Baby Girl Doe (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 5) (21 page)

CRACK.
The doorframe shattered. Wood splintered and flew in every direction. The police team entered and cleared the house quickly and efficiently. I was right behind them as we filed into Camryn’s home. The temperature was ungodly warm. It seemed incongruous to me that a woman like Camryn wasn’t running her air conditioning day and night during the heat of the summer. There was also a light film of dust on the highly polished wood floor.

“Doesn’t look as if anyone’s been here for the last couple of days,” I said to Pulaski. I quickly walked into the kitchen and looked around. I opened the refrigerator. It was pretty sparse—no milk, only half a stick of butter and three eggs. There were several bottled items, but nothing much that needed to be freshly bought like fruits and vegetables. “Almost two full days since Gus was taken. No one’s been here in at least that long.”

Pulaski’s cell phone rang. “It’s Bratton,” he said and ducked into the next room to take the call. Our task force was growing. Investigators were already in every room of the house looking for evidence. A female tech entered the kitchen and began going through the cabinets. I pulled open one of the drawers and started to sift through it. It was filled with basic kitchen hardware, a potato peeler, a meat thermometer, etc. I shuffled the items around and moved onto the next drawer.
What in the world?
The next drawer was filled with cutlery, nothing surprising, except that several of the spoons and forks were bent.
Who does this?
My mind raced back to Bill Alden’s backyard where I found the cyanide-laced cigarettes. An old bent fork was lying on one of the Adirondack chairs. At the time I didn’t think anything of it but now . . . It was one more connection from Camryn to Alden, but it was one that I didn’t understand.

Pulaski returned and gave me a reassuring thumbs-up. “Fucking A,” he began. “Bratton just got approval from the governor—hundreds of law enforcement officers are being bused onto Long Island, the National Guard too. They’re going to begin going door to door. Bratton said he’ll check every house on Long Island if he has to.”

I started to cry. I dug into my pocket for a tissue and blotted my eyes as quickly as I could. Pulaski put his arm on my shoulder. “Deep breaths,” he said. “Put your game face on. No let-down until we recover your husband.”

I nodded with conviction and took a deep breath. “I’m okay. Thanks.”

“What the hell?” Pulaski was staring into the flatware drawer. He picked up a couple of spoons and examined them. “This strike you as odd?”

“I saw a bent fork at Bill Alden’s house too.”

“It may not be a coincidence then.”

“Maybe not but I don’t understand the connection.”

“Yeah, me neither. I’ll have all of it dusted for prints, but I don’t know if it’ll prove worthwhile.”

“I agree. Do it anyway, okay?”

“Sure.” Pulaski called over the crime scene tech who was in the kitchen and gave her instructions.

“Pulaski,” one of the other officers called through the house. We marched out of the kitchen and encountered a crime scene officer on the stairs who signaled for us to follow him to the second level. We entered the bedroom and walked toward the closet. The hanging contents of the closet had been pushed aside and the crime scene officer illuminated the back of the closet with his searchlight. Three driver’s licenses were stapled to the back wall.

It was late in the day before Trent Summers finished his homework and had the opportunity to go out hunting.
Twilight hunting was more dangerous than hunting in daylight hours, but he was accomplished at the sport and liked to go out when the nocturnal creatures were beginning to stir. He killed raccoons and opossums mostly—just for fun after a day glued to the books.

“Come on, boy.” Rusty, his coon dog stirred at the first sound of his voice. His tail wagged excitedly as he walked over to his bowl, expecting to be fed. “Not yet, boy.” He gave Rusty a Milk-Bone, threw on his backpack, and slung his birthday present over his shoulder. The .17 HMR smelled from solvent and gun oil. The fragrance resonated with him making him eager to fire it.

He waited until Rusty emptied his bladder before starting down a familiar path into the woods, which divided into two trails. He usually took the west fork, which brought him up to the high ground, but he hadn’t had much luck there lately, so he decided to take the east fork that traveled downhill until it ran parallel with the Hoosick River.

The river was just mildly illuminated by the reflection of the setting sun when he got down to the bottom of the hill. The air was moist, and Rusty was already intently sniffing the odors of the forest floor. Almost immediately, he got low on his haunches, a telltale sign that he was stalking a critter.

“Whatcha got, boy?” Trent whispered. He stood motionlessly watching Rusty slink away. He took his rifle off his shoulder and looked through the scope. The area was dense with trees, mostly pines and oaks, and the lighting was poor, which made it difficult for him to spot his prey until a sudden rustling in the leaves drew his attention.

“Yes!” he whispered with exuberance. It was the rarest find of all, a woodchuck. They hibernated through the fall and winter and were only active during the summer months.

Rusty stopped and lay down. It was a signal to Trent to take the shot. He aimed and fired. The bullet whizzed through the air. He was hoping for silence, but instead he heard the loud whistle of the woodchuck warning his colony of danger. He lowered his rifle just in time to see the woodchuck tunneling into a plunge hole.

Rusty closed in on the animal just as its tail disappeared into the hole. Rusty was barking and scratching at the hole, trying to get at the woodchuck when Trent arrived. Trent looked up at the darkening sky. “Give it up, boy. He’s not coming out of there.” But Rusty was committed to the task. He continued to scratch, digging up roots and soil.

“It’s okay, boy. Come on, let’s get some dinner.”

Rusty understood the word dinner very well. He stopped for a moment to look up at Trent and then continued to bark at the hole with persistence. He had widened the hole so that the opening was now double the size it was before he started. Trent looked down and saw white boney fingertips protruding through the earth. He felt the blood drain from his face as understanding kicked in. He leashed Rusty and ran home as fast as his legs would carry him.

Three driver’s licenses: one for Sarah Fisher, one for Joshua Dane, and one for Camryn Claymore.
The face I was familiar with was present on both Camryn Claymore’s and Sarah Fisher’s licenses. I pointed at them, for Pulaski’s benefit. “Two different driver’s licenses with the same face on both.”

“Yeah,” Pulaski laughed. “Shoddy work,” he said as he looked at Joshua Dane’s driver’s license. “Must have been done by the same character who forged the driver’s license for McLovin here. How do you think this guy fits in?”

“Only time will tell.” Finding a man’s driver’s license did not fit in, and I was none too pleased by the new twist. Were men being targeted as well as women? I saw Gus’ face and an ache grew in my gut.

I was on pins and needles while we waited for the laminated driver’s licenses to be fingerprinted; the minute hand on my watch ticked by from one agonizing minute to the next. “I knew that Camryn had something to do with Sarah Fisher’s disappearance.” Finding her driver’s license in Camryn’s closet only further cemented my theory.

“But Alana Moore’s license isn’t here,” Pulaski noted.

“No. It was in her purse at the time she was killed by the LIRR train. So . . .”

The fingerprinting was finally complete. I was itching to examine the licenses up close, not so much Sarah Fisher’s, but the second one. Why would Camryn’s driver’s license be stapled to the wall along with the others?

I had but to hold it in my hands to understand.

The picture belonged to the woman who had rented us our vacation home, but her date of birth struck me like a lightning bolt to the head. There was absolutely no way the woman I had met on two separate occasions was anymore than thirty years old, and by the date listed on her license, Camryn Claymore was forty-four years old.

My cell phone rang. I’d lost track of the time; it was already quarter of nine. As if by cue, my stomach grumbled.
You’ll just have to wait.

It was Ambler. “Herb, speak to me. What did you get from Bancroft?”

I heard Ambler exhale long and hard through his nostrils and I knew that it wasn’t good news. “Very little, Stephanie. Jack’s a good man, but there are matters even he’s not willing to talk about.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you? Gus has been missing for two full days, and this Air Force muckety-muck can’t talk to you about a matter that might mean the difference between life and death? This goes back decades. What the hell could be so important? Come on, man, really? I mean, if he won’t step up for someone as high up on the FBI totem pole as you . . . Jesus, I’ve had it,” I said with resignation in my voice.

“Okay, my dearest, chill out. I said he told me very little. I didn’t say he told me nothing at all. Have you heard of Camp Hero?”

“No. What the hell is Camp Hero?”

“Camp Hero used to be called the Montauk Air Force Station. It’s a defunct military installation not far from where you are right now, right near Montauk Point. At one time, it was a strategic outpost and radar station that protected the east coast from enemy attack up until about 1981, when it became obsolete. There’s huge machinery in place over there, radar towers and artillery guns. It’s all been decommissioned, but it was too expensive to tear down, so the site was abandoned. You can Google it if you want more details.”

“So what’s the great big secret? I mean if it’s on Google, it’s not exactly a state secret.”

“It’s like Area 51 in Roswell, New Mexico.”

“Are you trying to tell me that aliens are buried there?”

“No. My point is that conspiracy theorists believe, in its latter years, secret government research was conducted by the military in an underground complex at the site. So in that sense, the truth is classified, just as it is with Area 51 in Roswell. No one can talk about it and that includes Bancroft. That’s why the Air Force Judge Advocate General wouldn’t release Bill Alden’s file.”

I slumped into a chair and rubbed my temple. “I guess some good can come from this. Bratton and the governor are sending an army of cops and military here to look for Gus. I’ll pass along this information, so they can make Camp Hero their first priority.”

“I’ve got more,” Ambler said in a robust voice. “Grab a pencil. Bancroft gave me the name and phone number of the officer who was the base commandant during the time Alden was hired on as a civilian. His name is Frank Prescott and he lives in Hog Creek about a half hour from you. I just spoke with him.”

“That’s terrific, Herb.” My throat tightened again. “Thank you.”

“Stop wasting time lollygagging with me. Prescott knew Alden, and he’s willing to talk to you about him. He just put on a pot of coffee, and he’s waiting for you at his home. Anything new on your end?”

“Yes, we’re pretty sure that Kaley Struthers and a woman named Camryn Claymore, the realtor who rented us the summer place are behind this. I’ll fill you in later. I don’t want to keep Prescott waiting. I love you, Herb.”

“And I love you. Our boy’s coming home,” he said to reassure me. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Pulaski was tired but far from quitting for the night, determined to work as long as it took and then some.
I was running on vapors, both physically and emotionally, and so very glad to have him along for support.

It was almost ten p.m. when we pulled up to Prescott’s home, a modest ranch set on large acreage in front of Gardiners Bay, one of the bodies of water that separates Long Island’s North and South Forks.

“Let’s do it,” he said. We traded yawns and got out of the car. Prescott was waiting for us on his front porch.

A silvertip Lab sat obediently by his side. The playful animal grew more and more excited as we approached, and I could see that it was a real effort for the Lab to sit still.
“Stay,”
Prescott commanded as the Lab got up on all fours. “Stay, Montana.” Montana sat, fighting every ounce of his innate desire to be playful. “Are you okay with him?” Prescott asked.

“I love dogs.” I smiled at Montana. “Come here, fella.” Montana looked at Prescott for approval and then leapt off the porch. He was a big boy. Despite the strain I was feeling, I grinned as a hundred pounds of unconditional love flew through the air. He gave me a couple of quick sniffs and then he was up on his hind legs kissing my face. For a brief moment, I was caught up in Montana’s spell, which washed away some of my pain and anguish. I don’t know what it is about dogs and the magic they possess, but I could almost feel my heart lighten. In some way, I guessed he could sense that I needed his love. I hugged the warm furry beast, and then he was off to greet Pulaski.

Prescott was smiling at me as I walked up the porch steps to greet him. “You passed the Montana test,” he said as we shook hands. “Frank Prescott. Thanks for coming by to visit. Your last name is
Cha-lee-see
, correct?”

“You nailed it.
Please call me Stephanie, and
thanks for seeing me. I know it’s late.”

“No formalities required,” Prescott said. “I’m glad to have the company. The powder room is the first door on the right as you walk in. Go ahead and wash the doggie slobber off your face. I’ve got hot coffee and pie from Briermere Farms waiting on the kitchen table.”

I wasn’t familiar with Briermere Farms, but Pulaski hooted an enthusiastic,
“Nice!”
as he fended off Montana’s high-spirited assault.

Cleansed of dog dribble, I made my way into the kitchen. Pulaski was already halfway through a slice of what looked like blueberry cream pie. A second slice was waiting for me. The kitchen was air-conditioned cold, and steam rose from the mug of coffee Prescott had poured for me. The coffee aroma smelled sublime.

Montana pegged me as the weak link, the human most likely to sneak him a scrap, and sat down under the table with his snout in my lap. Despite the tiredness and strain, the atmosphere in Prescott’s home boosted my spirit. I knew it would be short lived, but I was grateful for a moment of happiness all the same.

“I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s disappearance,” Prescott began. He was up there in years but looked vital. His ruddy complexion contrasted greatly with his lustrous, silver hair. “Tell me what I can do to help you. I understand that you have questions about Bill Alden?”

“Correct,” Pulaski said. “Without getting into a lot of detail . . . Alden recently died in a fire, and we suspect foul play.”

Prescott gritted his teeth. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Poor Bill, he didn’t have an easy life.”

“In what way?” Pulaski asked.

Prescott puffed out his cheeks. “God, where do I begin? I met Alden when he applied to participate in a paid long-term research study conducted by the Air Force. He was about forty, and his life wasn’t exactly a bowl of cherries.”

“What kind of research study are we talking about?”

Prescott shot me a quick glance, his expression indicating that this was where things became difficult. “When I was discharged from the service, I signed a document stating that I would not discuss the nature of the work going on at the base, but I know this is important so . . . well, I’ll have to tread lightly.”

“We understand. Anything you tell us is more than we know right now.”

“First off, you have to remember that this project began in the sixties. The cold war was raging, and the Soviet Union was a real threat to our national security. Most Americans feared that the Russians would pull the trigger, and then we’d pull our trigger, and the world would end in a nuclear holocaust. If war broke out between the two super powers, the best we could hope for was, a traditional war: air strikes, infantry, and naval, but no nukes. Because of this, the military was investigating alternative military strategies. One of the strategies was mass mind control.”

“Mind control?” Pulaski smirked. “What is this,
The Twilight Zone
?”

“More like the
Outer Limits
, Detective,” Prescott replied. “There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission.”

I presumed that this TV program Prescott alluded to had aired way before my time because I had never heard of it, but Pulaski was immediately up to speed. “We control the horizontal. We control the vertical.”

“Exactly right,” Prescott continued. “Remember, we didn’t know what we know today. Technology was a million years behind where it is now. Computers were the size of ballrooms and were as slow as molasses. Those monstrosities were far less capable than the smartphones we carry around in our pockets these days. So we had what we had—theories and an endless list of willing guinea pigs to experiment on.”

“That’s horrendous.”

“By today’s standards, yes, certainly, but back then it was the status quo. There was no such thing as animal or civilian protection groups, and the military pretty much ignored civilian law anyway.”

“So what kind of experiments did you conduct?” Pulaski asked.

“That’s classified,” Prescott explained. “All I can tell you is that some of the tools we used were high-energy electromagnetic radiation, isolation therapy, subliminal imagery, and mind-altering medications. We did our utmost to maintain safe conditions for our subjects.”

“And Bill Alden was one of these subjects?”

Prescott nodded. “Yes he was.”

I shook my head in dismay. All the happiness Montana had lavished upon me melted away.

“You haven’t touched your pie,” Prescott said. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t at least try it.”

I ate a piece of pie not so much because Prescott suggested it, but because I was starving and had been suppressing hunger pangs for hours.

Montana sniffed me while I chewed.

“That’s really good.” I washed the pie down with a sip of coffee. “Let’s go back to Alden. You said he was in bad shape when you met him.”

“Yeah. From a medical perspective he was physically healthy when I first interviewed him, but mentally . . . He lost his civilian job because he couldn’t focus on his work. Today they would have simply treated him for ADHD, but back then . . . he had money problems, and his marriage was shaky. He and his wife were never able to have kids. Back in more traditional times, that alone could break up a couple. Add in financial woes and . . .”

“So no children.”

Prescott shot me that glance again, the one that said,
things are about to get rocky.
“About a year after we enrolled him in the study, he came to me and told me that after many years of trying, his wife finally managed to get pregnant and with twins to boot. I tell you he absolutely became a new man. He was happy and full of vigor. He volunteered for more testing and was just full of life.”

“So what happened?” Pulaski asked.

Prescott shook his head unhappily and sighed. “His wife and son died shortly after childbirth. Bill crumbled again and was never the same.”

“Oh my Lord. That’s terrible.”

“He couldn’t take care of his daughter. Hell, he could hardly take care of himself.” Prescott paused. He looked worried. “This is where I’m really going to need your discretion.”

“Just tell us, please. I’m only interested in finding my husband.”

“We weren’t making fast enough progress on the mind-control studies so one of my colleagues, a venomous piece of shit by the name of Kleeb, asked for and received authorization to expand the project to include infants and children to see if we’d have better results working with young minds.” Prescott blew out a deep sigh. “Alden begged me to take his daughter into the program. He said he’d have to put her up for adoption if I couldn’t help him.”

“And you agreed?”

“I did. Reluctantly of course, but Bill . . . I was afraid he’d kill himself or do something terrible. He really needed my help.” Prescott looked at me for a third time, but this time his expression said,
May God forgive me.

“You have a good heart, Frank,” I said. I took his hands in mine. “What else can you tell us?”

“We accepted Alden’s daughter into the juvenile program as an infant, but because our charter only allowed one participant from any given biological family, we had to perform a little monkey business. We pulled some strings and his daughter’s birth certificate was altered to read: Baby Girl Doe, as if the identities of her biological parents were not known. As a condition of the study, the baby lived on the complex twenty-four/seven. In effect, she was an orphan who belonged to a military program. All in all, she was a pretty happy kid. Bill asked that we name her Raven, which was the name his wife had picked out for her.

“One of the nurses, Margo Atwater took a real shine to her and cared for her as if she was her own. Bill had the ability to keep tabs on her and watch her grow up, but I guess . . .” Prescott paused, and I could see that his emotions were getting the better of him. “That poor little girl. Kleeb closed the program about a year after I retired and all the children were shipped out to foster homes. Like I said, the man was a venomous piece of shit.”

“I have to ask you, Dr. Prescott, with all the baggage Alden carried around with him, why did you ever accept him into the program,” Pulaski asked bluntly. “And why on earth would you compromise your position in the military by altering records and taking in his little girl?”

“Because he needed help and no one else was stepping up to do it, damn it. And . . .”

“And what?” Pulaski said pushing him.

“Alden wasn’t exactly your everyday candidate. He had a rare gift you find in maybe one out of a hundred million. He was legitimately psychokinetic. He could do things with his mind practically no one else could do. He could move and alter light pieces of metal.”

“He
what?
” Pulaski cried. “This was no trick, something done with smoke and mirrors?”

“No trick whatsoever,” Prescott said soberly. “We had many uniquely talented subjects in our program. He was just one of them. Believe me when I tell you he was the real deal.”

The three of us sat quietly for a moment. The image of a drawer of bent flatware came into focus in my mind.