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CHAPTER 9
KIMBERLY
KIMBERLY HAD MARRIED AN OUTDOORSMAN. Mac was a special agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigations and was already teaching their two daughters to hunt, fish—wrestle with bears, for all she knew. Kimberly herself was a runner. She liked jogging the long winding paths around the commercial park where her office was located, or if she was feeling exotic, racing down rural roads.
She wasn’t a huge fan of mountains. The names in Georgia didn’t help. Blood Mountain. Slaughter Creek Trail. Not to mention that the last time she’d been in the area, pregnant, chasing a serial killer, Blood Mountain had more than lived up to its name. She and Mac never discussed it. In their line of work, there were always a few cases that stuck with you. Blood Mountain was Kimberly’s. On the bad nights, Mac would say, “That one again?” and she’d say, “Yes,” then they’d both let it be.
You accepted. You moved on, best you could, and on the few nights Kimberly suffered the nightmares, she lay awake afterward and instead of trying to shove the memories back in the box, she took them out, let the ghosts play awhile. She remembered the boy, the last look on his face, because no one else would, and he deserved that much.
Given that personal history, scenic Dahlonega made her shudder. She kept her hands on the wheel, driving directly to the sheriff’s department. It was situated along the left side of yet another historic town square. The requisite green space occupied the middle, populated with park benches and broadleaf trees waving delicately in the light wind. The sheriff’s office, clearly a newer addition, was a squat gray building adjacent to the courthouse. It looked more like a prison than a law enforcement agency, but maybe in these parts it served as both.
Kimberly opened the front door, was hit with a blast of air-conditioning, and forced herself to proceed.
Just because tomorrow morning she’d re-enter the Appalachian Trail in search of bodies for the second time in her career did not mean history was repeating itself.
An older woman wearing a pink sweater set smiled from the receptionist’s desk. She was surprisingly tall and broad shouldered, a solid physical presence that no doubt helped with unruly visitors. Her real height was hard to distinguish, given that she had ash-blond hair pulled in a bouffant bun that appeared immune to heat, humidity, and the forces of gravity. Kimberly stuck out her hand. The woman answered with a firm grip.
“Francine Bouchard. Call me Franny. Everyone does.”
“Thank you. I’m—”
“Supervisory Special Agent Kimberly Quincy of the Atlanta FBI. Of course. The sheriff’s been expecting you.”
“Do you know everyone who walks through the door?”
“Honey, around these parts, it’s impossible not to. Water, tea, coffee?”
“Just the sheriff, please.”
“Speak of the devil,” Franny drawled, then nodded her head down the hall, where sure enough, Sheriff Smithers had just appeared.
A big burly guy, he looked every bit the Southern cop to Kimberly. He had a broad ruddy face, with creases in the corner of his eyes from a life spent outdoors, as well as an easy smile. In this neck of the woods, he probably wore many hats and worked long hours—whatever it took to get the job done. All good in Kimberly’s opinion, given they’d be working close in the days and weeks ahead.
“Survive the drive?” the sheriff asked now, walking down the hall to greet her.
“Always beautiful in the mountains,” she half lied.
“Water, coffee, tea? Franny can set you up.” He nodded to his receptionist, who standing was indeed almost as tall as the sheriff, yet still managed to look exactly right in her sweater set and delicate gold necklace. The art of the Southern woman, Kimberly thought, because God knows she’d never mastered it.
“Water,” Kimberly conceded this time. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Franny produced a bottle of water from the minifridge behind her. Another beaming smile, polite head nod, then Franny resumed her seat, attention already on the computer monitor in front of her, while Sheriff Smithers led Kimberly back to his office.
The sheriff didn’t occupy a huge space. The tight quarters offered glimpses of linoleum floor dominated by an oversized 1980s pressed-wood desk piled high with stacks of files. The sheriff gathered up the papers, looked around for a new spot to stash them. At last, he dropped them on the last clear spot on the floor.
“Sorry. Not much time for organizing lately,” he muttered. “Or for that matter, any place to put anything. We outgrew this space about twenty years ago. Sadly, the county doesn’t agree. We’re supposed to be a quaint tourist area. No crime in the mountains, right? Unfortunately, no one told the drug dealers that.”
Kimberly got it. Voters, especially in rural communities, liked to think bad things only happened in big cities. Whereas most drug dealers would tell you the very lack of population is what made small towns excellent for meth labs, growing farms, and import/export opportunities. Not to mention addicts lived everywhere and came from all walks of life.
But Kimberly and the sheriff weren’t paid to argue with their budgets. They were paid to get the job done, regardless.
Sheriff Smithers planted himself behind his massive desk, half obscured behind the debris. Kimberly took a seat across from him.
“Got us a dog team,” he announced. “Two shepherds from a buddy who does search and rescue. Experienced cadaver dogs, have flown all over the world, or so I’m told.”
“And they were available on such short notice?” Kimberly asked.
The sheriff shrugged. “Good news. No current tragedies or natural disasters to pull them away. Handler’s name is Dennis. He says his dogs need to go first. Too many humans running around pollutes the scent. Not that they can’t find it—he was firm on this point. But it’s more work and the dogs’ll tire faster. Given the size of the search area—”
