I heard she was eviscerated.
I bet it’s her boss. She worked at that club.
She had it coming.
Already, a username I recognize from an old Thurston thread has popped in.
Heard it’s connected. Source is good.
Adrenaline spikes, and I shake out my hands.
Where did you hear that?I type, fingers flying.
The typing dots appear beside their handle. Then disappear. Reappear. Vanish again.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter.
Nothing.
“Shit.”
I rip my headphones off and let them dangle from my neck, the music tinny and too loud in the stillness of my apartment. Whoever that was, they spooked themselves enough to bail mid-sentence.
Could be a troll. Could be someone who lives with someone who knows someone on the search and rescue team. Could be Henry Thurston himself, getting off on stirring shit up.
My stomach twists.
Regardless, it reinforces the theory that’s been tapping at the back of my skull since Jack answered his phone.
Henry never stopped. He just went quiet. Went somewhere else, maybe, or just sat back and watched for a while.
Sighing, I exit the chat room and tab over to a national crime database I hacked into earlier. Earlier, I programmed it to run a search and find any similar crimes in other locations.
I kept the target field isolated to the state of Virginia, choosing to start narrow and gradually broaden if necessary. I input several parameters, using what I knew of Shiloh’s abduction, the previous area murders, and the new crime. A blinking cursor alerts me that the search is complete, and I click, revealing neat rows and columns of data.
“Bingo.” Over the last year, seven similar crimes were filed as open cases in the DC metro area, Baltimore, Tennessee,and North Carolina. Each of the crimes starts with a missing girl, from bartenders to waitresses to hikers and travelers. The only connective thread was that the women seemed to be somewhat solidly in the 'loner' category, given to hanging out by themselves rather than in groups. There wasn't a lot of connective tissue with cause of death, either—it ranged from a broken neck to a bullet to the brain to asphyxiation.
It either wasn't one killer, or he wasn't particular. Or maybe he was simply really, really smart and knew that the more random he made things, the more difficult he would make things for those hunting him.
The crimes were scattered enough—geographically and behaviorally—that nothing had sparked an alert. But I’m looking, now, and I see it. “I see you,” I murmur.
Taking several screenshots, I send the information to Jack using an anonymous and several-times re-routed IP address. Jack will know it’s me, but he’ll also have plausible deniability when he sends a request for more help up the ladder.
Henry Thurston is still active. The question is why, when he was flying under the radar in NOVA, did he decide to come back to Lucy Falls?
The whole thing reeks of unfinished business, which isnotgoing to make Gunner and Shiloh feel better.
I sit there for a moment, my hands hovering over the keys.
If I drop his name in the chat, it’s going to light up like a bug zapper in July. The speculation will multiply. The rumors will sprout legs and run.
But that’s how you drag things into the light. You stir the murky water and see what floats.
I take a deep breath and type.
I heard it’s Henry Thurston.
Hitting enter is like pulling the pin on a grenade. Not that I’ve ever done that, of course, but I watchedSeal Team Six. And it’s the same.
