Page 44 of Chasing Creed

Maybe she’d be sorry. Maybe she didn’t care.

27

David City, Nebraska

Maggie expected the small courtroom to be full. It wasn’t. A year and a half later, and no one seemed interested in catching a glimpse of this woman. The news media had moved on. Was this story already old news?

Other than the necessary parties, the rows of benches were dotted with clusters of twos and threes. One young man tapped a pen on his notepad. No phones allowed. His could be seen in the breast pocket of his button-down shirt.

Maggie and Pakula had chosen a corner in the back. Off to the side, where she got a full view of Iris Malone’s face. The polished dark wood was everywhere: the rows of benches, the crown molding along with the full panels that made up the walls. It was beautiful and at the same time poked at Maggie’s claustrophobia. It felt like being sealed in a large tomb. No windows. Invisible doors that looked like part of the paneled walls.

Pakula had warned her that the locals had disconnected from the case. It was not their children who had been kidnapped and held hostage.

“Allegedly held hostage.” A phrase, Pakula said he heard more often now from the national media. They weren’t here today, content to phone it in. Maybe they were waiting for jury selection in the coming days.

As for those same locals, some knew about the death of Iris’ daughter. A tragedy, no doubt. And maybe reason enough not to scrutinize or invade the woman’s privacy. And Pakula reminded her this was a part of the country that genuinely valued privacy for themselves as well as their neighbors. That same value, along with miles and acres between properties, contributed to the fact that no one had seen any of the girls. And a handful who claimed a brief encounter believed Iris when she explained that a niece was visiting from out of state.

Then there was the reality that the girls looked so similar. No one imagined there could be a dozen different ones. Iris was simply that good at keeping her secrets behind closed doors. A skilled liar, even now, the woman denied that she’d taken anyone. If anything, it was her brother Elijah.

Pakula’s investigators had gone to great lengths to find evidence inside Iris’ large two-story farmhouse. The basement where Brodie had spent what must have been months, if not years, held no proof that anyone had been held captive there. No survivors had stepped forward. Other than Brodie and the photos on Iris’ fireplace mantle, there was no proof that the others existed.

And Elijah’s victims? They had found one buried in a pasture. Another was found at the bottom of a lake. Neither could be connected to Iris. There was no evidence those women ever spent any time on Iris’ property, let alone inside her house.

It didn’t help that her farm encompassed hundreds of acres: fields, pastures, and woods. Though Maggie had only seen photos, she knew the large two-story house included dozens of rooms, closets, hidey-holes, an attic, and a basement.

Then there was also a variety of buildings on the property: an assortment of sheds; a massive barn with stables and a loft; a root cellar; grain bins; and abandoned farm equipment. Any of those could hide a small, defenseless girl…or two, or even three at a time. Brodie had described several of those areas. Pakula said investigators couldn’t find a trace of her presence.

Maggie studied Iris Malone as she sat a bit hunched in the straight-backed chair. She leaned over the table in front of her, eyes straight ahead. Her defense attorney droned on about her losing her son and her brother on the same day. He insisted that the shock and grief continued to affect her.

Never mind the shock and grief of the young girls she’d kidnapped and held hostage. Or the lifelong PTSD they were still suffering. That is, if there were survivors. There had to be more than just Brodie Creed. Was it possible that all the others were dead? Or still being trafficked somewhere, not able to escape their daily hell, let alone show up and testify.

This hearing would be brief, or so Pakula had promised. Maggie tried to tune out the attorney’s rant and concentrate. Today she was here to observe and study. So, while the attorney moved on to the list of Iris Malone’s many contributions to the community, Maggie focused on the woman.

Pakula had mentioned how Iris had let her hair go gray, as if that was part of her manipulation. Her hair wasn’t completely compliant. Slivers of gray streaked through the thick waves of dull brown. Her horn-rimmed glasses looked too small for her wide face. They slid partway down her nose, and she looked over them. Peepers, that she only needed for reading.

A white legal notepad and pen were on the table in front of her. Occasionally, her hand came up from her lap. She toyed with the pen. Once, she scratched something on the pad then returned her hand to her lap. Maggie couldn’t help thinking those hands were large, with fingers long and strong enough to wrap around a young girl’s arm…or even her neck.

Despite whatever psychological profile Maggie came up with about Iris, it would matter very little if the evidence didn’t support it. The fact that Iris’ brother was an admitted trafficker and murderer could just as easily make her look like another one of his victims and not an accomplice.

The man had lived more than seventy miles away and chose to use the pastures of his family’s farm to bury his victims. That hardly proved Iris was an accomplice. Even the RV he used to kidnap and transport the girls had been found on his own property. He’d taken so many secrets to the grave with him. Iris Malone was counting on it.

And without other witnesses, the burden of getting a conviction of Iris would all fall on Brodie Creed’s shoulders.

28

Mississippi

Brodie shifted in the passenger seat of Jason’s Jeep, trying not to draw attention to her discomfort. Ever since she woke up, her body wouldn’t let her forget the puncture wounds. Back in the hotel bathroom, she’d examined the worst ones. Or at least the worst ones she could reach. Some of them still oozed. Red and raw, they looked angrier today. She knew Jason had been meticulous about digging out all the thorns, but each wound reminded her they had pierced deeper than simple pricks of the skin.

Iris Malone’s punishments had made Brodie accustomed to bruises and scrapes. But the woman had been careful not to inflict serious injuries that might be life-threatening. Brodie guessed it wasn’t because of Iris’ restraint, but maybe because she didn’t want to bother with disposing of a body.

Now, within the confines of the vehicle, she realized she should have been better about redressing some of the wounds. She’d hate to stain Jason’s leather seats.

His phone rang, and he tapped the screen, leaving the phone in its holder.

“Hey, what’s up?” he answered, but Brodie couldn’t hear the other caller’s response because Jason had an earbud in his left ear.

When Brodie glanced over, he nodded at her and said, “It’s Ryder.”