Right Behind You

  Vomit. It came to Quincy again, the detail that had niggled at him earlier. The boy had vomited outside the EZ Gas, but not here, in the Duvalls’ home. If the boy was squeamish about murder, shouldn’t the first round of shootings have bothered him more than the second?

  Unless Telly had been in a dissociative state the first time around. That was possible. Something set him off. Triggered that explosive temper. He acted. Then reacted. Stealing guns, truck, supplies. Probably driven by panic. What have I done? Must get away.

  Tearing out of the driveway in his foster father’s truck. Driving . . . anywhere. Until the truck overheated and he found himself on foot. And realized for the first time just how much trouble he was in.

  Perhaps that was when he transitioned. Killing the Duvalls had been impulsive. But now, standing roadside in the unbearable heat, Telly must’ve understood the full implications of his actions. No more doubt. In the zero-or-hero debate, Telly had his answer. And having resolved the debate, he was now doing what killers did best.

  Quincy lifted the mattress. Searched under the bed. He moved the bureau, the desk, searched for loose floorboards. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Then, a light rap on the door frame.

  Cal Noonan was standing there.

  “You’d better see this.”

  —

  “TENT’S MISSING. Sleeping bag, a larger backpack would be my guess. You can see this corner was where Frank Duvall stored his gear. Now it’s at least half-empty.”

  Quincy stood in the garage with Cal and Shelly. The tracker did the talking. Both Quincy and Shelly nodded.

  “I also went to the basement to check out the gun safe. Which got me thinking: Shooters have a lot of gear, too. Table for setup, safety glasses, ear protection, gun-cleaning kits, and, of course, duffel bags for carrying it all to the shooting range. I found a folding table and some protective eye and ear wear. But duffel bag, gun-cleaning kit. I’m not seeing it.”

  “Telly took a fair amount of supplies,” Shelly murmured. She frowned. “None of which we found in or around Frank Duvall’s truck.”

  “Exactly. At this point, we’re talking too much gear for him to have stashed it all behind a tree. I’m thinking he must’ve already delivered it somewhere, before the truck overheated.”

  “A base of operation,” Quincy said.

  Cal nodded. “Bad news being he’s much better prepared than we thought.”

  “And the good news?” Shelly asked dryly.

  “It’s gotta be someplace local, right? And having a camp, the kid won’t go as far. He’s not just running away. He’s got a home base. That can help us.”

  “We found camera footage of Telly driving through downtown around seven thirty this morning,” Shelly said. “There appears to be a large black duffel bag in the back of the truck.”

  “Puts his base camp somewhere north of town,” Cal said. “Next question being, does Telly have a favorite place? Maybe a campsite he’s used before? Favorite shooting range?”

  “Most of the locals shoot at a clearing in the woods,” Shelly supplied. “But it’s too exposed for camping.”

  Quincy spoke up. “Rainie did a quick search on the Duvalls. Sandra posted regularly on Facebook, including photos of Frank and Telly heading out on various outdoor adventures. There might be mention of campsites, fishing holes on the Facebook page. Or enough imagery in the background to identify where they’re at.”

  “Would he go someplace he associates with his foster father?” Shelly asked. “He did just shoot the man.”

  “He’d go where he feels comfortable,” Cal said. Quincy nodded his agreement.

  “By now, Telly knows what he’s done,” Quincy stated. “And in between his bouts of rage and self-loathing, there’s also fear. There’s no coming back from this. He’ll need moments to regroup. He can only do that someplace he feels safe.”

  He didn’t bother to add that if they got really lucky, Telly would use one of those moments to put an end to his fear and loathing once and for all. One pull of the trigger, and Telly Ray Nash would never have to wonder who he was ever again.

  Though Sharlah’s wondering would be just beginning.

  “We should check with people who knew the Duvalls,” Quincy recommended. “Better yet, a hunting buddy, fellow gunmen. They should be able to provide a list of Frank’s preferred locations.”

  “His son might know,” Shelly said. “Odds are Frank must’ve taken Telly on some of the same adventures he once shared with Henry. Henry might also know exactly which pieces of camping gear are missing.”

  Quincy nodded. “Also give you an excuse to question him again, without arousing too much suspicion.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  “One more thing,” Cal said. He shifted from foot to foot, for the first time appearing uncomfortable. “There’s a stack of cardboard boxes on the other side, marked with Telly’s name. They seem to be filled with old pots and pans, some household items. Inside, I also found a metal lockbox. Too new to be a resale item. Which made me curious.”

  Cal held up the box now. Twisted the latch. The lid sprang open, revealing four single items.

  Photos, Quincy realized. Similar to ones he’d seen earlier. Sharlah walking with Luka by her side. Sharlah at the front of their house. But a different shirt, he realized now. Different photos, taken on a different day than the ones recovered from Telly’s cell phone.

  Telly Ray Nash had definitely been stalking his younger sister. Furthermore, these photos had an added element: On every single picture, centered over Sharlah’s face, he’d drawn crosshairs.

  After photographing his sister, Telly had turned her into a human target.

  Chapter 24

  LUKA IS SPLASHING AROUND IN THE RIVER, trying to find the stick I just threw to him. I already had my turn in the water. Parked my bike under a tree and waded right in, fully clothed. It’s that hot out. The river, in contrast, feels like rushing ice, gurgling over rocks and around fallen tree limbs. It’s the best feeling in the entire world.

  We haven’t made it far. A couple of miles? But the heat . . . Luka started to tire almost immediately and I wasn’t that far behind. Then I started to worry about the temperature of the road surface against the pads of Luka’s feet. Which meant we needed to get off the road. Except the soft, grassy shoulder made for even tougher going on my bike. My face started dripping sweat. Dripping.

  Finally, I veered off into the woods. I could hear water and that was enough for me. I got off my bike and walked it into shaded bliss.

  Now here we are. All grand plans and minimal execution.

  Luka is happy. And I’m . . .

  I don’t know what I am. Confused. Stupid. Messed up.

  Guilty.

  Rainie and Quincy are probably out looking for me. Maybe one of them is searching the woods behind the house, the other driving all over town. They’ll be worried. Rainie’s face will show the strain, though she’ll keep moving, gun tucked in the waistband of her capris.

  Quincy, his face will appear stern, unforgiving. He’ll look angry, because that’s his worried face. It took me a good year to figure that out.

  What makes you a family?

  In the foster system, there’s a lot of talk on the subject. Especially from the family counselors. They work with the prospective parents to set expectations (I know because one of my many failings is my tendency to eavesdrop): The child will arrive a total train wreck. While you see yourselves as providing a loving home, remember the child just had to leave another household to come here. It’s not unusual for the child to be sad or angry or fearful. But don’t panic. You know families aren’t built in a day.

  Of course, they have similar lines they like to feed us: Don’t worry if you don’t immediately respond to your new parents. It’s not unusual to feel awkward or strained or uncomfortable. Yo
u have to take the time to get to know one another. But these people care, that’s why they’re taking you in. You know families aren’t built in a day.

  When did Rainie, Quincy, and I become family? I’ve been thinking about it for a good hour, and I still don’t know the answer.

  It definitely wasn’t love at first sight. Rainie at least tried to smile. Quincy was all stern faced and wearing those clothes, of course. You can identify that man as a former fed a mile away. My first thought was that I’d arrived at boot camp, or maybe one step up from a reform school. At least the house was nice.

  Quincy and Rainie started things off by giving me the official tour. Here’s the family room, the kitchen, your bedroom. Let’s help you unpack. Well, that was quick. Now how about dinner?

  Did we talk that first night? I don’t remember. I was angry, I think. Or maybe scared, or both. I’d screwed up at the last home. It’s what I did. Some crazy, stupid idea would come to me, and even though I knew better, I’d do it. Which made me a problem child. At least I didn’t talk much. I actually heard one of the foster units say that. At least this kid is quiet.

  My guess, Rainie made all the conversation that first night. While I counted down to when I’d get to escape to my new room and Quincy, no doubt, wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

  It definitely wasn’t love at first sight.

  In the beginning, they tell you to focus on routine. Set up a daily rhythm, stick to it, and things will feel less strained and more natural. Get up, go to school, come home to Rainie sitting at the table, armed with some kind of healthy snack. Rainie would ask me about my day. I would say nothing. She’d ask me about school. I’d still say nothing.

  Then she’d take my class binder and read the note from my teacher, summarizing my day and outlining my homework. Because impulsive, irrational children can’t be trusted to do their homework on their own.

  I wasn’t allowed up from the table till my homework was done. Something else to resent. But at least Rainie wasn’t a talker. She’d read a book while I plugged away. When I finally finished, she’d proof my work, circle ones I needed to fix, then return to her novel.

  Dinner was a very quiet affair. At a certain point, she and Quincy gave up on me, talked among themselves instead. Little things about a case, do you remember when . . .

  Which started to catch my attention. Because crimes, criminals, how can you not be fascinated by something like that? Besides, as I explained to them one night, I knew all about psychopaths. Welcome to at least half the kids in my class.

  When do you become a family?

  Is it a recipe? So many days together, shared dinners, inside jokes? Or is it a moment? The afternoon Quincy brought Luka home and I realized for the first time that Quincy wasn’t that stern after all—he was nervous. He’d gotten this dog, just for me, and now he was worried he’d screwed up. I wouldn’t like Luka, Luka wouldn’t like me.

  Except for Luka and me, it was love at first sight. I threw my arms around his furry neck and he licked my face and I loved him. Loved him more than I’d ever loved anything. And then, looking up at my foster dad, I realized that some of that love now extended to him, for doing this for me.

  And to Rainie, who was already laughing and sorting through dog toys, almost as big a kid about it as I was.

  Luka made us a family.

  Of course, there was that second or third parent-teacher conference, where my teacher was once again explaining everything I did wrong, all my “challenges,” and Quincy suddenly announced, “I’m not worried about Sharlah’s challenges. Sharlah is a bright, strong, capable girl. Now, you, on the other hand . . .”

  Rainie gave him a lecture about that when we got home. Then she gave him a really big hug.

  How do you become a family?

  The day they announced they were adopting me? I know they wanted more reaction. Maybe I was supposed to cry with relief or throw my arms around them in gratitude. Instead, I just sat there, hands in my lap.

  Because I’m not much of a talker, and in that moment, there were too many words to say. And some of those words were about relief and love and joy.

  But there was also fear.

  Because while I’m still trying to figure out how you become a family, I already know how you lose one. I know exactly what it takes to tear a family apart. Until both your parents are gone. And my brother . . . I don’t even know if he’s my brother anymore.

  The family counselor lady was right: Families aren’t built in a day.

  But they can be destroyed in an instant.

  Luka is back, dripping wet. He drops his stick at my feet, eyeing me expectantly, then giving a vigorous shake. I throw up my hands in protest but still get covered in dog fur and water.

  “Really?” I ask him. “Really?”

  He gazes at me solemnly. Sticks are serious business in his world. For that matter, so is playing in the river.

  I pick up the tree branch but don’t throw it immediately. Instead, I study my dog, my best friend in the entire world.

  “Luka,” I say, my voice as serious as his expression. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Luka doesn’t answer; he’s always been an excellent listener.

  “I mean, Rainie and Quincy are going to be mad. Worse, they’re gonna worry. I don’t want them to feel bad. But I just . . .”

  I just can’t sit around waiting to see what will happen first: my brother attacking and hurting my new parents, or my brother attacking and my new parents hurting him.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I ask Luka. “I don’t even know that much. Not a great plan, if you think about it. But here we are. On the road. Except I don’t know where we’re going or how we’re going to get there.”

  I could consult my phone. Turn it on long enough to check the time. Maybe even look up our position on Google Maps. Better yet, if I could call up a map of all the ATV trails, then figure out how to access them from my position, maybe I could increase the odds of running into my brother. He’s out there somewhere, and certainly sitting around on a random riverbank within miles of my home isn’t helping any.

  Unless, of course, he’s heading toward my house already. In which case, coming from the north he’d have to traverse these woods. Though “these woods” covers a pretty large tract of land. He could be in “these woods” already and unless we actually ran into each other, I’d be none the wiser. Hoping we’ll magically collide doesn’t seem like much of a plan.

  I go back to studying Luka, who’s now lying down and chewing on his stick.

  “If I turn on my phone,” I inform my dog, “they can ping my GPS. At least that’s what they say on the cop shows. ‘Ping so-and-so’s phone.’ I’m not sure exactly how it’s done, but on TV, they always end up with the guy in handcuffs.” Which leads me to a new thought: “Do you think they’d cuff me? I mean, I am a runaway. Maybe Rainie and Quincy will have me charged. Scare me straight, that sort of thing.”

  Luka cocks his head at me, resumes chewing.

  “But what are my choices?” I ask him. “We sit here all day? Until we run out of food, water? And then what? Crawl home with our tails between our legs?”

  Luka’s ears prick up at the word home. His favorite words he understands in English and Dutch. But I’m already shaking my head. I can’t do it. And I don’t mean in a that-would-be-awful sort of way. I mean, I can’t do it. There’s this actual physical resistance inside of me. Like a shard of glass I can’t take out. This is what gets me in trouble. It’s the same rigidity that means I have to do something, even after I’ve been told not to.

  I’m not trying to be stubborn or disobedient. I just . . . There are things I have to do. And things I can’t do. None of my foster parents ever got this. Sure, they’d read my file. Oppositional defiant disorder, anxiety, blah, blah, blah. But none of them truly got it. How it feels to be me.


  Rainie and Quincy did. I could see on their faces, they knew, recognized the symptoms, so to speak, when I got triggered. And they’d back off, give me a chance. Because in these moments, I can’t change course, meaning something else has to give.

  Like now. When I know I should go home. But I can’t.

  I simply . . . can’t.

  So here I am, with my dog, on a fool’s errand. The only choice being will I turn on my phone, or won’t I.

  I do it. Don’t give myself another chance to think. Just power it on. And if someone somewhere is pinging away, then maybe I won’t have to worry about what I can or can’t do for very much longer.

  I tap Safari, launching the Internet browser before I get distracted by anything else. Say, texts from Rainie or Quincy. Or voice mails begging me to come home.

  First up, ATV maps of Bakersville County. I’m in luck; the page loads quickly. The trail network is extensive. On my small phone screen it takes me a bit to figure out where I am on the map in relation to the closest routes.

  It turns out, I’m not that far. Maybe half a mile, following the river through the woods. Now, whether my brother will be on this particular trail, given the wide variety to choose from, is another question entirely. But it’s a start. Something for Luka and me to do.

  I close out of Safari, my hands trembling even though I will them to be steady. Then, of course, I see them: eight new texts. Three new voice mails.

  I already know what they will say. No need to check. Just power down the phone, get on with my great escape.

  Except that shard of glass inside me now has a new target. The messages from my parents. Things I don’t need to check, shouldn’t check, and now absolutely, positively have to see. This is the way it works. This is what it means to be me. I sigh heavily, then open the texts. The first few are what I expected. Sharlah, where are you? Sharlah, please come home so we can talk. Sharlah, we just want to know that you’re safe.

  The second-to-last one is from Rainie. Two words that hit me like a blow to the chest: I understand.

  Nothing more. Nothing less. Pure Rainie.