Chapter 8
Clara
The weightof the picture that Nina had drawn sat heavily on my mind. I fought the urge to pull it out and look at it again in hopes of finding the exact spot I’d die. It couldn’t be coincidence that I knew I’d be dying in a hole. The only question left was which of these particular holes would be my final resting place.
Could it be that Carlos wouldn’t be my murderer? Maybe it was this case.
We were an hour outside of our destination on the FBI plane when the information was finally shared. A picture of a man and a woman covered the computer screen. He had a tan that stood out against the white button-down shirt and lounge pants. His new-age attire reminded me of a bald Buddha, full of wisdom and spreading light and love. The woman by his side had long brown hair, the same color of Dakota’s and matching soft caramel eyes like Porter.
“That’s your mom?” I asked.
“Wanda and Thaddeus Foster. My mother married the guy two years after my father’s murder.”
“So, you believe it was a love triangle?”
“My dad was shot in a seedy motel room. The investigators suggested he was having an affair that went wrong, but I knew better than that and so did my mom. We believe the scene was staged.”
“Why do you think that?”
“He was working on a case where a runaway was in serious trouble. When he died, the file disappeared.”
Porter clicked the remote, and another picture popped up on the screen. Thaddeus Foster was surrounded by mostly women, with a few men standing on the outside of the group, acting like bodyguards.
“This picture is of the members of the Foster Foundation.”
I glanced at him, and my mouth parted. “TheFoster Foundation?”
“The number one institute that has helped thousands of drug users to reform and kick the habit,” he confirmed.
“They have a high success rate, don’t they?” I asked.
“I believe last check the Institute had a ninety-eight percent success rate. Family members and courts from around the country try to get their loved ones into this place, but each applicant is hand-picked and vetted before allowing entry into the program. Many of the participants came to the foundation after having lived on the streets for a while. Each needed a referral from a previous participant and even than they’re vetted before being allowed to join the program. Thaddeus, and his father, wanted to save everyone they could but they even helped those less fortunate.”
“Is their success rate so high because they only allow in the easy ones to save?” I asked.
“You would think, but that’s not the case. I’ve reviewed their files. We’re talking habitual users, sellers, prostitutes, you name it, and they take the worst of the worst and transform them into acceptable members of society.”
“Maybe he’s getting them all to drink some crazy juice? It sounds too good to be true,” I said as he flipped the remote again.
A man and woman dressed in their Sunday best filled one side of the screen; on the other was a younger woman who had bruises on her face and track marks on her arms. “This is Katerina Williams and her parents, Jill and Larry. She’s my victim zero.”
“I thought you said this was a murder investigation.”
“It is. Her body washed ashore off the coast of North Carolina one year ago. Katerina was a habitual runaway from home, often leaving while looking for her next score. Only that wasn’t the case this time. Her best friend admitted that Katerina had gone to the island to try and get sober. She said another girl had referred and sponsored her in the program that promised results. The girl had told Katerina that the organization was looking for cases just like hers and it wouldn’t cost a thing.”
“But let me guess; The investigators checked the island and there is no record of her showing up?”
“That would be correct.” Porter flicked the remote again. “The FBI got involved when several more body parts were caught in fishing nets. We’ve tracked two more cases similar to the Williams girl. Friends believed they were on the island, although only one had a record of being there and a record of being released after completing the rehab.”
“How many victims?” I asked.
“They haven’t received DNA test back from all of the body parts found by fisherman, so we’re unsure how many since most of the people involved are teens, runaways, and drug users. Families aren’t even reporting them missing. They believe that they failed in the program and ran away again.”
“Yet, you believe that they’re visiting the island and trying to get clean?”
“It’s more than just a guess.” Porter clicked the remote again, and it showed fragments of an arm with a tattoo that was barely visible. He unhooked his sleeve, rolled it up, and showed her his inner arm. He had an infinity circle in the shape of the letter 8 with the word, freedom scrolled into the bottom of one of the curves. “I’m a twenty-year graduate of the camp. My participation was court-ordered since I was under age. I’m the reason my parents met Thaddeus Foster, although back in the day, when I was a patient, it was Thaddeus’s father in charge. This is the symbol they offer as one of their recovery tattoos. It’s not required to get one, just a reminder at how far we’ve come.”
I never would have guessed that Porter Anderson was a reformed drug user or that he had a record. In one way or another, we, humans that is, were all a mess.