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  “Or he's fast asleep in front of the TV,” Terrance suggests, “like a normal guy.”

  “Wait here,” I add, slamming the van's door shut before heading over to the gate and fumbling for a moment before I manage to get it open. Even the wood is icy cold. “Fun fact,” I mutter under my breath, “I happen to hate the countryside.”

  That, at least, is true. The countryside means dirt, and dirt means having to get clean at some point. If I'm already clean, why go through all the bother of letting myself get dirty? It's not as if I enjoy fields full of flowers or bright vistas and cute animals.

  Once I'm through the gate, I start making my way along a dark path that winds its way up toward the farmhouse. My footsteps seem so loud right now, crunching against the dirt, and I can't help looking around to make sure that there's nobody nearby. To be honest, this plan seemed simple enough when I was back in the warmth of the van; out here, shivering and alone, I'm starting to feel that maybe there actually is a teeny tiny element of risk involved in what I'm doing. I don't think that Thomas Roper is some kind of unbridled maniac who snatches women as soon as he sees them, but I have to admit that it's a possibility. Then again, they say that fortune favors the bold, right?

  Wait, what if he really does have night-vision goggles? Glancing around at the darkness, I imagine myself picked out in fuzzy green and white light. I'd be a sitting duck out here, at Roper's mercy. I look the other way, and of course I can't help imagining night-vision goggles zooming in on my worried face.

  Then again, I guess there's no point worry about that right now. Either he has night-vision goggles or he doesn't.

  Stopping suddenly, I realize that maybe I need to ham this performance up a little. And dumb it down at the same time.

  I look around, and then slowly I get down onto my knees. This feels really dumb, but I guess we all have to suffer sometimes for our art, so I carefully settle onto my front and wait a moment until I feel cold mud soaking through the front of my clothes. I wipe some onto my face as well, for good measure, and then I get to my feet.

  Yeah, I must look pretty pathetic right now.

  Reaching the steps at the front of the farmhouse, I take one last look around and then I take a deep breath. I need to play this cool and come across just right, so I let my mind settle for a moment before stepping forward. And in that moment, my right foot catches against the bottom step and I trip, almost falling forward.

  I mutter a few curses under my breath, before regathering my composure and then making my way up onto the porch. I start rubbing my arms with my hands for warmth. If anyone's watching me right now, they must think I look like real easy pickings.

  Glancing back the way I came, I see the van parked down by the side of the road with its headlights still blaring.

  When I look along the porch, I see large, dark windows. There's absolutely no sign of life, other than the electric light that's buzzing slightly as moths crawl and flitter all around its edges. I can see a few faint shadows on the inside of the light's casing. I guess some of the moths got in there, and now they can't get out again. I wonder if they're suffering, or if maybe they're dying in ecstasy. Poor little suckers.

  Taking another deep breath, I look the other way, and that's when I spot the door. So far it's a very ordinary-looking door, with no blood-stained hand-prints or scraps of torn human flesh caught on the handle, but I suppose even a murderous psycho can clean up after himself.

  Okay, here goes. No point delaying.

  I head over to the door. As I do so, a wooden board creaks and shifts slightly beneath my left foot. So far so good. I pause for a moment, and then I knock hard on the door, hard enough that I reckon anyone inside this farmhouse should have no trouble hearing. Then, realizing that maybe I'm standing a little too close to the door, I take a step back and wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  After about a minute or so, with no sign of life coming from inside the house, I step forward and knock again. Then, stepping back, I look along the porch again.

  Sighing, I take a moment to ruffle my hair, making it look a little more unkempt.

  There are several empty chairs dotted around the place, and a few old metal buckets. Squinting, I try to see further along the porch, and I think I can just about make out some rakes and other gardening equipment propped against the wall. Nothing too murdery so far. Looking the other way, I see a few more wooden chairs, along with a bench pushed against one of the windows. There are some flower-boxes at the far end, and a few hanging baskets, and more tools have been left out, this time spread across some kind of blanket on the wooden boards. To be honest, it looks more like the home of a kindly gardener than the lair of a child-murdering monster.

  Realizing that it's been at least another minute since my second knock, I turn back and look at the door. There hasn't been so much as a click or a creak from the other side.

  What if this Roper guy isn't in tonight?

  What if he's out stalking his way the forest?

  What if he's out kidnapping a new victim?

  Figuring I might as well try one more time, I knock on the door again. And this time, as I wait, I start wondering whether it might be worth sneaking around and checking out the rear of the house. I know that might be a very dumb idea, but I think I spotted some outhouses and I'd really like to get an idea of the layout of this property. I might even find something, too; I might stumble across a clue, or even the place where he stores and chops up his victims. As the seconds pass, I tell myself that a little snooping trip around the back would be a very bad idea, and that only a fool would do such a thing. I also know, deep down, that I won't be able to stop myself.

  Finally, I turn to go down the steps and around the house.

  “Can I help you?”

  Startled, I let out a brief cry and spin around, bumping my hip into the railing in the process. Gasping at the pain, I reach down and put a hand on my hip, and then I look along the porch and see a dark, silhouetted figure sitting in one of the farthest chairs.

  He was not there a moment ago.

  Was he?

  I swear I'd have seen him.

  I mean...

  No.

  Wait.

  He can't have been there, can he?

  I guess it's kinda dark.

  “I'm sorry if I scared you,” he continues calmly. “This is private property, though. I don't know if you noticed, but there's a sign telling people to keep out. That sign is there for a reason.”

  “I...”

  For a moment, I'm genuinely not sure what to say. My hip really hurts, and I'm kind of wondering how this guy managed to sneak into that chair without me noticing. Then again, it's pitch-black up here and I guess it's possible he was there the whole time, watching me. I don't know which explanation feels creepier.

  “My friends and I are lost,” I say finally, as I remember the cover story I hastily assembled on the drive here. “There's really not any cellphone coverage out here, but we're trying to get to town.” I turn and point at the van, and then I glance back at the guy in the chair. “Those are my friends over there,” I continue, quite keen to make him see that I'm not completely alone. “I think we just took a wrong turn. I also fell in some mud, as you might have noticed. It's very cold.”

  “You sure did,” the guy replies. “This road doesn't lead anywhere. You need to turn around and go back to the crossroads, and then take a left. You'll hit town inside of an hour.”

  “Left?” I say, trying to sound surprised. “Right, that was our mistake. My friend's an idiot, he couldn't read a map if his life depended on it.”

  I wait for the guy to say something, but now he's simply staring at me. I really can't make out any of his features, but from his silhouette alone I can tell that he's a big, hulking guy with broad shoulders. I remember seeing a few photos of Thomas Roper, and he had the same physique. This guy also has a very deep, gravelly voice, which in my mind's eye fits perfectly with the images I rememb
er of Roper when he was being hounded by the press ten years ago.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply, “that's... I guess that's it.”

  I swallow hard, and I'm surprised to realize that my throat feels really dry. I'm not exactly the superstitious type, but I almost feel as if Roper is giving off a kind of creepy-guy aura.

  “Then maybe you could be getting along,” the guy says. “As the sign is designed to suggest, I don't particularly like receiving visitors. Besides, I don't have anything to offer you, so your best bet is to head into town. And now, at least, you know the way.”

  “We do,” I reply, feeling as if I'm about to walk away from this encounter with nothing to show for it. “Thanks, then. You've been very helpful.”

  “Goodnight, M'am.”

  M'am? I've never been called M'am before.

  “Goodnight,” I murmur.

  I pause, before starting to make my way down the steps. My heart is racing and my mind is rushing with thoughts and possibilities, but the one thing I know for certain is that I have to get something out of this trip out here tonight. And as I reach the bottom of the steps, I realize that I don't even know that I've found the right person.

  “Are you Thomas Roper?” I ask suddenly, turning back to look up at him.

  As soon as those words have left my lips, I know that I've made a huge mistake. How could I have been so stupid as to admit that I know this guy's identity? I've just blown my cover story in an instant, and I can't think of a way to recover. I hope he doesn't have any meat-hooks handy.

  I wait, but the guy simply remains in his chair.

  “Goodnight, M'am,” he says again, finally, sounding just as calm as before.

  “Goodnight,” I stammer, my voice sounding pretty frail, and then I turn and hurry away along the path. “Sir.”

  By the time I reach the gate, I'm shaking worse than ever. I don't know whether it's a little colder now, or whether I'm shaking from fear, but my hands are trembling as I open, step through, and then refasten the gate. And when I look back at the farmhouse, I realize I can no longer see any sign of a figure sitting on the porch. I guess he might still be there, sunk into the shadows somewhere, but I really don't see him at all. I guess maybe he's watching from somewhere, though, to make sure that we get off his property.

  For one crazy, mixed-up second, I actually consider reviving my plan to sneak around the rear of the farmhouse and take a look at those outhouses. Then, realizing that I'd be basically asking to get murdered, I turn and hurry back to the van.

  “Well?” Daryl asks as I climb back inside. “What happened? And why are you covered in mud?”

  Chapter Five

  “No, we're making real progress,” I say as I continue to towel my hair dry in the motel room. “There's a story here and I just need a couple more days to really dig into it.”

  “You've been there long enough already, Carter,” Culhoun says over my cellphone's tinny little speaker. “That story you filed last night was basically just treading water. Have you managed to get anywhere with the parents of the missing kid?”

  “Not as such.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Sure, but -”

  “I want face-to-face interview with them, filmed for our website, by the end of the day.”

  “The missing girl -”

  “I don't care about the missing girl,” he replies, cutting me off. “You're focusing on the wrong thing here, Maggie. Forget the girl, focus on the family. Focus on the people around her, the people who'll look good when we show them crying on TV. The dead girl is always the MacGuffin in a case like this, because even we can't actually show the corpse when it shows up. The real meat is the family. Get me interviews with the family.”

  “I'll give it another go,” I tell him. “But if you read my email about Thomas Roper, you have to realize that there's something going on here. I only found out about Roper last night, but I'm going to spend the next day digging into his -”

  “You're going to spend the next day getting your ass back here,” he replies, interrupting me.

  “With all due respect -”

  “Or are you going to get me something I can run with? You're lagging, Carter. Derringham's already scored our five most popular stories for the past month. She's on a roll and she's leaving you in the dust. I know it's a difficult situation, but you need to put a little pressure on the Duchette family. Everyone loves a good video of sobbing parents, and it'll help get the story out there more. It's a win-win for everyone. For us, for the kid's parents, for the cops, and for our advertisers.”

  I bite my lip for a moment, restraining myself from telling Culhoun that he's got this all backwards. It's easy enough for him to sit in an office and tell me to go poking around at the house of the Duchette family, but they already seem very anti-media and frankly I don't think I blame them. I can't imagine how awful things are for them right now. The last thing they need is for someone like me to show up on their doorstep.

  “So am I getting my video?” Culhoun asks. “Or are you coming back to the office tomorrow?”

  “You're... getting your video,” I reply finally, with a heavy sense of dread in my chest. I lick my dry lips. “I'll see what I can do. No, I mean... I'll do it.”

  “You know what I want, Carter,” he replies, and now I can hear someone else talking to him in the background. “Okay, I've got to go. You're not an idiot. You know how this works. Now get on with it.”

  The line goes dead, and I'm left standing all alone in my room. It's 5am and there's no point going to bed, so I wander over to the desk in front of the mirror and I take a seat. As soon as I spot my reflection, I feel a flicker of revulsion at the thought of what I have to do tomorrow. Then again, I really do have to do it, so I guess I might as well start practicing.

  “Hey there,” I say out loud, forcing my most convincing smile, “I'm sorry to disturb you at such a terrible time, but my name is Maggie Carter and I have an idea for how to maybe get more people involved in your daughter's case.”

  No, that's not quite right.

  “Hey,” I say again, more somberly this time, “I'm so sorry to disturb you in your hour of distress, but I want to help. My name is Maggie Carter and I'm begging you to give me a few minutes of your time.”

  No.

  Too pathetic.

  “Hey,” I say for a third time, “my name is Maggie Carter and I think I can help you get your daughter back. I know the police are doing what they can, but they have their limits. You need to get the word out, and you need to keep Kimmy's case alive in the public eye. And that's where I come in.”

  Chapter Six

  The doorbell rings and I step back to wait. Looking over my shoulder, I watch as a paperboy cycles along the pretty, sunny morning street. It's 9am and suburbia is slowly waking up. This place actually looks pretty sweet, although if I lived here I think I'd end up dying of boredom.

  Suddenly there's a clicking sound, and I turn just as the front door is opened a crack, revealing a nervous-looking woman on the other side.

  “Hey,” I say with a smile, “I'm sorry to disturb you, but -”

  “What do you want?” she asks.

  “My name is -”

  “I know who you are. I remember you coming here the other day, but I already told you that we don't want to talk to you.”

  “Mrs. Duchette,” I continue, trying to be diplomatic, “I completely understand your aversion to the media, but I want to start by assuring you that I'm not like any other reporters who might have come to your door over the past few weeks. I simply want to help, and to give you a way of telling your story as you wait for news about your daughter.”

  I wait, but her expression hasn't changed; she's still looking at me as if I'm the enemy.

  “I'm not like other reporters who might've contacted you,” I explain, repeating myself a little as I try to get the message across. “I know people in my profession
haven't exactly got the best reputations right now, but I genuinely want to do whatever I can to help you get closure for what's happened to your daughter.”

  Again, I wait.

  Again, she simply stares at me.

  “Mrs. Duchette,” I add, “I -”

  “Just hold on a moment,” she says suddenly, before shutting the door. “I'll be back in a moment!”

  “Mrs. Duchette -”

  “I have something for you,” she says. “Just hold your horses, okay?”

  Figuring that this is at least some form of progress, I take a deep breath and resolve to wait. Turning, I look around at the pretty garden, and for a few seconds I try to imagine myself living in a place like this. The lawn is impeccably mowed, the plants all look bright and healthy, and there are garden ornaments in several spots. Could I ever really survive in this kind of environment? Could I bring myself to care about fuchsias and geraniums and... pansies? I honestly don't think that I have any of that stuff in me, but I guess maybe I'm the one who's missing out. Why do I feel so much more at home in a tiny apartment in the city?

  I just need this break. I need to get an exclusive with Mrs. Duchette, and then I can make Culhoun happy. And a happy Culhoun is a generous Culhoun, so I'll get some other stories and I might even begin to catch up to Rolinda Derringham. A girl can hope, right?

  Better still, I might get to stay here for a while longer and really get to the bottom of Kimmy Duchette's disappearance. I know Culhoun has masses of experience, but I think he's wrong when he says that the missing girl is a MacGuffin. I think that's just what people say when they've given up on the big story. I think I can actually do Sheriff Malone's job for him and find the girl. I think I can break this story wide open. There's a Pulitzer here, if I get my crap together.