Chapter Eleven

Heather sat crossed-legged on her bed at the Lowcountry Inn, facing two laptop screens, her scribble-filled notepad, and an increasingly uneasy sense of dealing with the unknown.

After three days, laboratory studies had yielded nothing. They couldn’t find anything like a common cause, even though most of the cases had symptoms of extremely damaging infection throughout the skin, muscle tissue, internal organs, and even skeletal structure.

The voluntary phase of the screening had brought no suspected cases, either. They might find more when they pushed out into the community. For now, everyone who exhibited signs of the disease had already died in that singular incident. No source had been identified.

Heather was beginning to suspect a bioweapon. Any wild virus or bacterium with such a powerful effect would have been teeming all over the deceased bodies. Humans, on the other hand, had an incentive to engineer deadly bacteria with a programmed cell suicide clock. Something that could quickly sweep through a population, and then break itself down so that it left no trace, would be a powerful weapon.

That was only speculation, though. The pathogen would have to be programmed, not just to die, but to decay into undetectable components. And that sounded like science fiction. She couldn’t begin to suspect a motive, either. But something had swept through those people and left them in that condition.

Neither Heather nor the other investigators had turned up any clear explanation of what all those people might have been doing there, on the town green, on a Sunday night. It didn’t seem like any planned event, such as an Easter evening church service, had been happening. Nobody, not even the immediate relatives of the deceased, seemed to want to offer any reason why two hundred people had suddenly converged in the middle of town a few nights ago.

Based on their medical records, the two hundred and seventeen deceased had a statistically normal distribution of minor and major illnesses, their ages ranging from teens to the elderly. Only one African-American case had been identified, a teenager named Neesha Bailey. The town itself was forty-five percent African-American. Heather wondered at the discrepancy. Maybe it indicated some geographical division.

The other big anomaly was the teen pregnancy rate, which was far above the statistical norm. With a few exceptions like Darcy, there was a cluster of expected due dates near the end of July, indicating a cluster of conceptions in late October. Heather wondered if there was a single event involved there.

Researching on the internet, she found that the town’s pregnancy epidemic was quite documented. Ashleigh Goodling, the preacher’s daughter, had made an amazing number of press appearances talking about the surge in pregnancies. Heather even found a YouTube video of Ashleigh on Chuck O’Flannery’s blowhard TV show.

She watched Ashleigh talk with the most obnoxious man in show business:

“So of course the left has unleashed the crazy hounds,” O’Flannery said. The man was even fatter and uglier than Heather remembered. “I’ve seen awful things about you on the web, Ashleigh. Just hateful bile. Cartoons and Photoshop pictures that aren’t suitable for this program. Even The Onion has attacked you. All this attention must be hard on a kid your age.”

“I think it’s sad the left has to resort to attacking little girls,” Ashleigh said. “But you know what? My daddy’s a preacher, and he always tells me no matter what I suffer, it’s nothing compared to what Jesus and the Disciples suffered. Christians get persecuted, but God takes care of us. I don’t care if everyone hates me. I have my faith.” Ashleigh rubbed the cross pendant at her chest, and just happened to skip her fingers over her breast as she brought her hand down.

“I think you must have incredible strength to cope with all this vitriol,” O’Flannery said.

“All I ever said was teens shouldn’t have sex,” Ashleigh said. “How is that controversial?”

“Never underestimate the sheer hatred of the left,” O’Flannery said. “The truth makes them howl. In fact, I think it’s time to call out the Liberal Moondogs.”

A sound effect of several barking dogs played, and four cartoon dogs paraded across the screen.

“Now let’s look at the victims of this radical atheist principal,” he said. There was a slideshow of black-and-white photos, pregnant girls looking depressed and ashamed, accompanied by slow, sad music. Heather had seen a few of those same girls in the gymnasium over the last couple of days.

Heather paused the video. This Ashleigh person seemed strange to her. Unnaturally self-possessed and in command, she thought, for a high-school girl from a flyspeck town.

On her other laptop, Heather looked up the Goodling family. None of them had checked in for medical screening. None of them were identified among the deceased, either. She might have to put the Goodling household at the top of her community outreach efforts.

Then Heather looked up the other girl again, the one Darcy had accused of witchcraft. When Heather asked the other pregnant girls, a couple of them had reluctantly admitted to seeing Jenny Morton fall into a pond and never return to the surface. They had described Jenny as covered with blisters and sores at the time.

So Jenny Morton was Heather’s first suspected case. But it might mean dredging the pond at the Goodling house to see if it held an infected body, whether the body was Jenny Morton or somebody else. Of course, that sort of thing was what all the Homeland Security money was for.

Unless Jenny had slipped unnoticed out of the pond and was still alive, as Darcy had said. A visit to the Morton house would also be high on her priority list.

She had so little to go on, she might as well investigate these anomalies.

The bodies were slowly being identified and their listings marked DECEASED in the database. When that process was complete, she might have more useful information.

For now, all she had was Darcy Metcalf and her odd talk of witchcraft.

Late in the afternoon, Darcy brought some fresh-cut daisies and pansies from her mother’s garden to lay them on the walkway in front of Ashleigh’s house. Her flowers from two days ago had withered, of course, but her note was still there.

She frowned as she stepped closer. The little envelope had been torn open. Darcy lay the bouquet down and picked up the envelope.

The hand-written note, where she’d poured out to Ashleigh how much she missed her, was gone.

Darcy frowned.

“Hi there,” a voice said, and she jumped

The boy who approached looked her own age, or a little older. He had scruffy patches of early beard growth, midnight black hair, and cloud-gray eyes that immediately reminded her of Ashleigh. And he was incredibly cute.

“Oh!” Darcy said. “Hi.”

“You’re the one who’s been leaving flowers for Ashleigh,” he said.

“Um. Yeah. I’m Darcy Metcalf.” She held out her hand, tentatively, but he didn’t shake it.

“I’m Tommy.” He folded his arms.

“Are you Ashleigh’s…cousin, or something?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yep. Her cousin. Tommy Goodling.”

“Wow. I didn’t know…I mean, I…”

“They don’t talk about us much. They probably wouldn’t want anybody to know I’m in town. We’re sort of the bad branch of the Goodlings.” Tommy winked.

Darcy giggled.

“So, I’ve been waiting here for hours,” Tommy said. “Where is everybody? Where’s Ashleigh?”

“Oh.” Darcy felt sad for him. “You don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“Um, maybe Dr. Goodling or Mrs. Goodling will be home soon.” Darcy didn’t know how to tell him the bad news. It should probably come from family, she thought. Dr. Goodling would know just what to do. “I mean, they’re kind of missing. A lot of people are missing right now. The authorities are straightening everything out, though.”

“I don’t understand,” Tommy said.

“Um…oh!” Darcy pulled her key ring from her purse. “I have a spare key to the Goodlings’ house. I feed Maybelle when they’re out of town.”

“Maybelle?”

“She’s de-barked, so she’s creepy.” Darcy led him to the front door and unlocked it. “I was going to feed her and take her out. Want to help?”

Darcy led him into the house. A Welsh Corgi jogged up to them, then opened its mouth and rasped at Tommy.

“She’s really sweet, actually.” Darcy rubbed the dog’s head. Maybelle gave a few more soundless barks at Tommy, then followed Darcy deeper into the house. In the laundry room, Darcy filled Maybelle’s bowl with food.

The Goodlings made pretty good money, Tommy thought. Their house was spacious and full of sunlight. Some of the rooms were two stories high.

He wandered into the living room and looked at the photographs on the wall. There was the object of his obsession, the girl whose face filled his dreams. Golden hair, enchanting eyes, mysterious smile. In the pictures, she was every age, selling Girl Scout cookies, playing the Virgin Mary in a children’s play, kneeling in her cheerleading uniform with her fist tucked under her chin.

While Darcy filled the dog’s water bowl, Tommy went upstairs.

He found Ashleigh’s room right away. It was large and frilly, with a private bathroom and walk-in closet, and everything here smelled sweet.

Tommy sprawled on her bed and buried his face in her down-stuffed pillows. He sniffed deep. This was the right place, the right girl.

“Um, hey, Tommy?”

He lifted his face from the pillow. Darcy stood in the doorway, watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“So I guess I should go,” Darcy said. “You can wait around here.”

“Wait!” Tommy stood up. “Where is Ashleigh? I have to know.”

“Um…”

“Tell me!’ Tommy shouted. He seized the girl and shook her. “Where is Ashleigh?”

“She’s dead!” Darcy wailed, and then she broke down crying. She sank to the carpet. “She’s dead! Jenny Mittens killed her!”

Tommy squatted down and looked her in the eyes. He squeezed her arm tight, pushing fear into her.

“Explain,” he said.

Darcy led him into the back yard, past the duck pond and the shaded outdoor swing to a magnolia tree with sprawling arms and royal purple blossoms.

“It’s called a Purple Queen magnolia,” Darcy said. “It was Ashleigh’s favorite. That’s why I buried her here.”

Darcy pointed to the giant gnarled roots of the tree, which might have been hundreds of years old. A section of the otherwise immaculate lawn had been churned up between the roots, leaving a muddy mess.

“Ashleigh is…buried here?” Tommy asked. He felt dizzy. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“Well, Jenny turned her all to bones and little pieces,” Darcy was blubbering, with a little drizzle of snot running from her nose. “It was so bad. And Dr. Goodling never came home. And I couldn’t just leave her there. She was my best friend,” Darcy sobbed.

Tommy felt kind of bad for the girl. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he could never do that. His touch never comforted anyone.

“I wish she could come back,” Darcy said. “I wish it was me instead of her. I’m the one who sinned. I’m the one God should have taken.”

Tommy stared at the churned earth. Fury swelled inside him. The girl had been alive only a few weeks ago. Alive and ready to give him answers, bring him understanding. But something had happened, and he’d missed her completely.

If he’d been faster, and if he’d been here for her, she would still be alive.

Tommy screamed and punched the solid trunk of the magnolia. “Fuck!” he said.

Darcy cringed. Tommy seized her by the shoulders again, and he snarled into her face.

“Who did this?” he shouted. “Where are they?”

Darcy told him.