CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The road wound through thickly forested hills, rising and falling with the country landscape.
Riley slowed the Bureau sedan as they approached an unmarked turnout.
She pulled to a stop there, cut the engine, and sat for a moment, staring through the windshield at the place where Jay Bartlett had died five years ago.
Just a few trees stood in front of her, then a vast emptiness beyond.
“This is it?” Ann Marie asked, leaning forward in her seat. “Doesn’t look like much from here.”
“A lot of death scenes don’t,” Riley replied.
They stepped out of the car into the cool morning air. The early June sun hadn’t yet burned away the mist that clung to treetops and seeped into the hollows of the land.
Riley walked toward the far edge of the turnout. Beyond a simple wooden guardrail lay Raven’s Leap Cliff.
The view stole her breath momentarily. The cliff face dropped away in a near-vertical wall of striated rock, plunging hundreds of feet to jumbled boulders and twisted trees far below.
A small stream wound along the bottom. The size of it was difficult to process – beautiful and deadly at once.
Jay Bartlett would have been scaling the cliff from the bottom, making his way upward toward the place where they stood.
“I can see why climbers would be drawn to it,” Riley said, stepping closer to the guardrail. She could feel the slight pull of the void, that strange vertigo that whispered to humans standing at great heights.
Ann Marie stood beside her, thumbing through her phone. “According to what I can find online, it’s considered an intermediate to advanced climb. The starting point is directly below us, reached from a logging road and a short trail through the woods.”
Riley imagined what it must have been like for Jay Bartlett on that final day – the confidence in his abilities, the thrill of the challenge. She pictured hands gripping stone, searching for purchase, a moment of panic as a rock gave way.
“There’s something else,” Ann Marie said, glancing back at her phone.
“According to local history sites, the cliff gets its name from two things. First, there’s a colony of ravens that nest in the crevices – you can see a few of them circling now.
” She pointed to black shapes wheeling against the sky.
“And the second thing?” Riley asked.
“Back in 1902, a local daredevil named John Raven – probably not his real name – supposedly survived a leap from the cliff into the gorge below. The water’s deeper there after heavy rain.” Ann Marie shook her head. “Even so most historians think it’s just a tall tale.”
Riley absorbed this, thinking about the Bartlett twins and their love of daredevil stunts.
“I wonder if Tony knew about that legend,” she mused.
Had the twins discussed the namesake’s legendary leap during their childhood adventures? Had the story added to the cliff’s allure for Jay?
“It could add another layer to Tony’s fixation,” Ann Marie commented. “Raven survived his leap—at least according to the story. Jay didn’t survive his climb.”
Riley stepped back from the edge, considering Tony Bartlett’s psychology. She could feel the pieces slotting into place—or some of them, anyway.
“Tony isn’t just killing random delivery drivers,” Riley said. “He’s choosing them based on routes connected to places important in the twins’ shared past. But for the victims, it’s just where they happened to be assigned. They’ve died for something they likely knew nothing about.”
“But why delivery drivers?” Ann Marie wondered. “What do they signify to him? And those envelopes labeled ‘undeliverable’—what do they mean?”
“We still don’t know that,” Riley muttered.
She and Ann Marie fell silent for a moment, listening to the breeze and birdsong.
“We should get to Hartsfield,” Riley said, turning back toward the car. “The name of the county sheriff there is Walter Rich. He might be able to fill in some gaps about Jay’s death.”
As they walked back to the sedan, Riley cast one final glance at Raven’s Leap. Would Tony Bartlett return here? Did this place of loss hold some final role in the deadly game he believed he was still playing with his brother?
*
Hartsfield was right there in the foothills of Redcliff County, but it seemed like a town from another era.
As Riley guided the sedan down the main street, she took in the stone-faced buildings with their faded awnings, the hardware store with actual rocking chairs on the porch, the diner where locals peered out at the unfamiliar government vehicle.
This was the kind of place where outsiders were noticed immediately, where federal badges would raise eyebrows and loosen some tongues while sealing others tight.
She’d worked enough rural cases to recognize the delicate dance ahead of them.
“Looks like something from a postcard,” Ann Marie murmured beside her.
“That might be helpful. Places like this have long memories.”
The Redcliff County Sheriff’s Department occupied a square brick building with a flagpole out front and three patrol cars parked in designated spots.
Riley pulled into a visitor space and cut the engine.
The building wasn’t impressive—probably built in the seventies, with minimal updates since then—but it was well-maintained.
Someone took pride in keeping the walkway swept and the small patch of lawn trimmed.
Inside, the front desk was staffed by a middle-aged woman who looked up sharply as they entered, her eyes taking in their professional attire with a quick assessment.
“Help you?” she asked, her tone neutral.
Riley and Ann Marie presented their credentials. “Special Agent Riley Paige and Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer, FBI. We’d like to speak with Sheriff Rich, please.”
The woman’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “I’ll see if he’s available.” She picked up her phone and spoke quietly into it, then indicated a row of plastic chairs along the wall. “Have a seat. He’ll be with you shortly.”
Riley remained standing, studying the bulletin board covered with wanted posters, community notices, and faded safety pamphlets. Small town law enforcement—underfunded, understaffed, but often with deeper connections to the community than any big city department could claim.
A few minutes later, a door opened and Sheriff Walter Rich appeared.
He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a trim build that suggested he hadn’t let himself go soft behind a desk.
His hair was cut short and neat, and his uniform was pressed and spotless.
Riley put him in his early fifties, with the weathered face of someone who spent time outdoors.
His eyes were sharp as he approached them.
“Sheriff Rich,” he said, extending his hand. “What brings the FBI to Hartsfield?”
Riley shook his hand, noting his firm grip. “Agent Paige, and this is Agent Esmer. Is there somewhere we could talk privately?”
“This way,” he said, professional courtesy from one law enforcement officer to another, and led them through the door he’d emerged from. His office was spartanly furnished but tidy, with a desk, filing cabinets, and a small table with four chairs in the corner. A window looked out onto the street.
“Have a seat.” Sheriff Rich gestured to the chairs at the table rather than positioning himself behind his desk. Riley approved of the choice—less hierarchical, more collaborative.
Once they were seated, Sheriff Rich folded his hands on the table. “Now, what can Redcliff County do for the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
Riley met his gaze directly. “We’re investigating the deaths of two delivery drivers—Cable Morris and Amanda Lindeen. Morris disappeared during his route near Bundydale on June 17, and Lindeen vanished from Talomaska Crossing a few days before that.”
The sheriff spoke slowly. “I heard about those cases. Not in my jurisdiction, but news travels.”
“We have reason to believe the perpetrator has connections to Hartsfield,” Ann Marie added. “Specifically, to an incident at Raven’s Leap Cliff five years ago.”
Something flickered in Sheriff Rich’s eyes—recognition, Riley noted. He knew what they were referring to.
“We just came from there,” Riley said. “Impressive view.”
“And dangerous,” Rich replied. “We’ve had three fatalities there in the last decade. Climbers who overestimated their skills or took unnecessary risks.”
“Including Jay Bartlett,” Riley said.
The sheriff’s expression was carefully neutral now. “That was a bad one. Young guy, experienced climber. Solo climbing, which is never smart, even for the best. His equipment was top-notch, but something went wrong.”
“He had a twin brother named Tony,” Ann Marie said.
“That’s right.” Rich leaned back in his chair. “Tony Bartlett. Lived over in Sylvester County at the time. He came to Hartsfield to claim the body. He was pretty broken up about it, as you’d expect. Twins, identical ones at that.”
Riley watched the sheriff carefully as she spoke her next words. “We believe Tony Bartlett is responsible for the deaths of Cable Morris and Amanda Lindeen.”
The change in Sheriff Rich was subtle but unmistakable.
His posture stiffened, and something dark passed behind his eyes.
The sheriff pushed back his chair and stood, walking to the window.
He stared out at the main street of Hartsfield for a long moment, his back to them.
When he turned around, his expression was troubled.
“Tony Bartlett,” he said again, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”