Lost Girls

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gant let Bailey take point in dealing with the FBI. Bureaucracy had never been his forte and that lack had been one of the reasons he’d made the decision to move from the military to the Cellar when Bailey came calling. Even in the Special Forces, the long hand of the big green machine had made itself felt. For Gant the last straw had been the decree to shave beards off while he and his team were deployed in Afghanistan because some general back in the States had seen SF troopers — in the midst of saving the Afghani President’s life from assassins — looking scruffy and called the Pentagon to complain. The concept of being a clean-shaven corpse hadn’t sat well with Gant. Skewed priorities, even in the midst of combat, had shown Gant the reality of working inside such a large organization as the army. The Cellar was indeed much smaller, and Gant had generally been left to his own devices on missions, the results being the only thing that Nero cared about. This was another reason why Golden’s, and to a lesser extent, Bailey’s presences were a bit of a mystery to him.

Of course, there had also been the issue of his brother and the work he had done for the Cellar over the years. Even though they were twins, he had always felt one step behind his brother, following his path. It had been Tony’s decision first to apply to West Point and Jack had followed. Then Tony had been the first in the Ranger Battalion, then Special Forces and on to the Cellar. And first with Jesse. And now his brother was dead. Gant felt an unusual sense of unease, which he quickly dismissed as he tried to get some sleep while he could.

It took just over an hour flight by helicopter from Memphis to reach the desolate woods of Reel Foot Lake. Darkness had fallen and Gant knew the night was going to be a long one as the chopper came in to a hastily established landing zone in a clearing and they disembarked.

According to the information he’d read, Gant knew the area was a popular hunting site and camouflaged men from the entire southeast passed through the region during the season. But hunting season was still a month off. Gant checked the slim data sheet that Bailey had printed out, forwarded from the Cellar as they got in a Blazer and were driven toward the site. According to the report, the lake had been formed in the winter of 1811–1812 when a series of earthquakes had sent the Mississippi river flowing backwards and leaving in its wake the large body of water where land had once been.

The body had been discovered just after dark, and because of cell phones had been reported quickly. The local police had called the crime into the bureau sight unseen. If the condition of the boy who discovered the body was an accurate measure then the small lake area police force figured they’d best stay out of it. The body was exactly where the now complete cache report had said something would be, a fact that Gant had no doubt Bailey was not informing the FBI or local authorities of.

Gant looked around the vicinity and saw nothing but unending loneliness harshly lit by car headlights from FBI vehicles. When hunting season ended so did the human habitation of the area. He watched the FBI men and one woman standing by the body. They had all carefully positioned their line of sight outwards, as if out of sight out of mind really meant something. Gant waited for Bailey to finish speaking to the head FBI man. Golden was next to Gant, apparently not very anxious to view the corpse. At least she wasn’t asking any more questions.

The circle of FBI agents broke up as their boss came over and said a few words. They moved away with many a dark glance at Bailey, Gant and Golden. Bureaucratic pissing over turf, something that Gant usually ignored as the Cellar always had pre-eminent domain wherever it stretched its dark hand. Bailey indicated for Gant and Golden to move up. Gant slowly walked forward, taking in the feel of the location. He stopped ten feet from the body.

Golden was perfectly still next to him.

Gant catalogued the area in his mind. There was a tall pine right in the center of a small meadow. Around the base of the tree was a chain. The chain ran a few feet to the body. It was fastened to the girl’s leg with a shackle. She was lying in a fetal position. The body was swollen and splotched with lividity. Gant stared a long time trying to make sense of what he saw. The ankle below the shackle was mangled and covered with dried blackened blood. A blood spattered stone lay close by. There was an arrow sticking from her upturned shoulder.

“If this is what he’s done to Emily—“ Golden’s voice trailed off.

Bailey was squatting with his brief case open, thumbing through some folders.

“Who is she?” Gant asked.

Bailey paused, and extracted one of the files. He checked the black and white photo with what he could see of the victim’s face. “Tracy Caulkins.”

The name meant nothing to Gant. “And her father is?”

“Michael Caulkins. Drug Enforcement Agency. South Region commander.”

Gant nodded. This was going to be a Sanction. And it was going to get worse before the end.

Emily Cranston had her knees pulled up tight to her chest and her back to the oak tree. Like most people she had never been outside in the middle of nature at night entirely alone. She’d never have believed the woods could be so noisy. Branches snapping, leaves rustling, the intermittent cries of birds and other creatures she couldn’t identify.

What she feared the most, though, was hearing the sound of footsteps. She did not want him to return.

She straightened out the leg with the chain, feeling the weight of the shackle around her ankle. Her eyes darted up as something swooped across the clearing between her tree and the surrounding forest. She pulled the chained leg back in tight to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees and rocking back and forth. A muffled cry escaped her lips and tears flowed down her cheeks.

Dawn was a long way off. And it did not promise an improvement in her situation.