As we approached the turn onto Maple Lodge Road, on the northeast ridge of Blue Mountain Lake, I noticed a set of tire tracks leading up to the cabin that looked fairly recent, and another set leading away. They looked like the same type of tread. The weather reports said that it had rained here just two days ago, so whoever had come here had done so in between the time Stephen
Gaines had died and now. And if, as Rose thought,
Helen had come here, we would hopefully find her.
The tracks leading away could have been Helen shopping, picking up supplies.
Amanda turned the stereo off. I could feel the breath become shallow in my chest. Helen Gaines had to have answers. Even if she didn't know who killed her son, she would certainly know what he might have been mixed up in that got him killed. She was our only hope, our only lead. My father's only hope.
We pulled onto the driveway and slowly entered the
Gaines residence. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the slight wind. I could hear Amanda breathing beside me. I felt her hand on my elbow for reassurance.
As we got closer we could see the cottage. It was two stories tall, made from rounded interlocking logs. The front door was bracketed by six logs surrounding a makeshift porch. A chimney jutted from a roof lined with a green material. It looked as if some sort of moss or other plant life was growing on it. The chimney was static. I lowered the window, smelled the air. It was clean. If Helen was here, she hadn't made a fire recently.
"Henry," Amanda said, her hand gripping my arm tighter. "Look at that."
In the dirt driveway, we could clearly make out the tread markings from a second set of tires. These treads were marked with numerous crisscrossing lines, both vertical and horizontal in even patterns. Truck tires tended to have more grooves, deeper cuts, better for sluicing water and specifically designed for off-roading.
These tracks likely belonged to a some sort of SUV. Our eyes followed the tracks back to a clearing in the woods.
Whoever had come here hadn't used the front door.
They'd come in a different way. They didn't want to be seen arriving. Who could have come here besides
Helen? And what kind of person would have come not wanting to be seen? Clearly, whoever had come here knew they would be coming in through the woods, and needed treads that could handle it. Somebody wanted to not be seen using the front door.
"This can't be good," Amanda said under her breath.
"What if someone is still there?"
She didn't need to say that that person might not be
Helen Gaines.
I stopped the car short of the driveway and put it into
Park. I kept the engine running. Just in case.
With the engine purring, we both unlocked our doors and tentatively stepped into the evening air. Wind swirled around us as we stared at the cabin. I couldn't see much inside, so I crept closer, hunched low to the ground. Dirt crackled under my feet as Amanda kept pace several steps behind me.
I crept up the front steps and up to the door. Both side windows were closed, and a drape prevented me from viewing what was inside. I gently knocked on the door.
There was no doorbell.
"Miss Gaines?" I called. "Helen?"
There was no response.
I called louder. Waited a minute. Heard nothing.
I walked back down the steps, then decided to go around the house to see what we could find.
Heart pounding in my chest, I slid up to a side window, cupped my hands to the glass and peered in.
The room was dark. There was a long couch, and I could make out a television stand and what looked like a desk. Other than that the room was impeccably clean.
Peering in closer, I could see a faint yellow glow ema nating from a room beyond this one. A light was on somewhere on the first floor.
"Stay here," I said to Amanda.
"Like hell," she replied. That was the end of that discussion.
Staying low, we sidled around the back of the house where another window faced the forest. Off in the distance, I could make out a narrow road, paved poorly but wide enough for a car to fit through. It did not face the front of the house, and would be unseen by anyone who was not in this room at the time. The window was mere yards from the SUV tire tracks.
There was no doubt; whoever had come here had used that path to gain access to the house.
I approached the window. My breath was ragged, and
I could hear Amanda panting behind me. Gently I stood up until my eye line was just over the windowsill.
I made out the top of a shower rod and a medicine chest.
This was clearly the downstairs bathroom. Then I saw it.
The right medicine cabinet was open. Pills and makeup were spread out all over the counter. Bottles were broken. Things scattered everywhere.
That's when Amanda stood up, saw the entirety of the bathroom, and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
When I saw what she was looking at, it was all I could do to stifle mine.
A body was facedown on the floor. Her blouse was ripped and tattered. Her arms were splayed out in a horribly unnatural position.
And a pool of blood was spread around her head like a gruesome sunrise.
Without thinking, I ran to the nearest tree, propped my foot against a limb and pulled until I heard a crunch and the thick branch snapped off. Taking a running start, I brought the limb back behind my head just like when I played Little League, and slammed the branch against the windowpane. The glass didn't shatter, but a large crack snaked down the middle. Just enough. Two more whacks and enough glass had broken for me to clear the rest out with the branch. I carefully climbed through the window. The blood around Helen Gaines's head looked dark red, almost dried but not completely. A small piece of metal floated in the gore, but I couldn't tell what it was.
I smelled the air, a faint but still noxious odor present. I looked closer. There was a chance she was still…
I gently moved her hair away from her neck so I could check her pulse. And that's when I realized that this woman was black. It was not Helen Gaines.
I pressed three fingers against her carotid artery, praying for a pulse. I felt nothing. I pressed again, this time on her wrist. Silent. Dead.
I looked at the body.
My hands shook as I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. Thankfully there was recep tion. My fingers fumbled and I had to dial 911 three times before getting it right.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"A woman's been killed at 97 Maple Lodge Road.
Please get here quick."
"Sir, can you check her pulse?"
"There's no pulse. Please just get here."
"All right, sir, an ambulance is on the way. Do you know the victim?"
"No," I said, nearly passing out as I sat down on the rim of the porcelain bathtub. "I don't."
Sitting in the pool of blood, about two feet away from the body, was a tiny diamond earring, lying next to another thin sliver of what looked like gray hair. The diamond was a princess cut. One day, a few weeks ago,
I was looking online at engagement rings. Thinking about whether I could see Amanda wearing one. I re membered seeing the name-princess cut-and thinking it was perfect. A princess for a princess, I'd thought.
But there was only one earring on the ground.
The other was either taken by the killer. Or still being worn by someone who'd escaped.
Then I looked at the body again. The victim's ears weren't pierced. Which meant the single earring on the ground had belonged to Helen Gaines. And she'd dropped it before she fled.