Page 85 of Her Final Hours
Amidst the chaos of the investigation, Callie couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the victims and those club members not involved and who genuinely had no idea of the violation of the sanctuary.
“Hey, McKenzie, take a look at this,” Callie called out, her voice cutting through the air. McKenzie, wandering in deep thought, turned to face her, muttering something about archaic forms of punishment. Curious, he approached, and Callie pointed to a black-and-white photograph taken from above the area. It showcased the Fish and Game Hunting Club, a commonsight in clubs that aimed to highlight their property’s renovation and expansion over time.
“You notice something out of place here?” she said, her finger indicating a particular shot of a farm.
McKenzie squinted at the photograph and shrugged. “It’s a farm. And?”
Her eyes gleamed with realization. “All of these photos are from Elizabethtown and the club, except this one. This one is from Westport.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
“Noah went out to the railroad and collected drone footage of the area where Jane Doe was found,” she explained. “I recognize that farm. It’s one of the only properties close to the tracks.”
McKenzie nodded with understanding. “You think that’s where they’re holding girls?”
Callie shrugged, not entirely sure but driven by intuition. “Can’t be sure, but it would make an ideal place for transporting girls from a holding place to a freight train without being seen. All of this around here is dense woodland. Cut through there,” she said, tracing her finger across from the farm through the trees to the tracks, “and you could easily do it.” She quickly took a snapshot of the photograph with her phone and turned, walking away purposefully.
“Where are you going?” McKenzie called after her.
“To speak to the detained,” she replied, her voice determined. She strode into the meeting hall, where deputies stood guard over multiple club members. Her gaze roamed, singling out a man others had been conversing with — a man whose face matched those shown among the charter members. Callie approached him, her presence commanding attention.
“Andrew Roberts?”
He glanced up, his expression tinged with annoyance. “Yeah?”
“Who owns this place?” she asked, presenting him with the farm photograph.
Andrew seemed hesitant to respond, but Callie’s smile held a glimmer of leverage. She crouched to his level, her eyes locked with his. “Right now, your cooperation will go a long way with the court if it’s found that you are involved in the abduction of girls.”
Before Andrew could answer, another nearby voice interjected, clearly looking for an opportunity to strike a deal. “It’s club property.”
“Shut your pie hole, Pete,” Andrew snapped.
But Pete refused to back down. “I won’t. Whatever this place has brought down on themselves, I’m not going down with them.”
Callie’s mind absorbed the exchange, sensing that not everyone present was involved in the darker aspects of the club — this confirmation aligned with what Patrick had hinted at, the presence of factions within the organization.
Standing upright, Callie approached Pete, her gaze piercing. She pressed him for more information. “Who owns it?”
Pete hesitated for a second, then responded. “That, I can’t tell. I don’t know. But I know it’s used for long-term paying members for BBQs and weekend hunting retreats.”
Callie considered his words, her eyes scanning the vast expanse of surrounding woodland in the photo. The location was remote, hidden from prying eyes, making it the ideal setting for the private parties Patrick had mentioned. It was becoming clear that secrets were buried within the depths of the club that only a few were privy to.
“Thorne!” McKenzie called out, capturing her attention.
She turned and saw him gesturing with a jerk of his head, silently urging her to follow. Her curiosity was piqued as she went over to where he stood against a wall adorned withphotographs capturing club events, barbecues, and member gatherings.
McKenzie stood before a particular photo and pointed to a group of gold members from 2022, all clad in orange vests, camo hunting gear, and holding rifles. In front of them lay a collection of dead game birds. Callie’s eyes scanned the faces, and there, amidst the group, she recognized Lucas Blackwood, Joseph Collins, Caleb Mitchell, and several others.
“And that’s not all….” McKenzie’s voice trailed off as he pointed to an older photo. A group of younger men who would now be in their late fifties stood together in it. Among them was Adrian Lopez, a man who had been caught abducting a girl and had died in prison due to cancer. The realization hit Callie like a punch to the gut.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, her mind racing to connect the dots. “Spotters, holders, collectors.”
“And probably deliverers,” McKenzie said. The roles of the other seven men involved in the club’s dark activities began to take shape in her imagination.
Callie locked eyes with him; her expression matched his. “McKenzie, find out who the owner of that farm is.”
“Oh, I’m taking orders from you now?” he replied.
