I look toward the gate again. “Hey, I just noticed that back gate is open. Maybe the killer left footprints.”
The cop looks toward it. “Listen, I need you to wait here. I’m sure the detectives are going to want to question you.”
Right. I hope the detectives on rotation aren’t Keegan and Rollins, but even if not, those two will learn soon enough that I was talking to her. Keegan won’t be happy.
But I don’t take orders from him. I work for the Paces and at the pleasure of Chief Gates.
I hang around just outside the crime scene tape, sitting on the trunk of my car. I don’t see any bullet holes or shattered glass in the front. I know the side door had been locked, because the neighbor checked it.
Up and down the street, neighbors have come out of their houses and stand in their yards talking quietly.
I try to work out what happened. One scenario comes to mind. Someone was waiting in the backyard for her to get home, and they could have had a silencer since her neighbor didn’t hear it. Were they there when I was knocking on the door? How long before I arrived was she killed? Whoever it was clearly didn’t want to rob her. They simply wanted her dead.
The more I think about it, the more I realize it couldn’t have anything to do with me. No one except her coworker knew I had talked to her, and I doubt that it made a blip on her radar.
What had Sara Meadows been planning to tell me? More importantly, what was on the tape that Keegan was watching when I came into his office earlier?
After I give all my information to the detectives assigned to the case—who, thankfully, aren’t Keegan and Rollins—they let me go, and I drive home and sit in my dark living room, staring at the wall.
I close my eyes as I remember other deaths, also bloody. My buddies, laughing and trading barbs one second, blown into fragments the next.
I had tried to put them back together, tried to gather their parts . . . such a strange reaction. The shrinks repeatedly tell me they were gone, that nothing I could’ve done would’ve saved them. But I’m haunted by the thought that I did all the wrong things.
Some of that day is mercifully blank in my head, like how long it took for help to come. But I remember a shopkeeper just up the street, sweeping in front of his door and glancing toward us as though he’d just witnessed a fender bender. He just kept sweeping.
Death is attracted to me. It strikes at me often and misses, hitting those nearby.
I get hungry, but there’s nothing in my fridge. I go out to get some fast food, but as I sit in the drive-through line waiting to place my order, I think about Hannah Boon, Casey’s sister. If I tell her I found Sara Meadows dead after learning that she did an interview with Brent before his death—an interview about her father—will she talk more openly? I leave the line and drive over to Hannah’s house. By now her husband’s probably home, and she’s probably trying to get the baby to bed. It’s a terrible time, I know, but I have to talk to her.
A tall, lanky man answers the door with the baby on his hip. “Hey,” he says, real friendly.
“Is Hannah here?” I ask, then realize that’s rude. “I’m Dylan Roberts,” I say. “I spoke to her Friday?”
His eyes suddenly go cold. “She’s busy.”
“It’s really important,” I say. “I was just about to interview someone who was involved in her father’s case, and before I could talk to her, she was murdered.”
He catches his breath, gapes at me, then disappears into the house. Hannah comes back with him. She approaches me reluctantly. “What?” she asks. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Please, just a few more minutes,” I say.
“Who died?” she demands to know.
“The clerk in the evidence room at the police department. Her name was Sara Meadows. She knew your father.”
She mutters something to her husband. He takes the baby and disappears up the stairs. She steps outside and looks up and down the street, then steps back and lets me come in. I realize that anything I tell her could wind up being repeated back to Keegan, or maybe the department has had her house wired and can hear it right now. I have to be careful.
“I’m trying to follow Brent Pace’s tracks for the days leading up to his murder,” I say. “That trail led me to this woman who knew your father, and she had information about his death. She told me to meet her at her house tonight at seven thirty, but when I got there she was dead. Shot.”
Tears rim Hannah’s eyes, then she sets her chin, and her lips thin. She motions for me to follow her out to the backyard. There’s a picnic table there, but she walks past it and takes me to a rustic, dirty bench at the back of the yard. “I’m not sure that I’m not being listened to,” she says quietly.
She looks at me, desperate. “I have a child and husband. I can’t risk having them come after me too. If they ask you, you’ve got to tell them that I wouldn’t tell you a thing. That I’m convinced Dad killed himself.”
“It’s a deal,” I say. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. “Casey had all these theories, but I don’t know if any of them were right. The only thing I can tell you is, you can’t trust the people you’re working with.”
I frown. “I’m not working with anybody. I work by myself.”
The back screen door scrapes open. Her husband steps out looking for us.
“I have to go,” she says.
I take a chance as she walks away. “There was a videotape,” I say. “I saw it on Keegan’s computer screen. It was Brent interviewing Sara Meadows. I walked up on him, but when he saw me he shut it down. Didn’t want me to see it.”
She swings around. “If you find Casey, you’re just gonna get her killed. They don’t want her in prison. They want her dead, like everybody else who tries to expose them.”
“I’m not looking just for Casey,” I say. “I’m looking for the truth.”
“But everything you think you know about the case is wrong. You’ve been lied to. The whole foundation of your investigation is a lie.”
“I need to talk to her,” I say.
She stares at me. “You said the woman is dead.”
“I don’t mean Sara Meadows. I mean Casey. Can you set up a meeting?”
“Of course not,” she says. “I don’t know where she is.”
Her husband is still waiting. I step forward.
“I know that you mailed a package to her in Atlanta.”
The color drains from her face.
“If you could give me just a phone number or an e-mail address. If I could talk to her briefly . . . It doesn’t have to be in person.”
“I told you no.”
I can see that she won’t budge, so I quickly jot down all my information—e-mail, cell phone, snail mail address, just in case she changes her mind. “Please. If she didn’t do this murder, then maybe I can help.”
Hannah laughs bitterly. “Yeah, we’ve heard that before.” She points to the gate. “You can go out that way.”
She marches toward her husband and back into the house, and I hear the deadbolt locking behind her.
27
CASEY
On my next day off, I take Highway 280 to Alabama. I pull off in Auburn and sit in a parking lot to call Hannah from my prepaid phone. If the police try to trace the signal, they’ll see that it pings off an Auburn tower, and they’ll assume I’m staying there. But I hope our precautions keep them from knowing about my calls. I’d rather die than get her into trouble.
I text her first. Can you talk?
In just a few minutes, she texts back. Not right now. In store with Emma. Call in one hour. You ok?
I write back, Yes. I’ll call in an hour. Don’t answer with your real phone nearby & don’t be in your car.
Love you, she writes back.
I type, U2.
I use the hour to get fast food, then eat in my car, waiting for the time to pass. I’m not hungry. I force myself to chew and sw
allow, chew and swallow. I count the minutes. Is Hannah taking Emma to Mom? Will she have time to get to a safe place?
Finally, the hour is up. I call her back, and she answers quickly. “Is it okay now? Can you talk?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she says in a voice just above a whisper. “I left Emma with Mom. I told her I had to run some errands. I’m walking at the park again. I just feel so paranoid, like I’m being watched.”
“Trust me, you are. Where’s your other cell phone?”
“In the car. Do you think they’re bugging it?”
“They want to find me pretty bad. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“Casey, there are some things I need to tell you,” she says, and I can hear her breath bumping as she walks. “The guy who’s looking for you—the one the Pace family hired—is named Dylan Roberts. He came by the house again last night.”
Dread burns like acid in my stomach. I wish I hadn’t eaten. “What did he want?”
“He told me that he was trying to talk to a woman who was a file clerk or something in the police department. She knew Dad, and Brent had interviewed her before he died.”
“Yes, I have the video,” I say. “It was on the thumb drive you sent.”
“He went to talk to her and found her shot dead.”
That acid churns into nausea. Another death. When will this stop? Beads of sweat form over my lip.
“So he thought it was related to his talking to her?” I ask weakly.
“He didn’t think anyone knew he was going.”
“Is this guy Dylan working with Keegan?”
“He’s working for the Paces,” Hannah says, “and he realizes that some things aren’t right. The woman’s death freaked him out. He says he grew up with Brent—they were close friends—and he just wants to know the truth. He hinted that he understands that nothing may be the way it seems. Oh, and get this. He says that he walked up on Keegan and saw him watching the interview that Brent did with the woman.”
I consider that for a moment. If Dylan told Hannah that, then he doesn’t sound manipulative, just truly perplexed. “Do you think we can trust him?”
“Well, no. He’s hired to find you.”
“But I mean, could we trust him with the truth? Is he a decent person? Is he clean?”
Hannah blows out a long sigh. “I don’t know. Honestly, he seems like the kind of person who wants to do the right thing, like he’s really trying to get to the truth. But I’m not always the best judge of character.”
“Maybe I should give the video to him,” I say. “If I could send it anonymously from an e-mail address I create at the library or something . . .”
“If you want to, I’ve got his information. He gave me all his numbers and e-mail.”
It won’t hurt to take the info down, so I have her read it out to me.
“Casey, be careful. If you contact him, it might give them clues about where you are. Even now, just calling me . . .”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I drove out of state to make this call. It’s pinging off towers that won’t lead them to me. This phone isn’t in my name. I’ve only used it for this. Next time I’ll use a different one.”
“You’ve thought all this out. How do you know to do all this?”
“I read a lot.”
“This guy . . . he always seems respectful. I get the feeling that he’s going to do the job he was hired for, but maybe you could trust him to get the truth out. You have to trust somebody if you ever hope to clear your name.”
I don’t tell her that I don’t have a plan to clear my name. I just want to survive. As if she reads my thoughts, she says again, “Casey, you have to tell someone. You can’t let them go on blaming you for this.”
“If they can’t find me, maybe that’s enough to ask.”
“No, that’s not enough! We miss you.” Her voice breaks, and I know she’s crying. Hannah’s usually a rock, and she never cries, so it really hurts to hear it. Her tone morphs into a higher pitch. “We want you to be able to come home. I can’t stand the thought that we’ll never see you again. Mom is so depressed. She’s buying things and cramming them into the house, constantly muttering and touching things. I’m trying to get her to the doctor, but there’s such a long wait for an appointment. The longer this goes on, the worse she’ll get, Casey.”
“I know, but my getting killed or put in prison would be worse for her.”
“It doesn’t have to be one of those. There has to be a way to get the truth out. Maybe a reporter or something.”
“Brent was a reporter.” The reminder strikes her silent for a long moment.
I ask about Emma, and she sniffs through stories of her baby’s latest milestones. I hang on as long as I can, not wanting to break the connection. It feels like my last grip on home, but I know I have to hang up. When I finally do, I cry most of the way back home.
Back in Shady Grove, I look at the video of Sara Meadows again. Yes, it definitely is something that Dylan Roberts should see. Then again, it could be a huge risk to send it to him. Keegan doesn’t know that I have it. If he found out, what would he do? It’s not like he can kill me. If he knew where I was, I’d be dead already.
Still, I have to trust somebody, and at least Dylan Roberts isn’t on the force. He doesn’t have ties to Keegan and his dirty cohorts. He didn’t know my father, but he did know Brent. Maybe he would believe him, even if he doesn’t believe me.
I go to the store and buy a thumb drive. I plug it in to my computer and copy all the information onto it, then I wipe it down to remove my fingerprints. I stop by work on the way home to grab a cardboard cell phone box. I’ll use that to mail it to make it look like a cell phone is coming in the mail. If anybody is watching him hopefully they won’t be suspicious.
I go home and create a business logo that looks professional, then I go by a Wi-Fi café and use their printer to print it out with a fake return address, then tape it onto the outside packaging. Then I drive up to Atlanta, since the postmark can’t be from Shady Grove. I figure Dylan’s already traced me to Atlanta anyway. I get there at midnight and drop it into an outgoing mailbox, hoping it will go out first thing in the morning. Then I head back to Shady Grove. It’s two a.m. when I get there, and I’m tired, but sleep won’t come. I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Brent. He’s dead because of me, and now Sara Meadows is too. How could I have let that happen?
I should have kept the ghosts of my past to myself. I got too close to Brent, felt too comfortable. I drank wine with him one night over dinner, and my walls came down. I told him things I’d held close for years. I should have kept them buried.
His blood is on my hands. I’ll never be able to get justice for myself or my dad, but at least I’ve learned something. I won’t be that vulnerable again or put anyone else at risk. I won’t let anyone else inside the blast zone of my ticking bomb. And I’ll never let alcohol steal my judgment again.
I just hope I can stick to that plan. My love of people makes keeping a distance hard for me. It would be so much easier if I could stand being alone.
28
DYLAN
The explosion deafens me. The earth quakes, and a gust of hot wind knocks me back. I find myself crawling on all fours, searching for Tillis or Unger. I find Unger dead, his legs blown off. I scream for help, but no one comes. I see another IED planted just yards away, right where my commanding officer is running. I scream out Nooooo! and launch that direction to tackle him before he can reach it, but the distance grows longer and longer, and I can’t quite close the gap between us. The bomb goes off and we both go flying.
I sit up suddenly, blasted by the air-conditioning in my dark bedroom. My heart beats wildly, and I’m drenched with sweat. Then I realize I’m not in my bed. I’m on the floor against the wall. My hands are bloody and shaking. It was another bad dream, a flashback to that day when it seemed everybody I knew was in bits and pieces, scattered over the Afghan terrain.
How did my hands get bloody? I look around. There’s a broken glass shattered on the floor. I must’ve crawled through it. I will my hands to stop shaking as I get up and turn on the lamp. I pull the shards out, then try to clean the wounds.
I need to see my therapist as soon as daylight comes.
I watch TV, hoping to distract my brain from the terror. Andy Griffith plays for hours until the sun finally comes up. At eight o’clock I call Dr. Coggins. “Doc, this is Dylan Roberts. I need to see you,” I say to her voice mail. “Please, can you get me in today? It’s important.”
I hang up, feeling unheard, but in fifteen minutes she calls me back. “Dylan, I can get you in at ten. Can you be here then?”
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
I take a shower, washing off the dried blood, but I can’t make my hands stop shaking. Sara Meadows’ death has dragged me back in the wrong direction. Regression, Dr. Coggins will say. Maybe I should tell the Pace family that I can’t continue this work. Maybe I can’t continue any work, ever.
I go and sit in my therapist’s office and tell her about the dream, about finding Sara Meadows dead, about my search for a murder suspect. She calms me down, as always, reads me Scripture, prays over me. It’s why I chose her, a shrink who believes in Christ and the spiritual warfare that goes on around me, adding to the memories of physical warfare still replaying in my brain. She understands the science of PTSD, but that’s not all that matters to her. She makes me describe the worst hour of my life again, then two more times, forcing me to remember details. It’s called cognitive repetition therapy, and it’s designed to make my subconscious stop vomiting up the images in my sleep. If I can go there awake, maybe someday I won’t have to go there in my dreams.
“You’re making progress, Dylan,” she says when we’re almost done.
“How do you figure that?”
“You called me. You came here. You cooperated. You want to get better. That’s a huge step.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t want to be disabled for the rest of my life. I’m thirty years old.”