The souls of lost lake, p.17
The Souls of Lost Lake, page 17
“You gonna stop anytime soon?” Ava huffed for breath. They were practically running, and aside from tripping a few times on sticks or viny stems that reached up from the earth like demons, she couldn’t say as if she’d had anything else try to deter them from the mission.
Noah waited for her to catch up. It was pitch-black in the woods now, and she couldn’t see his face, let alone his eyes. But she could feel them. Yes. She could feel them. They were intent. Focused. Most definitely not engaged in any sense of humor at all.
“Which way?” Even Noah sounded short of breath.
“To the body?”
“Yes,” he snapped.
“You know, for a preacher, you’re short on patience,” Ava quipped in return.
Noah tugged her toward him so he could see her more clearly. Now she could make out his eyes in the darkness.
“Listen, Ava. Listen closely. We need to get Jipsy’s body back into town and make sure we don’t leave a thing behind that could tie it to you—or me. And then we’re going to hurry back to the parsonage and go to bed and pretend this didn’t happen.”
“Why not just leave her in the woods?” Ava wasn’t fond of the way he held her. Well, that wasn’t true. She was fond of it. She wasn’t fond of being fond of it. There was coiled strength in his fingers.
“Jipsy deserves a Christian burial.” There was that war between a man and his inner religious parts.
“So where’re you plannin’ on dropping her body? In front of the police station?”
“No. At Widower Frisk’s place. He can answer for her.”
“Widower Frisk would never hurt Jipsy,” Ava argued.
“I never said he did. But the town needs to start looking at other folk than just you.”
“So you’re trying to get Widower Frisk into trouble?” Ava’s voice rose. “Have you plumb lost your Christian senses?”
“It has nothing to do with that,” Noah hissed. He pulled her closer. Ava felt his breath on her nose. “I just—Frisk will get her taken care of. The town can try and figure out what happened, and maybe it’ll deflect all this attention away from you.”
“I’m not going to bed at the parsonage,” Ava said.
Noah stepped back. He cleared his throat. “Of course. Well. We’ll figure that out later. Now, which way do we need to go?”
Ava pointed. “Thataway.”
Noah dropped her arm. She’d never wanted to be manhandled by a man before, but the way Preacher Pritchard held her wasn’t mean. It was firm. Decisive. A bit like he was saying, I need you to help me so that I can help you. Sort of like a linking of arms if they’d been on the same team and he just needed to get her attention.
Well, Preacher Pritchard had her full attention. She could still feel the heat from his hand on her arm, and he was already several paces ahead of her.
23
Wren
Wren could feel Meghan’s eyes on her as she drove her pickup toward their destination. She could read the woman’s mind and she waited, knowing the question on the tip of Meghan’s tongue.
“You believe me, don’t you?”
And there it was. The question Wren was terrified to answer. If she answered no, she would crush this already fragile woman. If she said said yes, then she opened a much larger can of worms. And Meghan was already shaky as it was since the discovery in the woods and the shift in tone for the search for Jasmine.
Meghan accepted Wren’s silence. She sighed and turned back to look out the windshield. “Ben told me that Search and Rescue is getting nowhere. They’ve covered so much land already. But if Jasmine moved—if she’s running—Wren, what if she hears them and she won’t come because she’s afraid? Afraid of Ava Coons?”
Wren still couldn’t find words.
Meghan filled the silence. “I know they found blood, but I refuse . . .” Her voice caught, and she held her fingers to her lips. “I won’t go there. Not yet.”
“There’s no reason to. Results haven’t come in yet, and it may be nothing.” That might have been the lamest thing she’d ever said. Blood was never nothing. Wren winced and adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. Distract. They needed to distract from the idea of death.
“This is why we need to go chat with Wayne Sanderson. His family has been in Tempter’s Creek for over a hundred years. If anyone knows the true story of the Coons family, I’d think it would be him.”
Meghan was rustling through her purse. She found her ChapStick and uncapped it, swiping it across her lips. Wren noticed the mother’s hand had a definitive tremor to it. Suppressed nerves, emotion, and terror. She pushed the cap back on. “Is he a historian for the town?”
Wren shook her head. “No. But Gary—my friend Eddie’s dad—told me this morning that Wayne used to help at the camp years ago. He’s one who has invested himself into the people of this area—the town’s history and such.”
“Why does his name, Sanderson, sound so familiar to me?” Meghan dropped the ChapStick back into her purse.
Wren steered her truck onto a side road. “Because the Sanderson name is what Tempter’s Creek is built on. Logging. They owned the sawmill that used to run this town.”
“They don’t anymore?” Meghan zipped her purse shut.
Wren shrugged. “Logging isn’t as big around here as it was back then, especially with so much of the forest being state or federal land now. A lot of folks work outside of Tempter’s Creek. At the medical facilities in the bigger surrounding towns, or there’s a plastic manufacturing plant about forty-five minutes from here that many work at.”
The street was lined with oak and maple. Little boxy houses with well-maintained flower beds dotted the neighborhood, their badly cracked walks evidence the people here lived on low-to-moderate incomes. Wren strained to see the house numbers, and when she spotted Wayne Sanderson’s house, she parked on the street alongside it and killed the engine.
“Ready?”
Meghan nodded, and they both exited the truck. Wren led the way to the front door. She had called Wayne earlier, dropped Gary Markham’s name for a mutual tie, and received an invitation from the older man.
Wayne answered the door looking every bit the part of a Northwoodsman. His buffalo plaid flannel shirt seemed far too warm for the late-spring sun, but the sleeves were rolled up and it was unbuttoned at the neckline to reveal a clean white undershirt. Wire-framed glasses were propped on his nose, his gray hair parted on the side and combed neatly into place. He was clean-shaven. For a man who was sixty-something, he showed the remnants of being quite handsome in his younger years.
“Wren? Mrs. Riviera? Come in! Come in!” His smile warmed Wren’s insides and made her instantly feel like she could ask the man anything. He also seemed very aware of Meghan’s delicate mental state, muttering immediately that he’d been praying for Jasmine and offering her a beverage.
They walked through the front room, the kitchen, and to a back door that led onto a small deck. An umbrella table was waiting, with four cushioned patio chairs positioned around it. On the table were a pitcher of ice water and mismatched glasses, even a plate of cookies. Nutter Butters, if Wren’s guess was accurate.
“Have a seat!” Wayne’s smile reached his eyes. He pulled out a chair for Meghan, who took the offer graciously. “There’re cookies and some ice water, if you like?”
Wren nodded. She never turned down a cookie.
Once they were settled, Wayne leaned back in his chair and hooked his ankle over his opposite leg. “So, you’re wanting to learn about Ava Coons?” He smiled. “I haven’t told that story for some time.”
Wren returned his smile politely. “We’re actually less interested in the campfire story than what really happened to the Coons family. Where they ended up. Did Ava marry, have children? That sort of thing.” She didn’t explain—nor did she intend to—the notion that little Jasmine had seen Ava Coons in the woods.
“Yes, well, so much of the history gets shrouded with story and lore. It’s sometimes hard to know what is accurate and what’s not.”
“I guess we’re more interested in the Coons family after the story.”
“Ahhh.” Wayne nodded and took a sip of his water. “Well, that is a bit of a question.” He leaned forward and set the glass on the table with a clink of glass on glass. “You see, the story goes that Ava Coons vanished in the woods, and no one saw her again after the murders.”
Wren glanced at Meghan, praying this would not upset her more than help her.
Wayne continued. “Her family’s murders, of course, when Ava was a child, but then there were also two killings in Tempter’s Creek in the 1930s. Similar fashion to how they assume her family was killed.”
“By an ax?” Meghan inserted.
It relieved Wren to hear Meghan’s investment in the conversation and that she wasn’t going to melt down. Yet anyway.
“That’s what they say. A man named Hubbard and then some other woman. Folks felt Ava Coons was to blame for it—I suppose ’cause the M.O. was like her own family’s passing. But shortly after, that’s when she disappeared, and no one ever saw her again.”
“So, no one knows if she ever married, or had children, or—?” Wren wasn’t even sure where she was going with that theory.
Wayne lifted his shoulders in an apologetic shrug. “Don’t know. If she did, I suppose her offspring moved far away from Tempter’s Creek. She probably did too. This wasn’t a place where Ava Coons was going to settle and get any peace. And if she married, we’ve no idea what her last name changed to.”
Wren took a bite of her cookie.
Meghan fiddled with hers.
Wayne rapped his fingers on the arm of the chair before inquiring, “Why is it important to find out about Ava Coons’s offspring—if there were any?”
It was a good question. Wren hadn’t even tied all her thoughts together. But if Ava had offspring in the area, maybe there was an explanation for Jasmine having seen Ava Coons. A misunderstanding. Someone posing as Ava Coons. It was easier to accept than that a ghost had led Jasmine off.
“I’m just curious,” Wren replied, avoiding a more honest answer.
Wayne’s eyes were sharp, and she could feel him assessing her.
Meghan shifted in her seat. She shot Wren an anxious look before speaking. So much for flying under the radar. “Mr. Sanderson, my daughter saw Ava Coons. The day before she disappeared. I need to know if this is even possible.”
He didn’t answer for a long, loaded moment. When he did, he seemed to choose his words carefully. “You mean, if Ava Coons took off with your child?”
“Yes.” Meghan nodded vehemently. “Only Wren believes me.”
Well, she’d never actually said she believed Meghan. “Or someone who appears to be Ava Coons—someone who’s alive, but . . .” Saying it aloud made it sound even crazier.
Meghan continued, “What happened to Ava? Where did she disappear to? It’s the only way I’m going to find my baby.”
Wayne worked his jaw back and forth. Meghan Riviera was literally chasing a ghost. Wren was trying to add flesh and bones to it—for her sake as well, though she didn’t want to admit that aloud. Wayne’s responses would either make Ava Coons vanish again or come back to life.
“Mrs. Riviera—”
“Meghan.”
“Meghan, then.” Wayne bent forward, resting his forearms on his knees and looking intently at her. “Ava Coons is an age-old legend about a murder, throwing bodies into Lost Lake, and disappearing. There have been folks who go into the national forest and state lands here who never return. They just disappear. Now, I don’t know what happened to them. Is it probable that it’s Ava Coons’s ghost luring people into the woods so she can do to them what she did to her family?”
Wren held her breath. Wayne was going to demolish Meghan’s theory. Which was good—at least the ghostly part of it. But then, once it was humanized, it became more terrifying, didn’t it? That someone had actually taken Jasmine?
“Ava Coons is a ghost story. Plain and simple.” Wayne’s conclusion took the air from the moment.
Meghan paled. “My daughter said she saw Ava Coons. How do you explain that? Where do I go to look for her?” Meghan shot a desperate look to Wren, then back to Wayne. “Wren said you knew about Ava Coons—that you could help us!”
Wayne shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He rubbed his palms together as if considering his answer.
“Tell me something—anything!” Meghan was growing agitated.
Wren started to reach for her, but Wayne interrupted by clearing his throat.
“If someone took your child, they’d go farther toward Lost Lake—not in the search grid based on how a child would travel alone.”
“Lost Lake?” Meghan’s voice trembled.
“Why Lost Lake?” Wren interjected.
“Because—” Wayne paused and leaned back in his chair, his face strained—“it’s obscure. Murky. The bottom of the lake is all muck.”
“Why is that important?” Meghan’s faint but wobbling question chilled Wren from the inside out.
“Mr. Sanderson—” Wren tried to interrupt.
Wayne’s voice shook, and he ignored Wren’s attempt to temper his honest opinion. “A little girl disappeared years ago too. Trina. Police say her daddy took her. But I’ve said all along that the authorities need to dredge Lost Lake. They’ll find her body. They’ll find others too.” He offered a sad smile.
Wren lurched to her feet. “Mr. Sanderson—”
“I hate to be so blunt.” Wayne shrugged. “But if there’s anything true about Ava Coons, it’s that she knew the best place to get rid of a body in these parts. That’s at Lost Lake.” His stare burned into Wren’s. “Best you tell that to the search team.”
24
Wayne Sanderson needed to be tarred and feathered. Wren pumped the brakes as she pulled her truck into the lot by the Rec Barn. Meghan had been weeping the entire way back to camp. Could she blame her? Wren wanted to swear, but she tempered her thoughts. The idea that Wayne could help shed light on who the mysterious Ava Coons lookalike in the park might be, well, they’d never actually gotten to that, had they? Dredge Lost Lake for bodies? Tell that to the search team! Not to the woman whose daughter was missing! And bringing up Trina from years ago? Tasteless.
Yet Wren was just as annoyed with herself as she was with Wayne. She didn’t know what she’d expected. What she’d hoped to gain by going there. In retrospect, all it had done was prove she was lacking in her judgment calls.
She startled when the pickup’s passenger door yanked open. Ben reached up for Meghan and, without a glance at Wren, whisked her away.
“Ben!” Wren shouted after him.
Eddie was beelining it for the truck and gave Ben’s arm a slap as he walked by. The kind of I’m here for you guy slap that boded no good news.
“What happened?” Wren jumped from the truck and slammed the door. She rounded the hood.
A cry rent the air, and she saw Meghan collapse into Ben’s arms. Wren froze, her knees threatening to give out. She met Eddie’s eyes as he jogged toward her.
“Eddie?”
He grabbed her arms to help steady her.
“Tell me she’s okay,” Wren demanded of him. Eddie rubbed her upper arms.
“Let’s sit down.” Eddie steered her toward the side of the Rec Barn. They rounded the corner away from the crowd that was fast gathering and the ruckus of tears and conversation.
“Is it Jasmine?” Wren begged Eddie to tell her. “They found her?”
Eddie shook his head. “No. But they found another . . .” He swallowed hard. “You remember ten years ago? The girl who went missing?”
A pit formed in her stomach. Only moments before she’d been discussing her with Wayne Sanderson. “Trina Nesbitt?”
Eddie nodded. “They found her.”
“Trina?” Wren’s knees weakened. She leaned against the barn. Struggling to compose herself, she swiped the backs of her eyes with her bare arm.
Eddie’s hand on her arm did little to reassure her. “One of the volunteers on the search party found the remains. It wasn’t far from Lost Lake.”
“Then how do they know it’s Trina?” Wren hated the thrill of hope that shot through her that it wasn’t Jasmine. But if not Jasmine, it was another little girl—whose father had not whisked her out of state in a child custody battle.
“They’ll need to examine the remains to know for sure.” Eddie squeezed her arm. “There wasn’t much left. It’s been ten years. They found a necklace, though. Trina’s name was engraved on it, and it matches the necklace she was wearing in the photo on the missing person flyer that was circulated at the time.”
Wren didn’t try to stop the burning tears as they trailed down her face. It was close—too close to what was happening now with Jasmine. And right after what Wayne had stated?
“At least it’s not Jasmine, but the entire search team is shook. Ben didn’t take it well at all. The police are shifting their emphasis and . . .” Eddie let his words hang as he watched her. “You okay?”
Apparently she wasn’t. Her knees gave out, and Eddie caught her. “Hey, hey.” He helped her slide down the wall to sit on the ground. Wren pulled her knees up to her chest and looked helplessly at her friend.
“Something’s not right—about any of this. Wayne—” Her voice caught.
“What about Wayne?” Eddie leaned forward. “Wayne Sanderson?”
Wren blathered the details of her visit with Wayne, and she didn’t even notice when Eddie had reached for her as he sat next to her. She realized she was talking into his shoulder, her words muffled against his shirt, when she got to the part where Wayne had suggested they dredge Lost Lake.
Eddie pulled back. “Did you tell this to the police?”
Wren cast a look of utter desperation at him. “I haven’t had the chance.” Her face crumpled, her eyes so flooded she could barely make out Eddie’s features. “We came back to this! It’s as if Wayne isn’t nuts at all! Who is in these woods, Eddie? Who is hunting people?” Wren was afraid. Every ounce of her soul was bleeding with the possibilities of more impending grief, but this time with Jasmine. And then there was the . . .
