her underwear and lay on the bed. She closed her eyes and immediately all she saw was the interior of that cell in the woods. Every detail was seared into her mind. She had been gone for nearly two decades now, but after being back there, it was like she had never left.

  She remembered asking Desiree why they were treating her this way.

  You’re a wicked girl and you must be punished, Desiree had said.

  But what wicked things have I done? Cain had asked right back.

  I’m not going to waste my breath going into them. You don’t deserve that, you little evil creature. You just keep in mind that you are being punished and you deserve every bit of it. And for good measure she had added a slap to Cain’s face.

  Once, when the lady Wanda had come by, Cain had asked her the same question.

  Wanda had patted her hand and said, There are wicked people in the world, Becky.

  So am I wicked, then? Cain had wanted to know. Like Desiree says?

  I’m not talking about you, dear. I’m talking about others.

  Cain had remembered asking Wanda for help, to get away, but the woman had just burst into tears and said she couldn’t. Something about her son, not wanting to get Joe in trouble. So she had just let Cain rot there.

  She didn’t blame Wanda, not really. She could understand why she did what she did. It was all about survival. What more to life was there, really?

  She reached over to the nightstand and snagged her old doll. She pressed the mildewed toy against her chest. “You were my only real friend, Sally. And maybe you still are.”

  Chapter 23

  THE NEXT MORNING CAIN ROSE LATE and showered and took a few moments to look at herself in the mirror. She examined the burns on her left arm, and then the ones on her right. She could recall with absolute precision when each had been done and the means used. The person was always Desiree Atkins. Joe apparently didn’t have the stomach for it. Desiree, on the other hand, apparently had no limits to what she would do.

  The woman had often used lighted cigarettes. She seemed to like watching the skin blacken and bubble. Cain could remember looking at the woman even as she was shrieking in pain. The louder she yelled, the more Desiree smiled, the longer the burning went on. It didn’t take Cain long, young though she was, to realize that if she marshaled all her focus and did not scream in pain, then Desiree would soon lose interest and stop, even though Cain’s body would be shaking all over in agony. Desiree apparently liked to hear the terror. And sometimes Desiree would bring out the needles and the knife and carve things into Cain’s skin. But her next favorite torture device had been the belt. When Cain had seen Ken holding his belt to threaten Rosa, all those memories came flooding back. But again, if Cain did not cry out, Desiree would stop enjoying it and leave Cain to quietly sob over her fresh wounds.

  There was only one reason that Cain could focus during all that and not cry out. She had one image that she held in the safest, most remote spot in her mind. She hid it away, she told herself as a little girl, because she was afraid Desiree might find it and take it away, and leave Cain with nothing to fight back with.

  The image was vague, yet powerful. A little girl was sitting in the dirt, wearing a colorful skirt, her long hair in her face. And she was looking up at something in a tall tree. A woman whom Cain could never really see was calling out to someone in the tall tree.

  “You get down here right now, young lady. You have no business up there. You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

  And Cain would hear the little girl wearing the dress reply, “It’s okay, Momma, it’s just Lee being Lee. She’ll find her way down. She always does. Don’t be mad at her, Momma.”

  Who Lee was, Cain didn’t know. Why she was up a tree, Cain didn’t know. She suspected the little girl with the long hair and the dress was herself, but she didn’t know that for certain.

  She’ll find her way down, Momma, she always does.

  For some reason that curious image had fully consumed all of Cain’s attention to such a degree that she could not feel the burns or the blows or the cuts and needle stabs that Desiree was inflicting. It allowed her to survive. Cain had felt a burst of pride for this Lee person. She apparently did what she wanted, took risks, figured things out, and she came out all right in the end.

  Just like I needed to do.

  But what was Lee? A figment of her imagination? Nothing at all? Or maybe someone important?

  Should she be thankful for this Lee, or hate her?

  Was Lee really me? I was being tortured every time this image appeared in my head. Was I just reaching for something, anything, to get through it? Because a person would, whether it was real or not.

  Cain splashed cold water on her face, dressed, and went out to eat breakfast, choosing the same diner where she’d picked at her dinner.

  She sat at the counter and looked around the place. It was mostly elderly people having their coffee, bacon and eggs, toast, and grits. Working-class folks like her, and as unlike her as it was possible to be. Some were clearly old enough to have been here when she had been living with the Atkinses. The sign outside said the diner had been here since 1960, so it was here long before she’d been born.

  Could any of these people have helped her? Could they have found out about her? How could people keep someone prisoner in a place like this and no one know about it? Although Cain had read of a man in Ohio who had kept women prisoners in his house smack in the middle of a neighborhood. How the hell had that happened? Did people just not give a shit?

  “Hope you enjoy your breakfast better than you did your dinner, hon.”

  Cain looked up into the face of the same waitress from last night. “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry, so I think I will.”

  She ordered, and when the waitress brought the food back over Cain said, “I was wondering, do you remember anyone named the Atkinses who used to live around here? They’d be around your age.”

  “You mean Wanda and Len Atkins?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  The wrinkled face crinkled into a sad smile. “Well, that takes me way back, hon. I was good friends with Wanda. My husband, God rest his soul, and Len were in the VFW together. They’ve been gone a long time. They left after their son got killed.”

  Cain feigned surprise. “Really, he got killed?”

  The waitress put her elbows on the counter and leaned down. “Joe Atkins was murdered. And his wife, Desiree, did it. I’m as sure of that as you’re sitting right there. She lit out after it happened and no one’s seen her since. And she was one strange lady. Sadistic, if you ask me. I saw her deliberately run over a dog with her truck. How sick is that?”

  “Pretty sick. So she’s gone, too?”

  “Oh, yeah, years ago. How do you know the Atkinses? You said you weren’t from here.”

  “I think my dad knew Mr. Atkins somehow. When I told them I was going to be passing through here he told me to look them up. I guess Mr. Atkins had told my dad that he lived in Crawfordville, but my dad didn’t know if they were still here or not.”

  “Well, like I said, they moved away a long time ago.”

  “He’ll be disappointed. I think he wanted to get back in touch.”

  The woman pursed her lips in thought. “Oh, wait a minute, where’s my brain? I can help you out.”

  “How?”

  The waitress pulled out her phone. “Wanda and me exchange Christmas cards. Hell, I got her address in my phone right here. She and Len are over in Alabama now, Huntsville.”

  She held out her phone with the contact showing, and Cain took a picture of it with her phone.

  “Wow, thank you so much. This will make my dad’s day.”

  “Old friends are sometimes the best friends. And in this day and age, we need all the friends we can get.”

  Yes we do, thought Cain. I hope to find one someday.

  Chapter 24

  A BATTERED KEN BUCKLEY lay in the hospital bed, still unconscious. A monitor showing his precarious vital signs was set on a rolling stand next to the bed. The surgeon had addressed as many of the injuries as he could in the short time period, but there was more to be done, and Ken was not out of the woods yet. The fact that he was still not conscious was most problematic.

  The man sitting in the chair next to him was Peter Buckley, Ken’s older brother. He was in his forties, six one, fit and lean. He wore a tailored dark suit with a colorful pocket square, an immaculate white dress shirt, and no tie. His nails were well-groomed, his skin healthy and unmarked. The shoes on his feet were made of supple leather and cost a thousand bucks, the sleek suit over twice that. His hair was dark and wavy and neatly trimmed. His face was hairless, and his features were sharply defined. His pale blue eyes sometimes appeared dead white in a certain light. He had a quiet intensity and confidence about him that drew one’s attention, something he didn’t necessarily like. He crossed one leg over the other, revealing patterned burgundy socks, and stared at his little brother. Ken was the youngest, Peter the oldest, with several brothers and two sisters in between.

  Two of the brothers were dead; the third was a guest of a state prison in the south. The sisters had long since disappeared, happy enough to get away from the Buckley clan. Their father, Peter Sr., had been severely wounded decades before in a chaotic shootout with federal agents at the family compound in a remote part of the country. Their mother had been injured in the same melee and then arrested along with her husband. But she had turned on her spouse, and her testimony had sent him to prison for several lifetimes, while she was put in witness protection with her children. Buckley’s father hadn’t made it through his first year in prison, because another inmate had sliced his throat from ear to ear. After that, Buckley’s mother had abandoned her children, and Buckley had never seen her again.

  Buckley’s father had led a large group of followers who believed in segregation based on race and ethnicity, independence from outside laws and social mores, and adherence to a code of conduct that extended to all members, except the senior Buckley. He was free to do what he wanted, and to whom he wanted, because he was the leader, the chosen one, the man with a vision.

  And they had also trafficked in stolen property, and sold drugs and guns, because the money was necessary to fund their preferred way of life.

  However, the federal government had come calling one night after some bodies were found. The dead were people who had once followed, but now disagreed vehemently with, Buckley Sr. And he had responded not with words but with guns, knives, and ropes. And shallow graves for prematurely and violently ended lives.

  And the feds had destroyed his father for it, for merely standing up for what he believed in. Not nice, thought Peter Buckley. But then there were many not nice people in the world.

  After his father’s death and his mother’s abandoning them, he, as the oldest sibling but still a child himself, had taken over the leadership role with respect to his remaining family. When he reached adulthood he had spent all his time expanding on his father’s ambitions in a far more sophisticated way, choosing to learn from his father’s mistakes rather than repeating them.

  Over the years, he had created a far greater empire, and hidden the criminal elements of it behind a complex web of entities. At the same time, he had inserted himself into the fabric of mainstream society behind a consortium of perfectly normal businesses, while also building a reputation as a philanthropist. He supported myriad candidates for political office and had many friends who held both high and more mundane offices. He had found that only the latter could actually accomplish the things he needed done. Power at the national level was hopelessly gridlocked. But if you needed a residential development approved, or wanted the contract for garbage pickup, or required rezoning for a commercial project, the locals were far more powerful than even the president of the United States.