“What did you do to her?”
“Her heart just stopped,” he says, but I know he’s lying. Or at least leaving out the part where he did something to make it stop, like put a sofa pillow over her face. “Now I need you to come with me so we get everything straightened out.” He shifts his grip so that he’s holding both my wrists with one hand. Before I can react, he’s slapped handcuffs on me.
“What are you doing? Am I under arrest?”
“Anything you say can and will be used against you,” he says, but isn’t there supposed to be more to it than that?
He opens the door and makes me walk ahead of him. Nora’s dead, Nora’s dead, Nora’s dead pulses in me. I clomp along, feeling as if I’m in one of my nightmares, the ones where I run and run but somehow stay in the same place. The neighborhood is deserted, everyone at work. The few people who might be home are probably hunkered down in the air-conditioning with the curtains drawn.
At his cruiser, he opens the door on the back passenger side.
This time, instead of easing me in, he pushes me into the seat and doesn’t bother to tell me to use the seat belt. The windows are tinted, and there’s no chance anyone will see me tucked back in the recessed space. Maybe I can jump out when the car is moving? As he closes the door, I reach forward and grab the handle with one of my cuffed hands. It doesn’t open.
He gets in the driver’s seat, slams the door, and starts driving. Fast.
The doubling thing is happening again. Just like fourteen years ago, I’m staring at the floor of a car. There’s no bloody knife, but the muttering voice is familiar.
“What the hell just happened?” he says, but not to me. “How did you let it go this far, Stephen? You’re a good husband, a good father, and a good cop. But then she had to come around asking questions. Trying to connect the dots. She didn’t give you any choice. Just like her parents.” His voice is equal parts anguished and angry.
I raise my cuffed hands so I can touch Nora’s necklace. It feels like an anchor. Like the only bit of goodness in this car. My eyes fill with tears, but I blink them back. I can’t afford to fall apart now.
Where is he taking me? Because I’m pretty sure it’s not to the police station. From between the two front seats, tiny, tinny voices drift up. Can I get to the radio somehow and call for help? But could I ever get the person on the other end to believe me?
My phone is in my back pocket, and he hasn’t taken it from me—yet.
“So what really happened to my parents?”
He hesitates, but then the words rush from him as if they have been dammed up for years. “First, you have to understand what was going on back then. My dad had been sick forever. Cancer. And then he died. The economy sucked. My mom couldn’t get a job. I was living at home, going to community college, making a few bucks doing yard work. Me and my mom and my little sisters were living off what we could get from the church pantry, and half the time the shelves were bare. Deer season was over, but my sisters were crying from hunger. They needed to eat. So I took my rifle and I went out into the woods. I saw a deer moving through the trees. I swear to God, I didn’t see a person. I saw a deer, the flick of its white tail. So I shot it. But—but when I took out my knife and went to gut it, I found Terry. Terry Weeks. And he was dead. Wearing these stupid white gloves that Naomi must have made him. And I’d killed him.”
Thoughts tangle and collide in my head. Now I know the truth. This man who is only a few feet from me has killed three people I loved. My mom and dad, and now Nora. I want to scream and shout and rage. I want to punch through the Plexiglas that separates us, slide the handcuffs over his head and strangle him. But I push back the anger and the tears and the fear. There will be time for all those later—if I live.
I force myself to speak calmly. “Couldn’t you have just turned yourself in and explained?” While his attention focused on his memories, I try to move my cuffed hands around to my back pocket.
“Explained what?” He makes a sound like a laugh. “That I was hunting out of season? That I had just killed a guy? I already wanted to be a cop, but shooting Terry meant that would never happen. Shooting Terry meant my life was over. I was still in shock when I heard Naomi calling for him. She came around a tree and found me with my rifle over my shoulder and my knife in my hand. I tried to explain to her it was an accident, but she went crazy, hitting me and screaming. I only meant to push her away. That’s all.”
My lips curl back. The emotion I’ve been holding at bay starts to leak out. “Push her away? You stabbed her nineteen times.”
Through the Plexiglas, I see him shake his head. “I just wanted her to be quiet, to leave me alone so I could think. But she wouldn’t stop fighting, stop screaming. I didn’t have any other choice. She even tried to take the knife away from me.”
“Yeah, to stop you from killing her!” I strain, my shoulder twisting. My fingertips brush the top of my phone.
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and I stop moving. “It was already too late. I couldn’t make it better. I couldn’t bring Terry back to life. It was Naomi or me. There weren’t any other choices. But it was the hardest thing.” His voice is hoarse. “It was awful. Do you think I haven’t lived with that for years? Do you think I don’t have nightmares, that what happened isn’t in my thoughts every day?” His voice breaks. “And then when it was over, I heard this noise. It was you, trying to run away on your little legs. I hadn’t even noticed you until then.”
“Did you think about killing me?” The tears are falling from my eyes now, disobeying me.
“No,” he says, but I hear the lie in his voice. “No,” he repeats more softly. “How could I do that? You weren’t much younger than my little sister. I could have left you there, and you would have frozen to death. But I kept you safe. I didn’t touch a hair on your head. Because of my sisters, I knew how to talk to little girls. I got close and then grabbed you up, carried you to Terry’s pickup, and put you inside. Then I went back to get his keys, but the first pocket I looked in was full of money. I had no idea where it had come from, but I took it and hoped people would think it explained things. The whole time I was patting him down, Naomi was looking right at me. I tried to close her eyes, but they wouldn’t stay. I knew she couldn’t see me, but it felt like she could. So I wrapped her in the tarp I had brought for the deer. Then I hightailed it out of there.”
Again, his gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror. “You actually fell asleep on the drive. And when I saw the billboard for Walmart, I went there. I looked up at the light poles to make sure there weren’t any cameras. I leaned over and opened the door of the truck for you. I told you your mommy and daddy were waiting for you inside. You looked at me once, and then you took off. I drove up to Portland, parked in the long-term lot, and wiped the truck down. And then I took a Greyhound back to Medford and hiked back to get my car, a few miles from where it happened. I was home by the end of the day.”
I try to make sense of everything. “So was Benjy with you that day?”
“No. But he came out for the search after Naomi’s body was found, and he must have seen me. I found one of Terry’s hands that day, still in a stupid white glove. Animals probably dragged off the rest. I hid the hand in my pack and buried it later. Even if Ben had tried to tell someone about what he saw me do, that was also when he started talking about the FBI listening to him.”
“So are you going to pin it on him now?”
He looks shocked. “Of course not. Not on him, not on Jason, not on anybody. We’re looking at a drifter here. Someone who came, who killed, who moved on. Who’s probably linked to old crimes in other states.”
“What about me? How are you going to explain whatever you do to me?”
“What about you? Everyone knows you’re impetuous. You moved down to Medford on the spur of the moment. And now you’ve decided to move on again.”
It’s going to take a lot of work to make his story fit. But he made his old story work fourteen yea
rs ago, when he wasn’t the chief of police, when he didn’t have access to evidence rooms and databases. So he can probably do it again.
Make me disappear like I never was.
CHAPTER 42
NO HOPE
When Stephen finally stops the car, I recognize where we are. It’s the same spot where I parked earlier. Next to the part of the forest where my parents died.
I’ve come full circle.
After getting out of the car, he walks to my side and opens the door. His gun is in his hand, and it’s pointed right at my chest.
“Get out.”
I don’t have much choice. It’s surprisingly hard to climb out of a car when you can’t use your hands to push off.
“Now walk ahead of me.” He motions with his gun toward the forest.
Imagining how the bullet will bury itself between my shoulder blades, I don’t move. “You don’t want to do this.”
“I may not want to, but I have to.” He regards me with dead eyes. “It’s too late, don’t you see? It was too late the minute I accidentally shot Terry all those years ago. Everything was set in motion then. Naomi dying. Nora’s heart giving out. And this.”
It’s now or never. Moving faster than a thought, I lean back and brace my shoulders against the frame of the car. I kick my booted foot straight out in front of me. The hard plastic goes up between his legs with every ounce of strength I can muster. He makes a sound that starts as a grunt and ends as a scream, and staggers back.
I dart past him. Suddenly, it feels as if I’m being clotheslined. He’s grabbed Nora’s necklace. It digs into my throat, and then with a sharp pop, it snaps. He tumbles to the ground behind me, groaning.
I run as fast as I can, a crazy, staggering dash made uneven because of the boot. With my hands cuffed in front of me, I can’t pump my arms but have to move them in tandem. Still, fear gives me wings.
As I run, that doubling thing happens again, the past and the present overlaid. Only this time it’s not a person but a place. Now I remember being little and afraid and trying to run away. Run away from a killer. The same man who will soon gather himself, get to his feet, and chase me.
Last time, he caught me. Will he do the same this time? Because I know there is no hope that he will spare me now.
My ankle protests at every step. My feet slide on the dead pine needles. Branches claw my face, poke at my eyes. Every step betrays me with a snapping twig, a stone that clacks against another. Even my own body betrays me, panting and moaning. I’m making so much noise. Is it better to be slower and quieter or to put more distance between us?
As if in answer, a bullet sings through the air past me. The sound spurs me to an even greater burst of speed.
If I can lose him, maybe I can circle back to the road, hide in the bushes, and flag down a passing car. Or move from tree to tree and follow the road back into town.
Behind me, I hear a faint thud and cry. It sounds like he fell. Tripped on a stone or a root, the way I did when we were last here. My own balance is compromised by the handcuffs and the boot. Pretty soon, I’ll fall, too. I imagine him catching up, standing over me, and pulling the trigger.
I decide to seize this moment to hide and then pray he comes blundering past. On my left, the ground rises. It’s covered with dry grasses, low bushes, and tall pine trees. There’s no real cover. On my right, it slopes down to a thicker tangle of more bushes and blackberry vines, deep enough to hide me. I don’t want to leave telltale broken canes, so I fall to my knees and tunnel into the base of a huge blackberry bush, ignoring how the thorns tattoo my face and arms with my own blood. Finally, I’m in as deep as I can get. In the shadowed darkness, I breathe shallowly. My heart is so loud that surely he’ll hear it, too. Sweat traces a path down my spine.
And then I hear him, muttering and cursing. “Which way? Which way? Where did she go? You can’t let her get away.” He’s no more than fifteen feet from me.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to watch my own death come for me. I’m breathing so lightly my chest doesn’t even rise a millimeter.
CHAPTER 43
NOWHERE TO RUN
Just as I think that he must surely see me, Stephen asks himself, “What’s that?” He breaks into a run. His footsteps, which were so close, now move farther away.
Even though he seems to have left, I can’t risk moving too soon and giving myself away.
My dad’s death was fast, but my mother must have been so frightened before she died. Had she tried to appeal to Stephen, to their long friendship? Had her disbelief at what was happening slowed her reaction? What had it been like to look into the face of someone she thought of as a friend as he stabbed her again and again? Had she thought of my father or me? Or had it all been beyond thought, a crazy struggle that lasted only a few seconds?
Tears come to my eyes as I think of her and my dad and Nora, all of them taken from me.
No! I’m not going to let it happen again. Moving as quietly as I can, I twist and strain until I can pull out my phone. When I turn it on, I see one bar. It wavers but then holds. Relief washes over me. Now to call 911 for help.
I push the 9 button, then stop. First of all, I’m going to have to risk talking. How close is Stephen? Will he hear my voice and turn back? Will he shoot me before I can finish explaining to the dispatcher what’s going on?
And even if I manage to tell my story, what will the dispatcher think when I claim that the chief of police is trying to kill me? The first thing they’ll probably do is check with Stephen. He’ll make up a lie. It might not hold in the long run—especially once I turn up missing—but either way, I’ll still be dead.
I delete the 9, put my phone on silent, and switch to my text program. Duncan’s my only hope.
Nd help. Spaulding killed parents!! Took me 2 same place. Hiding from him in woods.
What? Srsly? Call police.
No! He IS police. Plz come b4 he finds me. I’ll try 2 get back 2 road.
His answer comes only a second later.
Coming 4 u.
My sense of relief doesn’t last long. It will still take twenty minutes for Duncan to drive here. And even before that, he’s going to have to get his hands on a car. Should I stay where I am for a while longer? Try to head back to the road now? I’m just starting to think it might be time to risk leaving when a white flake floats through the blackberry canes and past my eyes. And then another one. The flakes look like snow. Which is impossible.
It’s ash.
I sniff. The air smells sweet and smoky. And the forest is tinder-dry.
Pausing every few seconds to listen, I carefully back my way out of the blackberry bush. It’s even more difficult than tunneling in. All the canes I pressed one way now have to be pushed the other. Without a flat-out panic numbing me to the pain, each new scratch makes me flinch, which just makes another thorn snag on a different part of my body. As the canes finally grow sparser, I cautiously peer out. My heart is thudding in my chest. I’m so afraid I’ll find Stephen waiting patiently for me, but there’s no sign of him.
But about the length of a football field away, a thin plume of gray smoke is rising to the sky. Even while I watch, it grows fatter. Underneath the gray, there’s the orange flicker of flames. A half dozen trees are on fire. Another line of smoke rises from a new tree. Flames the color of molten gold race up another. And now I can hear it. A crackle that thickens to a roar.
The fire is between me and the road. And it’s getting bigger every second.
I don’t think this fire is an accident. Stephen has set the forest alight, hoping to drive me out or burn me down. When I was here fourteen years ago, I could have frozen to death. Now I might turn to ashes.
Maybe I can circle around it and get back to the road. Get to Duncan. I imagine jumping into his mom’s car and getting out of here.
Even in the few seconds it takes to imagine this, the forest fire is stretching out, hungry flames finding new fuel, thanks to wind-carried embers. Moving like
a living thing, the fire skitters here, takes great leaps there. It flows like liquid, flames swirling and twining.
It’s mesmerizing. I shake my head and start to run from the flames. Maybe I can outrace them. The air is so hot it singes the insides of my nostrils. The white ash is falling faster and faster. After a few minutes, I risk a glance behind me. It’s much worse than I thought. The flames have jumped from tree to tree, so that the fire is beginning to ring me like an open mouth. It’s so close now, only a few hundred feet away, and gaining on me every second with a sound like thunder.
With my head twisted around, I can’t watch my feet, so when my right toe hooks on something, I fall hard, landing with my cuffed hands in my solar plexus. The air is knocked out of me. I lie there, mouth open like a fish’s, my lungs empty and my diaphragm stuck.
Get up, a woman’s voice says. I don’t know if it’s in my head or in my ear. You have to get up, honey.
Now, a man’s voice commands.
Suddenly, the scorching, smoky air rushes back into my lungs, hot and harsh. Gasping, I roll over, push myself to my feet, and start running again. Trees pop and snap as the flames find pockets of moisture. All around me, bits of fire flicker through the air. Each is a burning leaf that blackens to a crisp in midair. Then one of them, still burning, lands a few feet ahead of me and ignites a new fire. I swerve around it. But the fire at my back is giving birth to more and more spot fires that flare up and join the mother conflagration. I’m no longer thinking of finding Duncan or avoiding Stephen. I’m not even sure what direction I’m running in. Now all I want to do is survive for a few more seconds.
I crash through dense underbrush, veering around clumps of brambles, threading between tree trunks, my eyes constantly evaluating where I can go, where I can step. The air is as hot as a kiln. My tongue feels fat and swollen against my dry lips. Pine needles and small branches begin to swirl around me as they’re pulled off the ground and sucked into the firestorm at my back. When I wipe my stinging eyes, my palm comes away smeared with ash.