I'm Still Here: A Novel Read online

  I’m Still Here

  A Novel

  Jon Mills

  Direct Response Publishing

  Contents

  Also by Jon Mills

  Part 1

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 2

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part 3

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  A Plea

  Reading Team

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 by Jon Mills

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  I’m Still Here is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Onur Aksoy. www.pagesgraphica.com

  Also by Jon Mills

  Click here to receive special offers, bonus content, and news about Jon’s new books, sign up to be on the reading team.

  Undisclosed

  Retribution

  Clandestine

  The Debt Collector

  Debt Collector 2: Vengeance

  Debt Collector 3: Reborn

  Debt Collector 4: Hard to Kill

  Debt Collector 5: Angel of Death

  Debt Collector 6: Prey

  Debt Collector 7: Narc

  Debt Collector 8: Hard Time

  Debt Collector 9: Her Last Breath

  Debt Collector 10: Trail of the Zodiac

  The Promise

  True Connection

  Lost Girls

  For my Family

  Part I

  Prologue

  Thursday October 31, 1991

  Blackmore, Washington State

  The stranger took him.

  Kara Walker burst out of the dark forest.

  Her chest was on fire, her small fourteen-year-old body trembling. A million thoughts bombarded her mind, a chaotic symphony, too loud, too overwhelming. The labored sounds of Bobby, and Sam panting hard as she struggled to keep up only reminded her to quicken her pace. Kara ran faster, knees pumping like pistons.

  “Don’t look back or he dies!”

  The masked abductor’s terrifying words still echoed.

  I don’t want him to die, she told herself.

  Kara stumbled forward heading for the glow of lights. Every fiber of her being screamed for help but words failed to escape her lips. Why? Why did you have to try and impress him? Tears spilled over, streaking her red cheeks. Her foot caught on an exposed tree root and her knees slammed into the dirt. Scrambling to her feet she pawed at her face smearing the skin with soil.

  “Wait!” she shouted to the other two but they didn’t hear. Fear drove them on. Kara picked up her feet, pounding the ground hard. She fished into the single pocket on her torn Halloween outfit and tossed the pack of Marlboro Lights. She wished she hadn’t taken them. It was a stupid idea. A bright full moon drooped over Blackmore as kids of all ages went house to house trick-or-treating. As she raced towards the streets full of families, her young fingers clung tightly to the golden Zippo lighter that had started it all.

  Chapter 1

  Monday, October 24, 2016

  Peekskill, New York

  Twenty-five years after the abduction, Kara Walker was still running. A habit deeply ingrained from her time in the academy. It gave her structure, routine and made her feel normal. Normal. She scoffed, ignoring deep-rooted bitterness. Life had been far from normal. How could it be normal after her brother was snatched from their lives, and his body never found? After the faces of her family had been plastered over newspapers and TV, and her brother had become synonymous with the missing children of America.

  Although police eventually incarcerated a man six years later — to this day he’d denied involvement.

  A cool October wind ruffled her windbreaker as she jogged through the wooded trails of Blue Mountain Reservation in New York. A gunmetal sky gave way to heavy clouds matching the way she felt. They’d forecast sunshine and blue skies, but once again got it wrong. She surveyed the crystal-clear lake, a picnic pavilion and a few early morning dog walkers. A flock of birds squawked overhead. One year earlier she might have registered the beauty of the morning, but as she fell into a steady pace, her thoughts were too consumed by the future. She’d been out since daybreak. Jogging had become a form of meditation, a means of quieting the mental chatter, and that morning there was more than usual. That’s why when the phone in her pocket began buzzing, it was easy to ignore.

  Within a period of twenty minutes she received three calls, by the third she slowed her pace and fished into her jacket. As soon as she saw the message, she slipped it back into her pocket. She knew what they wanted, and it was the last thing she needed tacked on to her day. She had enough to deal with without added pressure.

  But as she turned the next curve of the trail, passed by an older man feeding ducks, and continued on until she reached the cement pathway that circled the perimeter of the lake, she slowed to catch her breath. Why was he calling again? He rarely called, it was always her mother. She took a sip from the water bottle and checked her watch. There was enough time to phone, and then she’d have to head in for the meeting. After finding a spot on a bench, she took a seat and dialed the number to check her voicemail. She placed the phone against her ear and observed a couple walking their golden Lab.

  The voice messaging service’s robotic voice kicked in.

  “You have three new messages. First message.” A few seconds of silence then it beeped once. “End of message.” The second was the same. He hadn’t bothered to leave a message so she expected the third to be no different. That was when her father’s shaky voice came through loud and clear: “Kara, this is your father. Can you pick up?” There was a pause. “Hello?” More dead air. “Look, I know you are busy but it’s important I speak with you. I don’t want to leave this as a message.” Again more silence though now she heard him struggling to hold back tears. “I… I don’t know to say this if yo
u won’t return my calls so I’m just going to say it as it is…” Another pause. “I need you to come home. Your mother died. She hung herself. She took her own life.”

  He hung up.

  It beeped. There was no farewell greeting. No details regarding the when, or how, or even the funeral, it was just straight to the point. But that was him to a tee. It was business as usual. Soldier on. As the shock gripped her, she didn’t want to believe it. Kara hit replay again and listened to it two more times. The second time was to check she’d heard him correctly, the third time was because it made no sense. Of course to others it would be completely logical. She could hear friends and close relatives already. Grief can do that. A mother never gets over the loss of her child. Kara sat there clutching her phone shaking her head in disbelief.

  A splash startled her. Farther down the golden Lab had dived into the lake to retrieve a stick and the couple were arguing. In those few moments as the reality of it sank in, the world around her slowed. A bicyclist shot by, two elderly women walked past talking loudly.

  Kara immediately phoned her father back. It rang six times before he picked up.

  “It’s me,” she said.

  His voice was low and tired. “Glad you could find the time.”

  She wasn’t going to get into it with him, instead she stayed on point.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  The Bureau of Criminal Investigation division was located inside State Police Troop K Headquarters, one hour north of Peekskill in Salt Point, New York. A low-slung brown building that crouched at the intersection of Highways 44 and 82 had been like a second home after nine years as a state trooper. Kara felt a twinge in the pit of her stomach upon stepping out of her black SUV that morning. As a senior investigator for a department covering four counties, she wore her usual plainclothes attire as she headed in for the meeting with her BCI lieutenant. A cruiser rolled past her, and several more were parked outside. At the outset Kara already had a strong sense of where the conversation would go but in light of the events that had transpired she could no longer remain at the helm.

  Inside the elevator, she tucked a strand of black hair behind one ear and checked her reflection, offering a strained smile to troopers as she stepped out and made her way down to Frank Stephens’s office.

  The heavy door was ajar, and he was on the phone when she knocked. He waved her in and put up one finger to indicate he’d just be a minute. She took a deep breath and remained composed and calm as she took a seat across from a desk that was immaculate. He, like many of those she worked alongside, was highly organized. She smoothed out her dark navy pants, and adjusted her suit jacket, checking for fluff before gazing around the office.

  Stephens twisted in his seat, his jacket hung over the back. He was in his late fifties, with salt and pepper hair, a defined jawline and hard lines around his eyes. His shirts always appeared one size too small for him, making his square face red as if he was being choked.

  Years of dealing with some of the worst of society, serial crimes, sexual exploitation, felonies, narcotics and child abuse, could take its toll. Most of the investigators she worked with were skeptical and jaded, and many found humor in the macabre as a sort of coping mechanism — Stephens was no different. He was known for having one hell of a temper. She recalled the first time she’d seen it in its full glory back when she was a brand-new trooper, and he’d been called in to introduce himself. She watched as he tore into a trooper over tardiness. One second he was bellowing and looking like he was one step away from a heart attack, and the next he was calm and joking. No one ever quite knew what they would get with him. Of course over the years as she transitioned from trooper to BCI, she saw a different side to him, or perhaps the years had changed him. Now she considered him a close friend, a colleague as well as her supervisor. One thing was for sure, he was a smart man and understanding.

  “Right, I will be in touch. Thank you.”

  He ended the call and placed the receiver down. There was no greeting. No, how are you this morning? None of that mattered. In front of him was the envelope she’d handed in the day before.

  “That was the DA’s office,” he said before leaning back in his plush leather chair.

  “Let me guess, they want me reassigned before you accept my letter of resignation?”

  “You know, Walker, they’re only trying to do their job.”

  “So was I, so were the FBI and Putnam County Sheriff Department. Unfortunately there are too many hands in the jar; there are too many political alliances, egos at stake and differences blocking progress. You and I know this case has been bungled from the start and I refuse to become the scapegoat.”

  “No one is trying to make you that.”

  She shook her head in disbelief.

  “Have you seen the papers? Caught any of the news lately? It’s my name that is out there as the lead detective on this case. We’ve already had two Putnam County detectives reassigned, another quit and now we have the DA’s office preventing us from gathering evidence, simply because they don’t want to accept that an affluent member of the community is guilty.”

  “That’s not true, Walker.”

  “Of course it is. The parents can’t get their story straight, they’ve failed three polygraph tests, and they have intimidated the DA’s office at every turn in this investigation,” she said.

  “I know what you’re implying but our job is to follow facts, not a theory.”

  “And we have for over a year and a half but the district attorney’s office continues to mishandle the case. Besides, out of the times that a child has been found dead and the death occurred when the parents were in the vicinity, statistically, how often has it not been the parents?” He didn’t respond to that so she continued. “It’s been one uphill battle after the next, making it virtually impossible to thoroughly investigate and gather evidence because we’ve been hamstrung from the get-go. Search warrants have been denied, simple things like obtaining phone or credit card records have been refused. Evidence collected is gathering dust in the lab. They have outright dismissed or ignored evidence presented to them.” She shrugged. “So where does that leave us?” She waited for a response but he stared back at her blankly. “I can tell you. It means that anyone who speaks out against the DA’s office is quickly silenced. Which explains why others have quit, and false information has been leaked to the media regarding my role in this case.”

  “Now you’re reaching,” he said.

  “Am I? Because today’s papers don’t agree.” Kara shook her head and blew out her cheeks. “We shouldn’t have to plead with the DA’s office over basic investigative requests in order to get assistance with determining who was behind this ten-year-old’s death. There has been more concern for how this plays out publicly than ensuring that those responsible are brought to justice. Frank, the case is compromised and the DA is compromised and it’s because of these reasons and more which I’ve outlined in my resignation letter that I’m calling it a day.”

  Stephens leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “I don’t get it. You’ve been one of our best senior investigators. Why not just take a leave of absence? Go spend time with your kid. Go visit family. Think it over.”

  “And let me guess, in the meantime you’ll tell the DA’s office that I was reassigned, is that how this works?”

  He bobbed his head a few times, and she knew that meant yes. Forget what was right or wrong. It was all about saving face. If she resigned, the media would want to know. The narrative would change and the bureau and the DA’s office would fall under heavy scrutiny. The case had already become a running joke on late-night chat shows, and fodder for the tabloids. The high-profile murder case of Adam Swanson had caught the attention of the media from the outset because the Swansons represented the perfect American family — wealthy, community minded, parents with prominent positions in the county, and their only child was set for life. What had begun as a family getaway to their lakefront cottag
e by Seven Hills Lake had taken a turn for the worse when they reported their child missing. Until the cadaver dogs arrived on scene nine hours later, the preliminary search had yielded nothing. Adam’s body was eventually found on the vast property in a heavily wooded area, buried below a shallow layer of leaves. He’d been sexually abused and asphyxiated. What should have been a straightforward investigation spiraled into the convoluted and absurd as countless errors were made by the officers that initially responded. Now it was a circus of lawyers, shot-down requests and debates over what should or shouldn’t have been done by deputies, detectives, family members and friends.

  “We have to follow protocol,” Stephens said.

  “Then accept my resignation.”

  “It’s not as easy as that. If it was anyone else, Kara, it would have already been done but I know you will regret it later. You’ve worked damn hard to get to where you are, and you’ve been a valuable asset to this department. I don’t want you to regret that decision. Take some more time to think it over.”

  “I’ve spent enough time.”

  She squeezed the bridge of her nose. No matter whether they accepted her resignation or not, in a roundabout way he was implying the media would somehow get wind that she’d been reassigned by the department.

  “All I’m saying is you are going to be reassigned. Whichever way you want to look at it the powers that be are calling the shots and for the sake of this case —”

  She scoffed cutting him off. “The sake of this case? If this case is ever solved and someone is prosecuted, I think we both know it’s not going to be one of the parents.”

  “We’ll get to the truth,” he added.

  “Let’s hope that truth doesn’t lead you to prosecute an innocent person and the decision is based on evidence presented and not on where they’re trying to push the investigation in order to appease the public.”

 
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