He turned to Waller.
“What did you find at the property?”
Waller studied him.
“You look rough, Abe. Let me walk you to your car.”
As they left the building, Waller answered Abe’s question.
“The kiln was filled with bones. The forensics team has assembled six bodies, including the body of a small child.”
Abe shuddered, remembering Orla hiding in the kiln that was actually a crypt.
“Susan Miner?” he asked.
Waller nodded.
“No confirmed victim identities, but we found a treasure trove of keepsakes beneath a floorboard in Spencer’s cabin. Liz Miner identified Susan’s clothes. There appears to be items from every missing girl you reported on.”
Abe leaned against his car. His head swam and he closed his eyes. The head injury coupled with the horror of the findings overwhelmed him.
“How can I help, Abe? Do you need a lift home?”
Abe shook his head and patted the hood of his car. After he’d dropped Orla off, he’d driven directly to the police station despite hospital orders he go home and rest.
“You solved this,” Waller told him. “Moore’s off the case. He’ll be lucky to work another homicide. On behalf of the entire department, I want to say thank you, Abe.”
“I gave you the wrong guy,” Abe muttered.
“No, you didn’t,” Waller disagreed. “That guy sang like a canary once Hansen put the pressure on him. He led us to you guys.”
“Did he know about Spencer? And the murders?”
Waller shook his head.
“I don’t think so. He was shocked when he learned what transpired after he left Orla at the cabin. Guilt-ridden, from the looks of him.”
“And Spencer? The detective said he’s in the hospital.”
Waller nodded.
“Yep, we found him blubbering like a baby out in those woods. He was in the kiln, bleeding mightily from a wound to the back of his head. Looked like somebody nailed him with his own hammer, though Orla and Amber denied it.”
Abe shook his head, tried to imagine it, and realized he didn’t want to.
“Do you think he’ll confess?” Abe asked.
“Already has - chicken-hearted to his core. Not a signed confession yet, but man, he talked and cried something fierce the entire drive back from the Peninsula. He told us he feigned a broken arm at Fountain Park to get Amber Hill to his car. He asked her to help him load some wood in his trunk. He’s a clever scoundrel, I’ll give him that.”
“That’s why we never found anything,” Abe muttered. “He talked them into helping him. I should have figured as much. I was all wrong about Ben. I had it all mixed up.”
Waller put a hand on his shoulder.
“That story had so many twists and turns, we likely won’t ever know the full truth. How you got this close blows my mind. You did good, Abe. Go home, take a long nap, and when you get up, tell your dad to take you out to dinner. You deserve it.”
Orla
Orla wanted to hug Ben, to pull him aside and thank him, but her dad held her close as four police officers and Detective Hansen waited for Ben’s directions.
Ben led the group from the asylum into the forest.
Orla shook, and her father petted her head and murmured little words of encouragement.
“You can do this,” he whispered.
She didn’t respond. It was not bravery she lacked in that moment. A disconcerting sense that someone, or something, watched them surrounded her.
Ben paused, pointing at a tall Willow tree, and started down the hill that led to the chamber.
Orla saw Ben’s eyes darting anxiously, and she wondered if he felt it too.
Blanched trees, bare of their leaves, grew out from the earth and lay tangled in a heap across the prickly summer vegetation.
Ben walked to a wall of brush and gestured at it.
“The door’s in there,” he murmured.
Detective Hansen stepped forward and reached into the foliage. He moved sideways, pushing his arms into the brush up to his shoulders. He searched for several minutes.
“There’s nothing in there.”
Ben frowned and stepped forward.
He reached into the brush.
After a moment, Orla broke away from her father.
Ben looked at her puzzled.
Orla, her hands protected by gloves, pulled at the twisted bushes, ripping and clawing. She created an opening in the overgrowth, but only more forest lay beyond it.
“Are we at the wrong place?” Hansen asked.
Ben shook his head.
“This is it,” Orla insisted, continuing to tear at the branches. “I remember that willow. This has to be it.”
“It is,” Ben nodded. “There isn't another place in the forest like this.”
But they backtracked and searched for another willow. After two hours, sweaty, scratched, and exhausted, they returned to the asylum grounds.
Ben hung his head, but Orla took his hand.
“I’ll send out more men tomorrow,” Hansen told them. “If there’s a hovel in that forest, we’re going to find out.”
Orla looked at Ben and she saw her own doubt reflected in his face.
The police would never find the chamber. Not if the chamber didn’t want to be found.
Chapter 52
Orla
“Did you find these?” Ben asked Orla, looking at the photos in astonishment.
The first photo depicted a young woman posing in front of an aspen tree on the asylum grounds. A blanket-wrapped bundle rested in her arms, a tiny face peeking out.
Orla shook her head. “I wish I could take credit for it, but it was all Abe.”
“I figured it was the least I could do, since I got you arrested,” Abe told him. “Your records were in the garage at Misty Lane. Byron Crow was vile, but at least he kept detailed records.”
Ben stared down at the photo, and then shuffled to the second and third.
“Your mom’s name was Marilyn Stoops,” Abe said. “She gave birth to you in the asylum on May 7th, 1951. Her siblings,” Abe gestured at the second photo, which revealed Marilyn as a young woman, arms linked with her two sisters and one brother, “never knew about you. You lived in the nursery for two years, several of the nurses shared you, and your mom saw you every day. Then she contracted tuberculosis and died. When you were three, Dr. Crow started to take you home.”
“There’s no record that he ever did experiments on you, Ben,” Orla told him. “And your aunts and uncle are dying to meet you. It devastated them when Marilyn went into the asylum.”
“Why did she?” Ben asked shyly.
“Because she was pregnant out of wedlock,” Abe scowled.
“It’s sickening,” Orla murmured, “and unbelievably sad.”
“There’s a bit of good news, though,” Abe said, handing Ben a folder.
Ben opened the folder and looked up, confused.
“It’s a deed, Ben. Byron Crow put his house in your name three years ago. He was being investigated for tax fraud. The house on Misty Lane and his part of the property are yours.”
Ben wrinkled his brow and shook his head.
“Why would he do that?”
“To prevent the government from seizing his property if they decided he’d committed fraud. They never did, but he also never transferred the property back.”
“It’s yours, Ben,” Orla said, taking his hand. “You have a home.”
Ben looked ready to cry.