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He scanned the row of expensive new homes that hadn’t existed sixteen years ago. They were all of the McMansion school of architecture. Oversized and bastardized Colonials or Casa del Huhs.
Between each house stretched a discreet square of landscaping, wide enough to foster the illusion of privacy without eating up too much acreage. Behind the row of houses to the east was a large empty meadow and then the woods. Kingsfield was surrounded by both state parks and wilderness areas, and despite the uptown airs of New Dominion, this was rural Massachusetts with ten percent of the population living below the poverty line. Some people in these remote areas went entire weeks without seeing another human. The deep woods provided home to deer, bobcats, otters, raccoons, and occasionally larger critters like bear and moose. Jason even remembered stories of a local hunter bagging a Russian boar one autumn.
The real predator haunting these woodlands had not been four-footed.
“Chief Gervase,” Kennedy called.
A man in uniform—medium height, trim and fit as a career soldier—turned from the insignia-decorated circle of men he was speaking to. Just for an instant his weary, strained expression relaxed into surprised relief. “Special Agent Kennedy. You came.”
Until that moment, the only face Jason had recognized had been Boxner’s, but he remembered Police Chief Gervase.
Back then he had been Officer Gervase, not Chief. The then-Chief of Kingsfield, Rudy Kowalski, had been a bluff and beefy man, well-suited to appeasing the town fathers and keeping rowdy teenagers in line. He had been completely out of his depth when the slaughter began. But that had come later. When Honey had been murdered, everybody believed it was a lightning strike. It could never happen twice.
Then Theresa Nolan had been killed. Then Ginny Chapin and Jody Escobar. And so it had gone. Seven girls in all. Jason’s understanding was Kowalski had voluntarily resigned and the village council had promptly filled his shoes with able and ambitious Officer Gervase. Sixteen years later Gervase was a well-preserved sixty, looking forward to his own retirement. He had gray eyes, a tidy Van Dyke beard, and the perpetual tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.
He came toward them, offering his hand. “Good to see you, Kennedy.” He added wryly, “Christ, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Sorry it’s under these circumstances.” Kennedy was brisk and unsentimental. Given his investigative specialty, maybe you had to be in order to stay sane. “This is Agent West.”
“Agent West.” Gervase offered a brief handshake and a courteous nod. “Appreciate the help.”
“Chief.”
The chief waved away an errant wasp and said to Kennedy, “You can see what we’re facing. Eden pond is to the east, and the woods are to the west. We’ve finished canvassing the neighborhood, and we’ve completed the search of the immediate perimeter, but there’s still a hell of a lot of ground to cover, and there’s no sign of the Madigan girl. Nothing. It’s like she vanished off the face of the earth.” His voice was flat as he added, “Just like before.”
It wasn’t exactly like before. None of the other victims had been taken from crowded events or peopled areas. Honey had been snatched from Holyoke Pond early in the morning. Theresa Nolan had been grabbed in the high school’s deserted parking lot when she’d left swim practice late one evening. All the victims had been taken from equally isolated or private venues where there were no potential witnesses and no one to sound the alarm until it was far too late.
Having made that misstep about the crime scene, Jason was resolved to watch and listen. His antagonism for the situation—and Kennedy—was coloring his reactions, and that was not good. Not good for anyone.
“Can you bring us up to speed?” Kennedy asked.
Gervase nodded, but was interrupted by the approach of the grim-faced State Police commander. Kingsfield was a small police department. No detective unit and less than twenty officers, including the chief. That State would be called in was a given.
More introductions followed.
“I thought we’d put all this behind us,” Commander Swenson said. It seemed to Jason there was a hint of accusation in his tone.
Kennedy returned, “We’ll soon find out.”
Given the implication he might have spearheaded the arrest and incarceration of the wrong man, Jason had to give Kennedy credit for that level of cool under fire.
Or maybe Kennedy didn’t realize the whispers had started.
In fairness, the FBI had not been the only law enforcement agency involved in tracking down the Huntsman. True, the Bureau—and Kennedy—had got most of the credit for the apprehension of Martin Pink. Local law enforcement had made the arrest, and a local judge and jury had determined Pink’s guilt and ultimate fate.
Gervase was saying, “I’ve got granddaughters about Rebecca’s age. One a little older. One a littl
e younger. If this is starting up again…” He shook his head. “I’m not going to pretend we’ve got the resources to handle this kind of thing anymore now than we did ten years ago.”
“At least you’ve got plenty of reinforcements,” Jason commented as a Worcester County Sheriff’s vehicle pulled up alongside one of the Kingsfield cruisers.
Gervase grimaced. “That we do. We’ve even got cadets from the State Police Academy out here lending a hand. And we had them back then too. Which is why I’m asking for Special Agent Kennedy’s help.”
Kennedy was studying the undulating brown cloud of insects zigging and zagging over the long, empty expanse of grass and wild flowers that served as a green welcome mat to the woods. “You’ve got it,” he said almost absently. As in…of course they needed his help and of course he would supply it.
It was surprisingly reassuring—or at least Gervase seemed to find it so.
Equally reassuring was the cool, crisp competency with which Kennedy collected and summarized the essential information from the chief.
