“Did you find anything?”
“No. Just those tire tracks. Not sure if they belong to Mabel’s vehicle or another.”
Ellie’s breath heaved out. “Let’s get over to Sanctuary House in case Mabel goes there. Clara and her baby may be in danger.” Ellie pulled her keys. “I’ll drive. I have four-wheel drive and snow tires.”
Derrick didn’t argue. They ran outside, and in spite of the whiteout conditions, Ellie started the engine and barreled onto the road leading to Sanctuary House.
NINETY-FOUR
Bridge Forward
Larry Wheaton cursed as the lights flickered off in the halfway house. Nothing like being locked up in a dark space with violent, desperate ex-cons.
Of course he was one of them.
He’d just been reading the local newspaper about the missing children in Mystic. Also the murders. Living in Mystic had changed his life and made him question everything.
The Believers were mysterious and believed in the old folk legends and superstitions about the ridge being closer to heaven. His wife’s murder had fed that grapevine, and when he’d confessed to killing her, hatred and fear of him had riddled the locals. Although oddly the Believers had actually prayed for him the night he’d been carted off to jail.
He’d never forgotten that. What an odd bunch of strangers, who’d pray for a man they thought was a monster.
It had almost made him want to have their kind of faith.
But faith was not an easily obtained commodity in a maximum-security prison. You had to keep up your defenses at all times. Just like he did here.
The older woman, Faith, and her friend, Ester, had even come to the trial, their watchful eyes soaking in the detailed account of his wife’s death. His court-appointed attorney informed him that Ester had spoken with him and hinted that they’d known something bad was going on at that lodge. Rumors of yelling and violence and the boy and his mother arguing.
Some talk about his young son being evil.
He lay on his single bed in the dark and closed his eyes, although he kept his senses honed for footsteps or an attack as he’d grown accustomed to.
Memories of those days with his wife, Franny, rolled through his mind like a movie trailer. Sure, they’d been in love at first. Both shared a dream of a happy family in the mountains, running the lodge and welcoming other families. They’d tried for three years to get pregnant and finally it had happened.
They were so excited when his son was born. But that excitement had quickly turned to exhaustion. Lack of sleep and trying to soothe a fussy infant who screamed constantly had taken its toll. By the time his little boy was four, Franny claimed Wally was devious and sneaky when he wasn’t around. That he screamed and cursed at her.
“Something’s wrong with him,” Franny said one night when he’d finished cleaning up the grounds on the lodge and come in for supper. “I saw him chopping up worms with the shovel. And yesterday he hacked a bird in two with your ax.”
Larry scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “He’s a little boy,” Larry argued. “It’s just a phase.” Besides, Wally was the perfect, cooperative, well-behaved child when Larry was home. Polite and did everything Larry told him to do.
Her complaints had seemed trivial to Larry, who was working day and night to keep the lodge afloat. One treacherous winter had nearly destroyed the business. The rooms neededupdating, the exterior needed repairs and constant maintenance of the grounds was both costly and draining.
Franny had become anxious and agitated, and the tension in the house unbearable. His son denied doing any of the mischievous things his mother accused him of, even when Franny insisted that the teacher claimed he was cruel to another kid.
Boys will be boys, Larry had told her, brushing off her concerns.
The next week Franny declared Wally had come home bloody after killing crows on the Day of the Dead and that he’d sacrificed them. He’d collected the feathers and created art with them on the wall in the attic.
When he’d asked his son about it, Wally claimed Franny locked him in there for hours when he was gone. But she’d insisted he enjoyed playing up there in the dark and had made up stories about the crows flying at him, tapping at the windows to break in.
Franny wanted him to see a psychiatrist. Larry insisted there was nothing wrong with his son, that she was overreacting.
A heaviness settled in Larry’s chest. Now three young girls had died on the same ridge where his wife had died.
Nobody really knew what happened that night on the ridge except for him and his son. The mist and fog had been so thick that it was even fuzzy in Larry’s mind. He’d seen Franny and Wally at the ridge in the storm, the wind howling, rain slashing. The memory taunted Larry as if it were yesterday.
Franny clenched Wally’s arm and they were pushing at each other, “Help, Daddy!” Wally screamed.
“You’re evil!” Franny yelled at their son.
