Wolfhunter River

  PRAISE FOR STILLHOUSE LAKE

  “In this rapid-fire thriller . . . Caine spins a powerful story of maternal love and individual self-realization.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Amazing.”

  —Night Owl Reviews (Top Pick)

  “A chilling thriller . . . Stillhouse Lake is a great summer read.”

  —Criminal Element

  “Stillhouse Lake is a true nail-biter right up to the end.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Highly entertaining and super intense!”

  —Novel Gossip

  “What a fantastic book!”

  —Seattle Book Review

  OTHER TITLES BY RACHEL CAINE

  Stillhouse Lake Series

  Killman Creek

  Stillhouse Lake

  The Great Library

  Paper and Fire

  Ink and Bone

  Ash and Quill

  Smoke and Iron

  Weather Warden

  Ill Wind

  Heat Stroke

  Chill Factor

  Windfall

  Firestorm

  Thin Air

  Gale Force

  Cape Storm

  Total Eclipse

  Outcast Season

  Undone

  Unknown

  Unseen

  Unbroken

  Revivalist

  Working Stiff

  Two Weeks’ Notice

  Terminated

  Red Letter Days

  Devil’s Bargain

  Devil’s Due

  Morganville Vampires

  Glass Houses

  The Dead Girls’ Dance

  Midnight Alley

  Feast of Fools

  Lord of Misrule

  Carpe Corpus

  Fade Out

  Kiss of Death

  Ghost Town

  Bite Club

  Last Breath

  Black Dawn

  Bitter Blood

  Fall of Night

  Daylighters

  The Honors (with Ann Aguirre)

  Honor Among Thieves

  Honor Bound

  Stand-Alone Titles

  Prince of Shadows

  Dead Air (with Gwenda Bond and Carrie Ryan)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Rachel Caine, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503902305

  ISBN-10: 1503902307

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  EPILOGUE

  SOUNDTRACK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Four days ago

  When Ellie White’s teacher, Mrs. Willingham, told her that her driver was coming early to pick her up from school, Ellie knew it wasn’t the whole truth. Mr. Lou never came early to get her, not unless she was sick.

  “Why?” she asked. She liked asking questions when things didn’t make sense. She might only be six, but Daddy had taught her to ask if she didn’t understand. Momma had been a little embarrassed by how much she’d taken to it.

  “I’m afraid—I’m afraid that your daddy asked him to,” Mrs. Willingham said. She was a nice white lady with a streak of gray in her brown hair, and she was a good teacher. She never treated Ellie any different from the others, even though Ellie’s father had a lot of money. Even though Ellie had dark-brown skin, darker than any of the other girls here, who mostly looked as white as magazine pages.

  “Daddy doesn’t do that,” Ellie said. “Something’s wrong.”

  Mrs. Willingham was looking at her but not at her. “Well, your momma got sick,” she said. “So he’s sending a car to come get you and take you to the hospital where he and your momma are. Okay?” She helped Ellie put on her sweater, which Ellie didn’t like to wear but didn’t want to leave behind either. Then her backpack.

  “Mrs. Willingham?” Ellie asked. She looked up at her teacher. “Are you crying?”

  “No, sweetie. I’m just fine. Come on now. Let’s get you out there, he’s waiting.”

  “But Daddy said the code word?”

  “He said the code word,” Mrs. Willingham said. “The code is blackbird today, right?”

  Ellie nodded. Thursday was blackbird. Every day was a bird of some kind, because she liked birds, and Momma always called her little hummingbird because she darted around so fast. But Sunday was hummingbird.

  Mrs. Willingham went down the school steps first to talk to Mr. Lou, who was waiting inside the car on the loop that went between the steps and the big marble fountain. The rule was that Ellie was never to come to the car until Mrs. Willingham said it was okay. She and Mr. Lou were talking a long time. Mrs. Willingham kept crying.

  It was hot today, and humid, but the fountain always looked so cool and pretty. The water sprayed out of a bunch of concrete shells into a bigger shell in the middle. Momma had told her there’d once been a pretty lady in the shell, but some parents had made the school take her out, so she was off in some storage closet now, which was sad.

  Mrs. Willingham came back up the steps to take her hand. Ellie looked up at her. “Everything’s going to be all right,” her teacher said, but her voice shook. Her eyes were red. “I’m sorry, baby. But I have to do this. I have a family too.”

  Ellie felt sorry for her. “Is your family okay, Mrs. Willingham?”

  She didn’t mean to make the lady cry. “Yes, Ellie, they’re going to be okay. Can you help me make sure they are?”

  Ellie wasn’t sure how to do that, but she nodded anyway. She liked to help, even if she wasn’t really sure why Mrs. Willingham thought she could.

  Mrs. Willingham opened the door and boosted Ellie up, which was Mr. Lou’s job, usually. Then her teacher hugged her. “You stay strong, Ellie. You’re going to be okay.”

  “But what about your family?” Ellie asked. “Aren’t you coming with me so we can help them?”

  Mrs. Willingham covered her mouth, and tears rolled down her cheeks, and she just shook her head. She shut the door, and that was when Ellie knew something was really wrong. Mrs. Willingham had just lied to her, but she didn’t know why.

  And then she realized it was worse than she thought, because this looked like the right car, but it didn’t smell like the car usually smelled, which was a little bit like coconut, her favorite. “Mr. Lou?” she called toward the driver. The lock engaged with a heavy thunk. She could see him up in the front seat, a big man wearing a cap. She felt smaller than usual in the back seat, and as the car started to move, she quickly buckled herself up; Mr. Lou never started moving until she was buckled in. “Mr. Lou? What’s wrong with Momma? Mrs. Willingham said—”

  She stopped her questions because the man dr
iving wasn’t Mr. Lou. The eyes looking at her in the rearview mirror weren’t his. “Put your seatbelt on,” he said. Not Mr. Lou’s voice. And Mr. Lou would have said please.

  “I did already,” she said. She was scared, but she wasn’t going to show it. “Do you know the code word?”

  “Blackbird,” he said. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m somebody who’s going to get you somewhere safe,” he said. “Just like Mr. Lou would want me to do. All right?”

  “I’m calling my daddy,” Ellie said, and unzipped her backpack to pull out her cell phone.

  It wasn’t where she kept it. She knew better than to leave her phone somewhere. It was expensive, and important, and she always put it there in that pocket.

  She felt tears well up and wouldn’t let herself cry. They’d want her to cry, whoever took her phone. Whoever was playing this nasty game. “Who are you?”

  “Nobody,” the driver said. “Now sit there and be quiet.” He turned the SUV onto a main road. She tried to watch where they were going, but quickly lost track; she never had to pay attention to that before. The school disappeared over a hill, and he made more turns, and she didn’t know where they were at all.

  She didn’t know what to do. Daddy had always told her there were bad people, and she shouldn’t go with them if they didn’t know the code word, but he did know the code word, and she couldn’t push “Emergency” if there wasn’t a phone.

  “Let me out,” she said. She tried to make it sound like her momma would have: cool and confident. “You can stop up here.”

  “Shut up,” the driver said. “Keep quiet. You start making a racket, and I’ll tape your damn mouth shut.”

  That scared her even more than being in a strange car and not having her phone, but she wasn’t going to show him that. She wasn’t going to cry. She looked around and tried to think what else to do. The door wouldn’t open. Neither would the window. The SUV had dark-tinted windows, same as Mr. Lou’s car; they were to keep the sun out. But they also made it so people couldn’t see in.

  Ellie realized something awful. She was a shadow inside a black car behind tinted windows, no one could see her, and she didn’t know what to do next.

  When she started to scream for help at passing cars, the driver took an exit, parked under a bridge among the cool green trees, and put tape over her mouth and around her legs and arms. Then he carried her around to the back of the SUV.

  It was empty except for a sleeping bag, one with Disney princesses on it. She was screaming underneath the tape, and wiggling, and trying to get free, but he put her on top of the sleeping bag and shook his head.

  “Go to sleep,” he told her, and wiped sweat off his face. “We’ve got a long way to go. You mind your manners and I’ll feed you in a few hours. You’ll be home in a couple of days with a real good story to tell.”

  Daddy had always told her, If bad people get you, don’t believe what they tell you.

  She didn’t believe they’d take her home at all.

  She got really scared when her nose started to get snotty and it was hard to breathe with the tape over her mouth, so she made herself stop and breathe, slow and regular. She was still scared, but she felt exhausted, too, and she finally just closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was somewhere else, back home with her momma.

  She pretended so hard that she fell asleep, curled up in her momma’s lap, and when she woke up, she wanted to tell him she needed to pee, really bad, but he was talking on his phone, and they were in the dark, in a forest.

  He saw her sit up. He turned around. And she saw through the front windshield the turn ahead and the lights that were coming around it. The lights that were heading straight at them.

  She tried to scream at him, to tell him to watch out for the other car, but he just frowned at her and said, “I told you to shut—”

  And then the other car hit them, and everything rolled and crashed, and she thought she heard the man screaming.

  Help me, Ellie wanted to say, but she was too scared and too hurt, and then the man stopped screaming, and there wasn’t any sound at all.

  1

  GWEN

  The wide, dark eye of the television camera reminds me of bad things. Very bad things. I try really hard to keep in mind why I’m sitting here. I’m here to tell my story, frankly and honestly.

  Because other people have been telling it for far too long now, lying about me and my kids.

  It’s been all over the news for months now: Escaped serial killer abducts ex! Shootout in murder house! It’s always written for maximum ghoulish effect, and contains at least a passing mention that I was arrested as his accomplice.

  Sometimes they remember to say that I was acquitted. Mostly they like to forget that detail. There have been a hundred reporters swamping my email to the point that I just shut it down and ignored it. At least half of them have made the long trip to Stillhouse Lake to try to get me to open the door and tell my side.

  But I’m not stupid enough to do it without knowing what I’m getting into first. This television appearance took almost a month of negotiations, of guarantees of what I will and won’t be asked. I chose the Howie Hamlin Show because he has a good reputation; he’s been sympathetic to other crime victims and an advocate for justice.

  But as I take my seat in the interview chair, I’m still feeling unready. I didn’t expect this rising level of panic, or to feel burning sweat on the back of my neck. The chair is too deep, and I feel fragile perched on the edge of it. It’s the camera. I thought I was past this, but I’m not. Maybe I never will be.

  The camera keeps staring.

  Everyone else is so relaxed. The camera operator—just the one—is chatting with someone else, nowhere near the machine and its unblinking eye. The host of the show is conferring with someone offstage in the dimly lit and cable-tangled distance. But I feel pinned in place, and every time I blink, I see that other camera, the one set up on a tripod in a ruined plantation house in Louisiana.

  I see my ex and his horrible smile. I see blood.

  Ignore it.

  This place is smaller than I expected. The stage consists of a short riser and three armchairs spaced around with a small, glossy table for accent. The table holds a couple of books, but I’m too nervous to study them. I wonder why three chairs. Are there always three chairs? I don’t know. I can’t remember, even though I watched this show beforehand to learn what to expect.

  You can do this, I tell myself, and practice deep breathing. You faced down not one but two serial killers. This is nothing. It’s just an interview. And you’re doing this for the kids, to make them safer. Because if I let the media tell the story without me, they’re only going to make it worse.

  Doesn’t help. I still want to bolt out of this place and never come back. The only thing that holds me in place is the sight of my kids, Lanny and Connor, watching from the greenroom. It’s a worn waiting area with a soundproof window to the studio so the people inside can watch the action. Lanny gives me an excited thumbs-up. I manage a smile somehow. I’m sweating my makeup off, I know it. I’m so unused to wearing it now that it feels like a layer of latex paint, smothering me.

  I flinch at a touch on my shoulder, and when I turn, there’s a bearded guy in a ball cap with something in his hand. I nearly hit him. Then I realize it’s just a small microphone with a long cord attached.

  “I’m going to hand this to you; you run it under your shirt and clip it on your collar, okay?” he says. I guess he sees how jumpy I am, because he takes a step back. I shove the tiny mic under the hem of my blouse, and take it up to where it’s supposed to be; he nods when I get it into position, then drops a battery pack behind me in the chair. “Okay, you’re live,” he says. I reply with a thanks I don’t feel. The wire feels cold against my bare skin. I wonder if the microphone can pick up my shallow, rapid breathing. I fiddle with the placement, just to be sure.

  “Two minutes,” someone out
in the darkness says, and I jerk upright. The host is still lingering offstage. I feel deeply alone and exposed. The lights blaze on, blinding me; I have to resist the urge to put up my hand to block the glare. I lace my fingers together to keep myself from fidgeting.

  At the one-minute mark, the host steps up on the riser. He’s a solidly built middle-aged white man, dark hair going silver at the temples. He’s wearing a nice dark-blue suit, and I immediately wonder if I’m underdressed. Or overdressed. This is not me; I don’t care about these things. Usually.

  But then, I’ve never been live for a TV audience before either. Not of my own volition, anyway.

  “Hey, Gwen, how are you?” he says, and we shake hands. His feels warm against my ice-cold fingers. “Listen, don’t worry about anything. I know this is nerve-racking, but we’ll get you through it, okay? Just trust me. I’ve got you covered.”

  I nod. I have no choice at this point. He has a warm smile, the same temperature as his hands. It’s all a normal day at work to him.

  I try another deep breath.

  Thirty seconds crawl by, and then there’s a countdown. The last three counts are silent hand signals, and then the host’s smile lights up on cue. He leans a bit forward toward the camera. “Hello, and welcome to this extraordinary episode of Howie Hamlin. Now, we’ll be covering later in the program the shocking ongoing case of the abduction of little Ellie White, but before that we’ll have an in-depth discussion of the case everyone has been talking about: Melvin Royal. There’s been one very important voice missing from this media clamor, and we’re so lucky to have her with us today: Gwen Proctor, or as she was previously known, Gina Royal. Gina Royal was the wife of the infamous serial killer Melvin Royal, who was recently shot dead in Louisiana during what can only be described as an unbelievably brutal attack on his—”

  I can’t stand it. I interrupt him. “Ex,” I say, and bring Howard—Howie—Hamlin to a sudden halt in his polished intro. “I’m sorry for interrupting, but I’m his ex-wife. I divorced him a long time ago.”

  He takes a brief beat and says, “Yes, yes, of course, you’re quite right, and that is my mistake. He was your ex-husband at the time this shocking incident occurred. So you’d like to be called Gwen Proctor now, not Gina Royal, is that correct?”