Adrasteia: Chapter 16
[Note: this fiction contains occult themes, drug use, language and crime]
Rain whispered through the canopy overhead, threading its way down through branches and leaves until it reached her face.
A single cold drop struck her cheek.
She stirred. Another followed—sharper this time—and she gasped as awareness snapped back into place. Her eyes fluttered open, hazel irises struggling to focus in the dim, silver blue light filtering through the trees. The sky above was a smear of gray, the sun strangled by cloud and shadow, as if morning had arrived too early and without permission.
She lay on her belly in damp earth, right where she had fallen, leaves plastered to her jacket and tangled in her hair. She pushed herself upright slowly, breath hitching as pain registered in careful increments—bruises blooming beneath skin, shallow cuts stinging where grit had worked its way in. Nothing broken. The leaves had broken her fall. She tested her arms, her legs. A low sound escaped her, something between relief and resolve.
She looked around.
The pit enclosing her was deep—eight, maybe ten feet—and unnervingly narrow. Whether it was a natural sinkhole or something older, something made, she couldn’t tell. The walls were torn and uneven, fissured with cracks where roots clawed through the soil like ribs breaking free of a chest. She stood and gauged the distance to the rim. At barely five-foot-three, it might as well have been the lip of a well.
She jumped anyway.
Her fingers brushed dirt, snagged briefly on a root that snapped loose with a brittle crack. She landed hard, swore under her breath, and forced herself to breathe through the spike of pain. Panic hovered at the edge of her thoughts—but she didn’t let it in.
A wilderness scout is always prepared. Hadn’t that been their motto? Hers and Stacey’s, and their little wilderness scout friends.
Her hand went immediately to her backpack. Still there. Still tight against her shoulders. She exhaled.
From inside she pulled a small pocketknife, the metal cold and reassuring in her palm. Her eyes moved with intention now, scanning the pit not as a trap, but as a problem. That’s when she saw them: two long branches wedged at an angle against the wall, thick and straight. Above them, vines threaded through the soil, dense and fibrous, like veins long forgotten by whatever body had once claimed this place.
She went to work.
There was no wasted motion. She snapped smaller sticks to even lengths, notched grooves into the larger branches with careful strokes of the knife, and teased the vines free from the earth, winding them tight. Her fingers bled where the bark bit back, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t curse. She simply adjusted her grip and kept going.
The ladder that emerged was crude, primitive—but solid.
She set it against the wall. It shifted once, then settled. She tested it with her weight before climbing, each movement deliberate. The wood groaned softly as she rose, the vines stretching but holding. Halfway up, her foot slipped. Her heart leapt—but her hands caught, muscles burning as she steadied herself. She paused, drew a breath, then continued.
At the top, her fingers clawed into the damp edge. Her knees scraped stone. With one final effort, she hauled herself out and collapsed forward onto solid ground, chest heaving, hands trembling beneath her.
For a moment, she stayed there.
Morning mist settled across the land, draping the forest in blue and gray. The rain softened to a pitter-patter. Somewhere far off, something moved—but not close enough to matter. Horns. Antlers, perhaps. Scraping bark.
She leaned forward and drank from a pool of rainwater gathered in the basin of a broad leaf, careful and unhurried. Then she opened her pack again and withdrew a compass, a creased topographical map, and a granola bar. The light from the pale morning sky was just enough to illuminate a path.
She did not call out.
She did not cry.
She did not run.
She stood, took one last measured look at the forest around her, ripped open the package of her granola bar, took an angry bite, and began to walk.
And it was in that silence—in her refusal to scream—that the truth became unmistakable:
This girl was not lost.
She was searching.
Tuesday’s fog settled over the hospital like a held breath.
Regina sat at the side of Leesey Logan’s bed, the steady rhythm of machines filling the pauses between words. The girl lay sprawled from exhaustion beneath the thin white sheets and blanket, her dark hair brushed back from her face, a faint bruise blooming along her throat like an afterthought no one wanted to name. She was alert, though—eyes tracking, mind present, even if her body was still catching up.
Regina pulled a photograph from her jacket pocket and held it where Leesey could see.
“Have you seen this girl?” she asked gently.
Leesey studied the picture—Jillian’s school photo, all awkward smile and unknowing eyes. She shook her head.
“No,” she said, after a moment. “I haven’t.”
Regina nodded, as if she’d expected that answer. As if it didn’t land like a stone in her gut. Leesey and Jillian were not classmates, nor did they attend the same school district. Leesey was from another county, entirely.
They talked for several more minutes—about the woods, the truck, the house that his grandmother hadn’t lived in for over year, having been placed in a retirement home. About Zeke Calloway. Each answer Leesey gave was careful, unembellished, painfully sincere. And with each one, Regina felt something slipping through her fingers.
Calloway had taken her. Of that there was no doubt.
But the longer Regina sat there, the clearer it became that he probably hadn’t taken the others.
Zeke Calloway was most likely a serial sexual offender. He liked to abscond with little girls, and then threaten them to hold their tongues. She wasn’t sure he was a killer. According to Leesey, he didn’t play hunting games.
The door opened softly behind her, and the Logan family spilled into the room in a rush of motion and sound—tears, whispered prayers, arms wrapping tight around Leesey as if she might vanish again if they loosened their grip. Regina stepped back, suddenly surplus to requirement, watching the relief play out in real time.
Found safe.
Alive.
Going home.
Soon.
Zeke Calloway, she knew, was meanwhile being treated in Albany under armed guard, a bullet wound in his leg and a growing list of charges hanging over his head. A drug screen taken in the ER revealed THC-marijuana use, ETOH alcohol, and nothing else. No opioids. A dead end, perhaps.
Pullman had already made his intentions clear: once medically cleared, Calloway would be transferred to a federal facility in downtown Manhattan to await arraignment. Abduction. Strangulation. Solicitation of a minor with intent to cross state lines. And whatever else the Feds decided to stack on top.
A creep.
Who would be going away for a long time.
Just not the one she was looking for.
Follow the opioids, she thought, watching the rain through the window.
Mrs. Logan approached her then, eyes red-rimmed, hands shaking as she reached for Regina’s arm. “Sheriff—Chief—thank you,” she said, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to—”
Regina shook her head, gently disengaging. “Oh,” she said quietly, “it’s not me you need to thank.”
The door opened again.
Collins stepped into the room, rain-dark jacket clinging to his frame, his expression still drawn from the long night that had come before dawn. Regina turned and nodded toward him.
“Him,” she whispered.
Collins looked momentarily uncomfortable as the gratitude redirected his way, but Regina barely noticed. Her attention had already drifted elsewhere—back to the photograph still warm in her pocket.
If Calloway wasn’t the Shannon Falls killer…
Then whoever was, was still out there.
And they hadn’t finished.
As Collins made a stiff introduction with the Logan’s and accepted their gratitude uneasily, Regina stepped into the hall, only to nearly collide with Rod, who was coming in.
“What is it?” She said in a quiet voice, seeing the painful look on his face.
He grabbed her by her upper arm, gently, and pulled her further down the hall, out of earshot of the others. A nurse stood from behind the station in the hall, looking in her direction, concerned.
“It’s your father, Regina. They called just a few minutes ago—” He began.
Her lips began to quiver. “—-and?”
“They say he’s lost consciousness, gone into a coma or something.”
“Oh, God.” The room began to spin. She could feel her feet sliding out from under her. She desperately tried to remain upright but bent at the waist.
The nurse who had been watching events unfold, and who had taken the call, rushed over with a small desk chair, and Rod posted it beside Regina.
“Here, sit down.” He directed.
“No, I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not, chief. Sit down.” He pushed her gently into the chair.
Regina sat and bent all the way forward, hanging her head between her knees. The shock of that morning combined with this news was too much.
A young med tech passed by and handed Rod a can of iced cola. “Here, tell her to drink this—-the sugar will help.”
He popped the top open and handed it to Regina. “Here sip on this.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” She protested.
“Sip on it. Humor me.” Rod persisted.
After several minutes, shock turned to resolve. “Where is he now? Here? At the hospital?”
“No. Still at the nursing home. He’s getting hospice care. They’re doing all they can.” He tried to reassure her.
“I have to go.” She began to find her mettle. “I have to go and—see him—” She stumbled over words as if the very thought of it might send her crashing into oblivion. She tipped the can of cola all the way up, finishing the last of the contents. Truthfully, she did feel better.
“Hey. I’m here for you, okay? Anytime you need me.” He whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Make sure you get all their information. Don’t let them leave without it. This is a federal investigation now, and we’re not dropping the ball on it.”
He simply nodded in understanding, as she stood. “Then go home and get some sleep. Let the day crew handle the rest. See you at crew change.”
“Okay, drive safely.” He said softly, as he watched her go.
By the time Regina arrived at The Shannon Falls Retirement Home, a gentle mist had settled over the entire area, cloaking the rolling hills in it, like a funeral shroud.
She barely noticed the gentle sway of people in the halls of the retirement home, but as she approached her father’s room, she heard familiar voices.
“Mom!” Riley cried, and then rushed to her, throwing his arms around her. Regina was shocked to see Clay there, with their boys. Her eldest son Josh looked morbid with concern, his eyes downcast beside her father’s bed.
“Gina!” Clay said, surprised to see her, unable to hide his look of concern.
Her face, at that point, was a puddle of tears, the mascara had long streaked across her face, her nose irritated and red. All signifying grief.
Her father lay in quiet repose, being hooked up to various sensors and machines, all quietly beeping, doing their work—the work of keeping him alive. A pallor had settled on his face, one that resembled a sure harbinger of death. To see a once towering colossus of a man—so full of life— completely reduced to a fragile shell of his former self, made her gasp in horror.
And yet, his voice still rang in her ears. As crystal clear, as ever.
Keep looking up, kiddo. You can’t go wrong if you keep looking up.
Clay, sensing that perhaps she needed a moment, turned to Riley. “Here. Why don’t you read to him a bit? This was one of his favorites.” He said handing him a paperback copy of Old Yeller from the nightstand. “I’ll be right back.” He said looking at Josh, who nodded in understanding.
Clay swept Regina into the hall at that point. “Gina, I am so sorry.” he began, softly. “What can I do, baby? What can I do?” he asked earnestly searching her red-rimmed eyes.
Her hands flew to her mouth to cover the grimace of shock they concealed, as a flood of fresh tears erupted. “I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to say goodbye to him, yet. Not yet.”
She melted against him them, as he enfolded his arms around her.
“It’s okay. I’m here. I’ll always be here.” He said holding her, brushing her hair from her face. He’d forgotten how nice it was to hold her in his arms. They way their eyes locked at times, and what passed between them was nothing less spiritual. Quiet, unspoken understandings that words couldn’t express. He held her that way for a long moment, until she pushed away.
“No, I can’t.” She whispered, finding herself. “I have to get out of here. I can’t lose my shit right now. I don’t have the luxury.”
Clay looked on in confusion and concern, as she wiped tears away.
“The guy we bagged this morning isn’t the one. I just know it. He’s still out there. I have to go. I have to get out of here.” She stammered, meeting his eyes directly.
Clay was helpless to do anything but listen, as she turned on her heel.
“Just keep them, Clay. Until this is all over? Just do that much for me?”
“Sure.” Was all he could muster, seeing her so emotional. Regina didn’t get upset, as a general rule. It pained him to see her so distraught.
And somewhere out in the mist, the culmination of all of Regina’s worst fears seemed to seethe through the rolling hills of the Catskills.
The Shannon Falls killer was still on the prowl for his next victim.