This is the first time I've been allowed out in the field since the unfortunate incident during my last operation. I'm not entirely clear on why Creagan sprung me from desk duty to put me on this one, but it doesn't matter. I'm tired of shuffling papers and never want to see another highlighter in my life. I can't afford to mess this up.
If that means not letting myself sleep so I can be vigilant about what's happening around me, even when I'm on the train, that's what I'm going to do. And I will read the same newspaper for the tenth time to keep my brain going even though it's creeping well past sundown. Fortunately for this particular mission, the section of paper tucked in my bag when I got on the train has just the bloody, disturbing story to keep my mind from wanting to relax.
Unfortunately for me, that bloody, disturbing story is the exact reason I'm on this train headed to a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Or more precisely, to a train station, a forty-five-minute drive from the tiny town in the middle of nowhere. There I'll pick up the car left for me by another agent. It all feeds into the narrative, the persona I'm taking on for this investigation.
Going undercover isn't new to me. My foray into being Brittany was just the latest in a long line of operations that had me slipping in and out of the life of people who didn't really exist. It's all with the goal of wedging myself into a situation in just the right way to make it crack open. This assignment is different. I don't have my team beside me. There are no other agents planted strategically on the train, and I won’t have to pretend not to know them when they show up in town. Creagan sent me alone. There's no backup to help in case things start to go wrong.
Which means I sure as hell better keep them from going wrong.
And that brings me to the hours I've been keeping myself awake, paying attention to every face that walks past. The trip didn’t actually have to be this long. I could have driven straight from my neighborhood right outside of Quantico in less than seven hours. But the direct path would have been too easy to track. Instead, I’ve been on a round-about adventure, changing trains and following a few different routes to get me on this final leg. After every stop, I get up and stroll through the cars, taking note of passengers who got on and off. I can only hope each of them gets to their destination and none end up dead along the tracks.
My eyes sweep over the newspaper in my hands again. Ten sets of eyes in stark black and white stare back at me. For at least two of them, this train was the last thing they saw. For the other eight… well, they'll have to be found before anyone will know that.
These ten are why I'm going undercover in Feathered Nest, Virginia. With a name like that, the population of the town can't be high, making the number of victims all the more staggering. Eight of the ten are still missing. According to the information Creagan gave me during my briefing, the amount of blood found at the scene of each disappearance, along with there being no sign of any of them since, give credence to the theory they are all dead. The two found mangled by the railroad tracks offers a glimpse into the possibility of what might have happened to them.
It's the interesting positioning of the tracks that brought me into this. Though the two bodies were found in locations within a few hundred yards of each other, the curve of the track meant one, the young woman, was actually in North Carolina. Once the blood starts spattering over state lines, we tend to get involved.
Personally, I think creating a collection of eight missing person posters on the utility pole of such a small town is a bit extreme of a distance to go before calling in help. But I'm here now. And I'm going to figure out what's happening to these people and stop the son of a bitch doing it before it happens again.
A few minutes before pulling into the station, the sleepy-eyed conductor makes his way down the aisle, letting us know we'll arrive soon. Neon note cards tucked above each pair of seats contain abbreviations indicating our destination. It's no surprise I'm the only one getting off at my station. It's the closest one to Feathered Nest, which is hidden somewhere in the woods we rumbled past several minutes ago and consists of a single platform. A small booth takes on the responsibilities of a station building.
By the time I toss my bag over my shoulder, gather up my small suitcase, and head out of the train, my larger luggage is already leaning against the booth. I don't know how it managed to get there so fast, but the train isn't playing around. I haven't even picked up my bigger suitcase before the train lets out a loud whistle and chugs away. It seems just as suspicious of the surroundings as everyone else has gotten.
Just as Creagan promised, a car sits in one of the four parking spots behind the booth. It's just old and nondescript enough not to get noticed. It is the oatmeal of sensible cars. My phone rings in my pocket as I fish the hidden key out of the wheel well and unlock the trunk to haul my luggage inside.
“Are you there yet?” Bellamy whispers loudly through the line.
I chuckle and shut the back door before slipping behind the wheel.
“You don't have to whisper, Bells. There's no one around here to hear you. I just got to my car.”
I grab the rearview mirror and tilt it to reflect the entirety of the backseat.
“What about hidden people? You just checked your mirror for someone balled up in front of your backseat, didn't you?” she asks.
I've been called out. As one of my two best friends, and the person in my life who has known me the longest, Bellamy might very well have too much insight into me.
“You would, too, if you saw this place. I didn't know there was this much dark in the world.”
She gasps. “Oh, no. What happened? Did you already see something horrible happen?”
“No,” I tell her, pulling out of the parking space and onto the road behind the platform. “I mean actual dark. Like lack of light. There are two light posts on the platform, and I'm currently driving away from them. Speaking of which, I need my GPS to get to the house, so I've got to go.”
“Okay. Well, stay safe. Keep me updated.”
“I will.”
I hang up and plug the address of the house where I'll be staying for the duration of the job into my phone. It pulls up a twisty path through the woods, and I set to it. The quiet outside the car is incredible. I can't decide if it's better to have music on or not. It makes the quiet inside the car less oppressive, but at the same time, seems to make the tangible silence outside more unnerving. The music means I can't catch any sounds beyond the car. I'm even more isolated.
The music situation goes back and forth a few times before I finally pull up in front of the house. Cabin is a more appropriate term. I find it at the end of a long driveway barely visible under a thick layer of leaves and pine needles, the log and river rock house is totally dark and facing a lake. Creagan arranged the rental, and I know the owner is expecting me. But apparently, that doesn't translate into making sure the house is welcoming for when I actually get here.
I park to the side, with my headlights shining on the door and go up onto the porch. A key hangs from a piece of twine off a nail in the middle of the door. I assume it used to be the seasonal home of a wreath. Just above it are the slightly rusty, dingy house number digits.