8th Day

  8th Day

  Prologue

  Madeline

  On the night of April 1st, Maddie Boone was in her bed, almost asleep, when the door to her room opened a crack, admitting a thin sliver of yellow light that pierced the darkness. Her body stiffened and she held her breath, wondering if this time she'd have the courage to scream loud enough to bring someone to her rescue. Or maybe this would be one of the times the shaft of light would disappear again, the door would quietly click shut, and the footsteps would fade down the hallway, leaving her to struggle alone with her incessant nightmares. Her eyes were wide in the blackness, the only sound, the awful banging of her heart against her bony chest as she strained in the darkness to hear.

  Suddenly, the door creaked open wider and a shadow filled the doorway. It was not the shadow she'd expected. This time, there were two of them, and her heart hammered. Suddenly the room was ablaze with light.

  "Don't be frightened, Madeline," one of the men said. He was huge, with those body-builder muscles bulging out of his white tee shirt. He wore a baseball cap and his blue eyes seemed to be laughing at her. She opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs. It was a blood-curdling scream, deafening to her own ears, and instantly made her throat raw.

  The other man stepped forward and sat down on the edge of the bed, gently putting his hand across her mouth. "Shhh," he said. "We're not here to hurt you. Your parents and grandparents are in the next room. They asked us to come here, okay? We're not the bad guys. We're the good guys. If you promise not to scream again, I'll take my hand away. Okay?"

  Maddie nodded, eyes huge with terror.

  "Promise?" He was as big as the first man, but softer as if his muscles had leisurely turned to pudge. His brown eyes seemed warm, but she knew from experience that eyes could lie. She nodded again, wishing she could sink her teeth into his stinking hand. He smelled like WD-40. He gently removed his hand and Maddie screamed again for all she was worth.

  This time, it was the muscleman who stepped forward. His hand against her mouth was hard and mean.

  "Big Ben here is real gentle with kids, Maddie. He's not gonna hurt you. That's not what he does. I don't want to do that either. You know why we're here, right? You've been screwing up lately. You've been stealing. Your grades have gone down. You don't listen to your grandparents. You're disrespectful to your father. Your mother had to get stitches after you assaulted her. You had to know this was coming, right?" He took his hand away so she could respond.

  "She's not my mother and I just threw one of her stinking ashtrays. I didn't know it would cut her. Anyway, she was being mean!" Her words sounded tough, but she knew her voice was giving her away. It had that trembly, crybaby sound that threatened to break into sobs at any moment.

  "Well, we're going to talk about all that a little later. Right now, we're going to take you to camp. Camp Turnaround. Your dad talked to you about this, right?"

  Now she was terrified. He'd threatened to send her to reform school if she didn't shape up, but she'd never dreamed he'd actually do it. And now here they were in the middle of the night to take her away! This couldn't be happening. This was kidnapping!

  "He never said anything like this!" she protested in a voice that sounded small and whiny to her. "Let me talk to him! Dad! Daddy!" Her cries were muffled by the muscle- man's hand once again.

  "Shhh. He's not going to help you, Madeline. He's the one who asked us to come."

  The realization that this could be true sank through her like molten lava and she felt her limbs grow heavy and useless. Seeming to sense the change, the big man removed his hand and this time Maddie didn't bother screaming.

  "Why doesn't he just take me himself?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

  "You're a runaway risk, for one thing. If your parents brought you up in their car, chances are, the first time they stopped for gas, you'd take off. Right?" This was the muscle-man talking. Gentle Ben was taking a pair of handcuffs out of his briefcase.

  "I would not!" she said, knowing that, in fact, that's exactly what she would do. "I want my dad. He wouldn't do this. You're lying!" But the doubt that had begun to seep in now took hold and her voice lacked conviction. If they hadn't planned this, why hadn't they come to her rescue?

  Gentle Ben came up beside her and pulled one of her skinny wrists forward, snapping the cuff around it snugly.

  "You can't do this!" she pleaded. "Daddy! Help! Please!

  Don't let them hurt me!" But her words fell on deaf ears and in a moment of profound clarity she understood that this was as it always had been. Her daddy hadn't saved her before and he wasn't going to this time. With a sigh sounding far more grown up than it should have, she held out her other hand and let the big oaf cuff it.

  As they led her out of the house, they passed her grandparents' room and she saw the telltale inch of light beneath the door. They were hiding in there! All four of them. She heard a muffled voice and then the unmistakable tone of her stepmother. "We agreed to this, Daniel. Now let her go." The ensuing silence told her all she needed to know.

  Chapter One

  A subtle shift in the wind altered the cadence of the rain against the window and I found myself suddenly awake, listening. Both cats were snugly burrowed beside me, oblivious to anything wrong in the night. So why did I feel uneasy? Maybe it was the dream. I'd had it before. The same dark, suffocating tunnel, the same feeling of doom that swept over me, causing panic to swell in my throat. This made the third time I'd had the dream. But what did it mean?

  I punched my pillow a few times and settled back down, trying to ease my fears. And then it struck me. That's what it was! I was afraid! I sat up in bed and stared out at the black, moonless night, puzzling over the unaccustomed feeling. What was I suddenly afraid of? I closed my eyes, trying to rekindle the now murky images. Something was making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, even now in the safety of my own bed. But the harder I tried, the more elusive the dream became.

  I was about to give up. In fact, I lay back down and was nearly drifting off to sleep again when it came to me. The dream was about my own death. I was trapped somewhere in a dark, odious tunnel, and I was going to die.

  I had known fear before. I'd been shot at and attacked, had scaled cliffs and raced down white water rapids, and through all of it, I had known some degree of fear. But the fear had always been overshadowed by a sense of duty, an urgent need, and sometimes, an exhilaration I couldn't quite explain. This time, the fear was nothing more than pure, naked dread.

  I checked the clock. Four-thirty. Time for the night critters to start scurrying back into the woods. Soon the kingfishers and fat-bellied robins would be sounding the start of a new day. Even in the pouring rain, they never slept in. I stared across the blackened room at the rain-streaked window. I'd left the blinds up, as I often did, so that I could gaze out at the starry blanket of sky that hovered above the moonlit lake each night. But the pre-dawn sky was as black as obsidian. There would be no sun peeking through these clouds come morning. We were in for a long, wet day. I settled back against the pillow, still feeling uneasy, and stifled a yawn.

  Then I heard a noise that had nothing to do with the wind and rain. This time I knew a board had creaked out on the front deck. It wasn't the wind. And it wasn't the skittering footfall of a raccoon or opossum. I sat up, then stealthily slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweats. My cat, Panic, was awake now, her ears pointed toward the window, her yellow-green eyes wide in the dark. I moved across the bedroom to the closet, slid my hand inside the purse that hung from a hook on the wall, and pulled out my Colt .45.

  Silently, I tiptoed down the hallway toward the front of the house, wishing for once that I had bothered to close the blinds. Almost every wall in the house was glass —
either floor-to-ceiling windows or sliding glass doors. Easy to see out, equally easy to see in.

  My back edging the wall, I moved into the entryway, my bare feet cold on the slate floor. Suddenly, I stood stock-still. I could hear someone on the other side of the sliding glass door, not two feet from where I stood.

  I nudged Panic away with my foot, pulled back the hammer on my gun, and hit both outside light switches as I stepped in front of the sliding door, the gun pointed straight ahead. The hulking form on my porch had already started to turn away, but now froze in the sudden blaze of light. Slowly two hands rose in the air. No gun. At least not that I could see. I opened the sliding glass door a crack and stuck the barrel through it.

  "Nice and slow. Turn around." My voice sounded much calmer than I felt and my gun hand was steady, but inside I was trembling.

  "Easy. It's me, Cass. Grace Apodaca." The tall dark form did a slow turn, and I was suddenly staring into the dark, steady eyes of a six-foot tall, full-blooded Native American.

  "Gracie?" I lowered the gun and shoved the glass door open. "What in the hell are you doing?"

  "I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd wake you. We were going to wait on the dock until you got up. But it started really coming down and we thought we could wait it out under the eaves." She bent over and retrieved the paper that had fallen to the ground when I opened the door.

  She'd said "we." I peered past the pool of light on the porch and saw nothing.

  "My cousin Connie's with me." No sooner had she said it, than a wiry, dark-skinned woman draped in a yellow slicker appeared. She was shivering, and her jet-black eyes reminded me of a wounded animal's.

  "Come in," I said. "Leave your coats and boots in the entryway."

  I turned off the outside lights, switched on a couple of lamps in the living room, and began stacking kindling in the fireplace. Of all the people to show up on my front porch, I thought— Gracie-the-Wonder-Butch. Stifling a chuckle, I remembered our brief but thoroughly enjoyable adventure some time ago. We'd saved each other's asses. And we'd revealed secrets to each other that we hadn't shared with our own best friends. I'd always meant to keep in touch — she'd been someone I instinctively liked — but time had passed and somehow it hadn't happened. Now, out of the blue, here she was. By the time they'd shrugged out of their wet jackets and footwear, I had a decent blaze going and they both came to stand in front of the mantle.

  "I'm really sorry to intrude on you like this, Cass. We didn't know what else to do." A striking woman, Gracie was tall and raw-boned with rippling biceps, long, muscled legs, short-cropped, jet-black hair going gray, and beautiful tawny skin that showed off her heritage. I knew she had a black belt in karate, was a trained Emergency Medical Technician, and had spent her youth fighting fires. She still had the body of an Amazon, though these days she spent her time working with hospice patients, doing something with holistic medicine. Her cousin was shorter and slighter, but there were plenty of similarities between them. They both had the same high cheek bones and classic Indian brow. They had smooth, flawless skin that models would kill for. Even their stance was similar. Standing in their stocking feet, they looked perfectly calm before the fire, though the cousin's clenched fists gave her away.

  "You are still in the private investigation business? I mean, you're still for hire?" Gracie asked.

  "I had a feeling this wasn't a social visit." I smiled to ease her cousin's obvious discomfort. "Tell you what. I'll make some coffee, then you can tell me what's on your mind, and we'll go from there." I moved into the kitchen and got the coffee going.

  My living space is one great big open area divided more by change in flooring and furniture than walls. From the kitchen, I could see Grace inspecting my belongings in the living room while her cousin moved to the couch and pulled a knitted afghan onto her lap. Panic's sister, Gammon, who'd finally roused herself, came waddling out of the bedroom into the kitchen, rubbed against my ankle, sauntered into the living room to sniff Grade's socks, then leaped onto the afghan and curled herself into Connie's lap. If Gammon liked her, I thought, the cousin couldn't be too bad. I had learned to trust a cat's instincts as much as my own.

  "We didn't mean to get you out of bed," Connie said, stroking Gammon's luxurious back. I could hear the purring as I brought in the coffee.

  "It's okay," I assured her. "Actually, I was already awake. Weird dream." I handed them their cups, then went back for my own. "So, what's up?"

  Connie sighed. "It's hard to know where to start."

  "We think Connie's daughter may be in danger," Gracie stated.

  "What kind of danger?" I asked.

  "You ever hear of a place called Camp Turnaround?" Gracie asked. "It's in Clackamas County, south of Portland. The nearest town is this dinky place called Portsmith Grove."

  I shook my head.

  "It's like a reform school. Supposed to get troubled youth back on track. They've got a good reputation. About eighty percent of the kids that graduate from the camp end up graduating high school. Most of these kids are real bad-asses — stoners, gang-bangers, juvenile delinquents."

  Connie interrupted. Not all of them. Some are low-achievers. Kids with low self-esteem. Some have been abused or abandoned."

  "Yeah," Gracie said. "But mostly, the place handles bad-asses."

  "And your daughter is there?" I asked, facing Connie.

  "Yes." It was a simple statement, fraught with emotion. Anger, shame and guilt boiled beneath the surface of her dark eyes.

  "You better start at the beginning," Gracie said, coming over to sit beside her cousin. She patted the younger woman's knee and winked. "Might as well start with the prison part, get it out of the way, eh?"

  Connie nodded, took a sip of her coffee, and let out a long sigh. "Nine years ago I was sentenced to twenty-five years to life in the state penitentiary."

  She'd said it so matter-of-factly, it took me a moment to notice that her eyes were threatening to spill over.

  Gracie cut in. "It was a car accident. She was charged with vehicular manslaughter, which got upgraded to second degree murder with malice. Tell her what happened, Connie. Better start with that assbite you married."

  Connie nodded and managed a small but bitter smile. "Fourteen years ago, I married a man named Daniel Boone. Honest. That's really his name. His father's, too. Anyway, my family warned me about marrying a white boy, but I didn't care. Daniel was every girl's dream, and he charmed the pants off of me. Literally." She allowed herself another small, sad smile.

  "We'd barely been married a month when I got pregnant, and right away, things began to change. Daniel got a job as a truck driver and started staying away for long stretches. I knew he was cheating on me. He didn't even deny it. When Maddie was born, I thought he'd settle down, but if anything, he was gone even more. After awhile, I didn't care. It was nice and peaceful with him gone. And I had a beautiful daughter to raise. Who needed a husband?"

  She took a sip of coffee and settled back against the sofa, seeming almost relieved to be talking about it.

  "Tell her about that night," Gracie prompted.

  "When Maddie was four, I enrolled her in preschool and got a part-time job as a groundskeeper for the local college. It was a great job because I got to work outside and meet people. With Daniel gone so much, we had almost no social life. Anyway, one night I was invited to a party and though I could hardly afford it, I left Maddie with a babysitter and went. I'd give anything to change that decision, to take back that whole night and just spend the evening at home with my little girl." She put down her mug and wiped at a tear that had started to slide down her cheek. I could tell the show of emotion angered her. She wanted to be tough, but she wasn't quite pulling it off.

  "I had a couple of drinks at the party, nothing major, and I also took a few hits off of a joint. I wasn't a big partier, but it was a nice relaxed evening and I was really enjoying being with my new friends. Just that little bit of pot gave me the munchies, so when someone offered me a brow
nie, even though I was getting ready to leave, I wolfed it down. I had no idea that they were hash brownies. I'd never even heard of such a thing.

  "The hash didn't hit me right away. In fact, I felt perfectly sober as I backed out of the driveway. It was about a twenty-minute drive back to my house, part of it on a windy mountain road. About halfway there, I saw a white convertible coming toward me. It's amazing how, in just a few seconds, I could see so much so clearly. The top was down and I could see four kids inside, all four of them with this blond hair blowing in the wind like they were on top of the world. I remember thinking that someday I'd like to have a sports car like that. I saw the driver lean over and kiss the girl in the front passenger's seat, and when he did, their car swerved into my lane.

  "I laid on the horn and yanked the wheel to the right, but it was too late. My pickup fishtailed and the rear of the truck slammed into their car. I saw the car go straight up in the air like something in a cartoon, flipping over once as it sailed off the side of the mountain.

  "By the time I managed to stop the truck and get out, the convertible was nowhere in sight. I didn't seem to be hurt, but I was shaken up pretty bad and could barely walk. I didn't know about the hash brownie. I thought I was probably in shock. I decided the best thing to do was drive to the closest phone and call for help. I got in my truck and went looking for a phone. Next thing I knew, I saw the police car behind me.

  "Those four kids died in the crash that night. The girls were cheerleaders at the local high school. The driver was a big football star. I was an Indian with illegal drugs in her system. The prosecutor accused me of hit-and-run, and no one believed that I was looking for a phone or that I didn't know about the hash. Like Gracie said, vehicular manslaughter turned into second degree murder, and because I'd left the scene, they added on the charge of malice, which meant they could give me a life sentence."

  Gracie unclenched her fists and stood up, taking over the story.

  "Even that asshole husband of hers didn't believe her. No one went to bat for her. The people at the party stayed mum, probably afraid they'd be charged as accessories to murder. The locals would have lynched her if they could. The judge threw the book at her."