If I'm Found

  But it’s different with Dylan somehow. I lean back on the couch and look up at the ceiling as if I can see God’s face there, and I ask him, “Is this from you, God? Did you send him for me?”

  The thought that he may have makes me feel that, just maybe, God does see me and love me. That maybe there truly is a living Savior who sits at the right hand of God and intercedes for us, just as the preacher said in church.

  I get up and scurry around the room, straightening up, trying to keep myself busy. In the bathroom, I check my makeup and brush my teeth. I feel like wiping off what’s left of my eyeliner, showing Dylan who I really am, looking like myself for the first time in days. After all, I’m not going anywhere tonight, so maybe it’s okay if he sees me as I am. But as I’m reaching for a tissue, I hear a car door in the parking lot. I go look out the window.

  I jump when I see who’s getting out of the car, bumping a table and toppling a glass that falls and breaks on the floor.

  Gordon Keegan and Sy Rollins are getting out of Keegan’s red Jaguar and heading for the motel office.

  47

  DYLAN

  Casey said she likes the salads at Chick-fil-A, so I walk a block to get her one and throw in a piece of cheesecake for good measure. I walk back to the motel, looking forward to eating a meal with her. But as I round the building, I see Keegan and Rollins coming out of the motel office and heading to the staircase. I step back behind the building where I hope they won’t see me, and I quickly call Casey. Her phone rings to voice mail, which she hasn’t set up yet. I text her, Keeg&Roll on their way up!

  But I don’t know if she sees it. I watch them approach her door. How did they find her? I have to do something. My mind races. I could run up and distract their attention, pretend I found her in another hotel down the street. Or I could say she was here but she saw me and escaped. I’m still trying to come up with something when they draw their weapons and use a key card to open the door.

  Suddenly my phone shakes.

  Got out back window.

  I close my eyes and whisper, “Thank you, God.” While they’re in her room, I run to my car, back out, and take the closest exit from the parking lot. As I pass the Super 8, I check—her car is not in the parking lot. She must have gotten to it.

  I text her and ask where she is, but she doesn’t answer, so I drive around and try to work out in my mind what just happened. After an hour, I go back to the motel. The detectives’ car is gone, so I jog up to my room and get my stuff.

  My laptop was still in Casey’s room when they went in. If they got it, would they be able to see that I’ve emailed her? I compulsively empty my cache, but I could have left the Yahoo account open.

  I pray Casey got out with it, but it’s doubtful.

  My mind careens from one thought to another. They were there without a local police escort, a breach of protocol. If they’d intended to simply arrest her, they would have notified the local police and made the arrest together with them. The fact that they did it alone tells me how close Casey just came to death.

  And if they found her here, will they find her again? Is it possible they saw her in Shreveport today and had her followed? It seems unlikely. If they’d seen her when she drove to the police station, things would have ended differently. I was watching out the windows the whole time I was in her car.

  Then I wonder if it was simpler than that.

  What if they’re tracking me?

  I pull over and look under my car for a tracking device. I don’t see anything. I get back in and think. Then I look down at my phone—the one they know about.

  If they had it tapped, they could have used it as a microphone to listen to my conversations. I don’t think that’s what happened, because they want me off the case, and they could have used the tapes of my conversations to get me fired by now . . . and even arrested. Or I would have had a tragic, mysterious “accident” myself. If they were listening in, they would have made sure I was with Casey when they arrived at the motel, so they could take us out together.

  So maybe they’re only tracking my phone’s location. That can be done pretty easily with an app, and they wouldn’t have had to get a judge or the department involved. Yes, that has to be it. And if that’s all it is, it’s possible that they don’t yet realize I’m working with her. They could just be following me as I hunt her.

  Whatever the case, this phone is dangerous. I have to get rid of it right away.

  48

  CASEY

  I drive, not knowing where I’m going, wondering how Keegan and Rollins found me. I must have slipped up somewhere, done something wrong. Or maybe Dylan did. If they found me once, they will find me again. I’m trembling, and I know I’m going to have to get rid of this car soon, since they might figure out I parked at one of the nearby motels and get the video from the Super 8’s security cameras. But if I get rid of it, then what will I do? I don’t have time or money to buy another car, and I need transportation. I can’t just expect Dylan to take care of me from here on out.

  I try to calm myself. When I saw them getting out of their car and going into the office, that gave me time to grab the two laptops and our papers and throw them in my bag. I went out the back window, which was on the second floor, and I jumped to the ground. I hurt my ankle when I landed, but I kept going anyway. Now my ankle is swelling.

  Dylan’s text calms me. At least I know he wasn’t caught, and we haven’t lost contact. I just have to figure out where to tell him to meet me.

  My mind races and anxiety is rising. I feel the world pressing in, and I try to think how to push it back. I hit I-30 going east. If my time is short, then what should I do next? I’ve already given Dylan all the evidence I’ve found, but it’s on his computer—on the seat next to me. I have to get it to him. But time is running out for me to help bring justice for Cole and Ava, and that’s important too. If I leave town, this evil will prevail. If God is with me, if he’s watching me, if he cares enough to send Dylan, then he cares about Cole’s family and Ava too. Maybe he will help me expose the Trendalls.

  Dylan texts me finally. Where can we meet?

  Lake Ron Hubbard at 9:00, I type back. At the Watershed Marina. I have laptops.

  He texts back, Thank God.

  That allows me enough time to go by the Trendalls’ so I can get a look at their vehicles and see if there’s any evidence on them that they ran Cole off the road. I get to their house. The porch light is on. The garage door is open. Their van is sitting in the driveway, and it doesn’t have any dents from what I can see. The white truck I’ve seen there is gone. Suddenly, the van’s headlights come on and it starts backing out.

  My heart jolts. Have they seen me?

  I fly around the corner and speed up as I race away. I drive back to the interstate, zigzagging in and out of cars in case their van is behind me. All I see in my rearview mirror are dozens of headlights. I think I’m safe. I slow to the speed limit so I don’t draw the highway patrol’s attention, and I head for Lake Ron Hubbard.

  49

  DYLAN

  Before I get on I-30, I find an eighteen-wheeler parked at a nearby truck stop and duct tape my phone that Keegan is probably tracking to the undercarriage. Now he’ll think I’m going wherever that truck is heading.

  I follow the GPS on my burner phone to Lake Ron Hubbard, then Google the dock where Casey told me to meet her and follow the directions. As I cross a spillway bridge, I see Casey’s car just a few vehicles ahead of me. Relief floods through me. They haven’t gotten to her yet.

  I pass the person in front of me. Now there’s nothing but a gray van between us. I turn off my GPS since I don’t need route guidance from here.

  Suddenly the van in front of me swerves into the passing lane and accelerates quickly, drawing even with Casey and sideswiping her car. She jerks toward the bridge rail, then rights herself. The van moves over again, scraping her good, sparks flying as metal grates metal. They’re trying to push her over, and they just might
succeed—she’s up against the rail with nowhere to go.

  I lay on my horn and stomp my accelerator, ramming the van’s bumper. Casey slams on her brakes and the van turns sideways. Cars screech to a stop behind me. I back up and go around the van, getting between them and Casey’s car.

  Who are they? Keegan and Rollins were in Keegan’s red sports car, not a gray van. They must have others in Dallas helping them.

  I turn my car sideways on the bridge to prevent them from reaching her, but the van turns around, then screeches back the way we came across the bridge and out of sight.

  Cars are coming, so I move my car in front of Casey’s and back up toward her, my emergency lights blinking. Someone will call the police soon if they haven’t already. I get out and run back to her car, try to open the door. “Casey!”

  Her door’s bent and she can’t get out. I run around to the passenger side and get it open. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” she says, but I’m not sure she is.

  “Get out,” I say. “Can you climb across?”

  She hands me her bag and I take it. It’s heavy, and something clunks inside. I slide the strap over my head, then help her climb out. Her shoulder must be hurting. She’s holding her arm close to her body, and she’s limping. I help her to my car and get her in, then I run around to my side. My car is still running, so I shift it into drive and go.

  I get off the bridge and mix into the traffic as I hear sirens.

  “They almost killed me, just like they did him,” she says.

  “Brent?”

  “No!” she cries. “That was . . . the Trendalls. I went by their house to see if their car was dented . . . and they saw me and followed . . .”

  I want to go after them, but more than that I want to get Casey to safety. “Do you need a hospital?”

  “No. I’m fine. Just . . . don’t go to the dock. Don’t go anywhere I’ve been before. Just go . . . somewhere else.”

  She’s breathing hard. There’s blood on her temple, and a knot forming there. She’s still holding her arm carefully.

  “I got the computers and papers,” she says. “They didn’t get anything back at the motel. But how did they know I was there?”

  “I think they were tracking my phone, so I got rid of it.”

  I drive, not sure where to go. I probably should pull over and check my car. I can tell one of my headlights is broken, and the front end is dented. But the car seems like the safest place for Casey right now, so I drive into the darkest part of the night until I’m sure no one is behind us.

  50

  CASEY

  Tell me about those people in the van,” Dylan says. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  I tell him again about my finding the Bible and getting a job where Cole worked, about my talking him off the bridge and going to the media. “Cole is dead now, and I know he didn’t kill himself. I feel responsible.”

  “Just because you told the Trendalls he was suicidal?”

  “Yes! I was trying to help and I made everything worse. The least I can do is make sure they don’t get away with it. Those poor kids. Thinking their dad killed himself just when things were getting better. And little Ava, being so scared . . . and that sleazy man . . .”

  He’s quiet for a long moment, and I watch the headlights illuminating and darkening his face. I wonder if he’s thinking what a fool I am.

  He reaches across the seat and takes my hand. It quiets me, and suddenly I can’t think about anything except his thumb stroking my skin. His eyes shimmer as he looks straight ahead. “You’re the best person I know.”

  My heart hitches. I look down at his hand and fight the tears. I feel my trembling subside as gratitude falls over me, and with it, a stunning calm.

  “We’re going to Wichita Falls,” he says after a moment. “It’s about a hundred miles from Dallas. I’ve been there before. It’s big enough that we can easily find a place to stay, and small enough that it might not be the first place they’d think of to look for you.”

  “If he knows you’re involved with me, don’t you think they’ll be looking for your car?”

  “Yeah, but I may have thrown them off track. I taped my phone to an eighteen-wheeler. He’s probably headed somewhere on I-20. That’ll keep them busy for a while.”

  “Do you think they’ll do an APB or something?”

  “You mean a BOLO? Be on the lookout? No, I don’t think so. I think they’re going rogue. There were no police escorts with them at the motel. Just the two of them. I’m sure they used their badges to get the cooperation of the motel manager, who probably showed them a surveillance video of you checking in, but I don’t think they’re wanting this to be a police-wide effort. They don’t want anyone else apprehending you and getting your story.”

  “That’s something. But what if the manager recognized me and called them?”

  “Again, he would’ve called local police, not two Shreveport detectives’ personal cell phones. No, I think it was my phone.”

  “When you went back into the department after I left Shreveport, did Keegan say anything to you about me?”

  “No, but he had this look.” I can see the wheels turning in his head. “But the other night, same night you saw Keegan in Dallas, I found Rollins in a bar in Marshall. I didn’t get a lot out of him, but I guess I got his trust. Little while later, he gets a DUI driving home, and he calls me to bail him out. He tells me that Keegan doesn’t trust me, but he—Rollins—does.”

  I look at him. “Keegan doesn’t trust you? He knows?”

  “I don’t know how much he knows. Just that he’s suspicious. Probably enough to keep close tabs on me. Or maybe he just thought I had a better chance of finding you than he did, especially when I headed to Dallas. I think we’re okay. Your car is ditched. My phone is gone. I know this car isn’t bugged or tracked. But just in case, I’ll get a rental car when we get to Wichita Falls.”

  “Won’t they track your credit card? Rental car companies won’t take cash. I could buy a car on Craigslist. I’ve done it before with cash and there are no questions. But I’m running low.”

  “I have some cash,” he says. “Brent’s dad gave me some for travel. I guess this qualifies.”

  “He gave it to you to hunt for me.”

  “I look at it differently. I think he gave it to me to find Brent’s killers and bring them to justice. That’s what we’re doing.”

  I stare at him for a long moment, taking in the myriad emotions packed into the expression in his eyes. “Do you feel guilty? Deceiving them?”

  “Sometimes. But Brent would want this.”

  I swallow. “Yeah, he would. I never should have told him about my dad. I never should have opened up. I’m not a drinker. I hardly ever drink, because I don’t like to lose control. But one night we had dinner and I had some wine, and it loosened me up, and he got me talking about my dad’s death and all that happened.”

  “And he latched onto it like a dog with a bone? That was Brent. I remember when we were around twelve or so, he developed an interest in the JFK shooting, and he spent a year reading everything he could get his hands on, culling out every conspiracy theory. He even talked his parents into taking us to Dallas that summer so he could walk on the grassy knoll and figure out where everything happened. He was convinced he was going to get to the bottom of the shooting.”

  I smile. “That sounds just like him. Did he?”

  “He finally agreed with what the government concluded. Once he was satisfied, he wrote this long report in history class for extra credit and moved on to something else. Guess he was a born journalist.”

  “That’s how he was with this, and honestly, the more he found out, the more grateful I was. I really thought he might find the evidence I needed to take down the people who killed my dad. And that morning, he called me, so excited. He said he had something for me, that he’d put the flash drive in the mail to me, but he couldn’t wait so he wanted me to come by. I went by on my lunch hour .
. . and that was when . . .” My voice falls off.

  “Yeah,” I say. “They must have found out what he was doing. He had probably just done that interview with Sara Meadows.”

  “And somehow they knew I was going to find him.”

  “They knew somehow that he’d called you. They may have tapped his phone. Or maybe they would have set up whoever found him—didn’t have to be you. His mom, his cleaning lady, a coworker . . . We may never know that.”

  “They’re bloodthirsty animals,” I whisper. “They have to be stopped.”

  He squeezes my hand, then strokes it with his thumb again. “They will be,” he says. “I promise you that.”

  51

  CASEY

  We get to Wichita Falls, and I wait in the car as Dylan goes into the office and gets us a suite with two bedrooms. At first I worry about the intimacy of sharing a suite, and I tell him so, but he insists that he’s not leaving me alone tonight. He wants to stand guard. After he gets the key, we drive through a fast-food place and get some salads, then go to our suite. It’s a small suite with a tiny sitting area and a TV, but there are two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I suddenly feel so tired.

  When we put our things down, he grabs my hand and leads me to the couch. He sits on the coffee table, facing me. “You’ve hurt your arm or your shoulder, and your ankle is swollen like a bowling ball. Let me see.”

  I put my foot on the table next to him, and he examines it. “Was this from jumping out the window?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s okay. I’ll put some ice on it.”

  “I’ll get you some. What about your shoulder?”