Scrolling through pages, she couldn’t find any presentencing psych assessments for Spiker, or any taken when he was in prison. She’d get them from Vermont Department of Corrections, and then pass them to Len Resher with the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico.

Could Spiker be the Hydra? Was Cass enabling him? I don’t buy their alibis about that night.

They needed to go deeper on them, if possible, compare Spiker’s DNA with the Hydra’s again, she thought as they neared Orleans.

Noble set down his phone and brought her up to speed as he drove.

“All right,” he said. “We’ve got a Be on the Lookout alert out for Cass and Gibby, so we can locate them and pick them up.”

“Good. Things are moving.”

***

McDade and Noble arrived at Hemlock Creek Estates, the mobile-home park, stopping near two green Vermont State Police SUVs parked at Unit 23.

Trooper Ryan Boyer greeted them, touching the brim of his hat and nodding after Noble introduced McDade. Then Boyer indicated the trailer.

“This single unit here is rented by Fletcher Seaver.”

“Fletcher Seaver?” McDade repeated. “Is he related to Jonas?”

“His son.”

McDade glanced through the windows of Boyer’s SUV, where a bearded man in a ballcap sat in the rear.

“We’ve got Fletcher in the back seat. We’ll take him to Derby. You’re going to want to question him at the barracks. I’ve kept everybody out of his trailer.”

“What exactly is in there, Ryan?” Noble asked. “Your notes didn’t provide details.”

“You’ll see. You’ll want to put on shoe covers and gloves.”

Noble nodded, then got the items from his vehicle.

McDade noticed an audience of locals forming nearby as she tugged on shoe covers and latex gloves. Once they were ready, she and Noble entered Unit 23.

Noble opened the door, and they were hit with a wall of foul air—a mix of soured milk and body odor.

The unit was darkened. The kitchen counter was stained, dotted with empty tin cans, half-eaten TV dinners, an open, uncapped jug of milk, and flies everywhere. A small kitchen table had a torn plastic tablecloth and mismatched chairs that appeared to have been rescued from the curb. Foam that was not captured by duct tape leaked from a stained couch.

Noble and McDade stood stock-still in the center of the living room, looking at the walls.

Faces stared at them.

Dozens and dozens of copies of the same face.

Staring. Imploring.

Every space of the walls was papered, floor to ceiling, with missing person posters of Samantha Moore.

On a chair in the near-dark corner was a naked female mannequin.

Taped to the head was a photo of Samantha Moore’s face.

CHAPTER 45

Orleans, Northeast Kingdom, Vermont

Wyatt gripped the wheel as his Ford pitched and lurched along the rutted pathway, the oil pan grazing the earth.