Black Wings, Gray Skies (Black Hat Bureau 4)

3

We booked a sightseeing tour to Fort Sumter the next morning with the same company and on the same boat as our latest victim, Andreas Farmer, to give us a chance to nose around without arousing suspicion.

So far, the most peculiar thing we had encountered was the absolute lack of anything peculiar.

No gawking, no gossip, no speculation, no rehashing of the sordid details.

The total lack of interest, as if nothing untoward had happened yesterday, left me wary.

Without holiday fluff pieces to fill airtime, the local news had sensationalized the kidnappings before the Bureau reached in and pulled the plug on coverage. Even the retroactive media ban they slapped on the most damning aspects of the case couldn’t erase damage done by linking the victims in the public’s mind.

Cleaners worked fast, but they tended to cover up paranormal involvement rather than erase the crime. Phones made documentation simple, and social media shared breaking news as it happened. It was easier to spin a story than squash it when multiple human witnesses guaranteed the spread by word of mouth.

Yet there hadn’t been so much as a whisper about Andreas, or the other missing kids, in the ticket line.

“Ace and I will clear the top deck,” Clay said as we stepped on board. “You clear the bottom.”

Patronizing? A little. We were on a small boat, so Clay felt comfortable letting me hare off on my own.

The overall aesthetic of the Bo-na-na Fanna was steamboat, but its majestic paddlewheel was a decal on the side, a homage to its ancestry. The upper deck accommodated a bar selling snacks and sodas, as well as a couple dozen plastic lawn chairs for tourists to sit in during the crossing. But that wasn’t my domain.

No.

I had been relegated to the dining area, easy to examine through the glass, and the bathrooms.

“It’s always locked,” a woman said from behind me as I peered in. “Only the crew goes in there.”

“Looks fancy.” I turned with a smile for her. “Do they do those nighttime dinner cruises too?”

“What don’t they do?” She rolled her eyes. “Anything for a buck.”

“You sound like you’ve been on this boat before.” I kept the ball rolling. “Are you from here?”

“I’m Tracy Amerson. I teach at one of the local schools.” She angled her face, daring me to recognize her profile. “My student was…” She pinched her lips. “He was the boy in the news.”

There was no stopping a brief mention of a missing child discovered by a vacationing family in a popular tourist spot, but the disappearance had been reduced to a thirty-second sound bite on the local stations.

“Oh no.” I clutched my nonexistent pearls. “I skimmed the news on my phone, but it didn’t register.”

No one onboard had so much as said hello to us, yet here stood his teacher, eager for a chat.

Maybe I ought to take solo bathroom detail more often.

“I was supposed to watch him, protect him, but he disappeared.” She bowed her head. “I just thought…”

Performing my role to the hilt, I gentled my expression. “You need closure.”

“I must’ve been to Fort Sumter a hundred times.” She hunched her shoulders. “I’ve gone each year since I took up a teaching position. The kids are my responsibility, and I failed in the worst possible way. That I brought them here for the day program makes it that much worse.” Tears slid down her cheek. “They’re supposed to be safe with me while their parents are at work. Now the whole program is under review.”

Sympathetic noises on my end kept her talking while I puzzled over why she chose me to approach.

Had she been wandering the boat, the better to castigate herself, only to discover a type of solitary madness that might push her to speak to total strangers until recognition dawned on just one face?

There was something very wrong with this boat, and, I suspected, with her.

“Rue?” Clay ambled down the stairs. “Everything okay down here?”

Jumping at his voice, Tracy offered me a fleeting smile that didn’t reach her eyes.