They searched the whole room but still didn’t find an answer.
Chapter 43
THE MINUTE I SAID HENRY’S NAME, his head whipped up, his face briefly illuminated by the moonlight. Dressed in shorts and a dark-stained shirt, he looked nearly as exhausted as I felt. He was also shifted awkwardly to one side, his right hand pressed against his left ribs.
“Telly. You stupid son of a bitch.” Henry never did like me. Now I continued to search him for signs of a weapon. Both hands, however, appeared clear. So why had he come back to the house? I wondered. Unless, of course . . .
“I didn’t kill them,” I said.
“Like hell—”
“I didn’t kill them!”
I screamed the words. At least, I tried to. I think what might’ve come out was more choked with tears. Frank and Sandra. Sandra and Frank. My first and only real parental units. It would’ve worked. I know it would’ve worked. Except now . . .
Henry was still standing there, growling at me.
I did us both a favor. I rose to full height. Gave him a clear target, in case he had a handgun tucked unseen in the small of his back. Why not? And I said: “I know your mother’s secret. I was there when she met with your grandfather. I know what’s going on here.”
He didn’t answer, nor did he reach behind himself. If anything, he pressed his right hand tighter against his side, swaying slightly on his feet.
“Did you join them?” I pressed. “Are you part of this other family now?”
“I would never—”
“You betrayed her! Your grandfather told her. I was right there in the house when he tried to warn her. What did you do, Henry? What the fuck did you do?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I never met with the old man. You did. You did this . . . all of this!” Henry’s turn to scream at me, but I wasn’t buying it.
“You wanted the money for yourself!”
“What money? What the hell, Telly? Do you have what he wants? Do you understand what’s going on here? My mom . . . I don’t understand. My mom—” Henry’s voice broke off. He dropped his head, sagging hard against the side of the porch.
He sounded angry but also genuinely confused. A flicker of movement, out of the corner of my eye . . .
And then I got it. For the first time. Henry was not alone. There at the end of the drive stood a second figure. From this distance, I had a momentary impression of a heavyset fellow in night-vision goggles. Just as he raised his rifle.
Once last glimpse of Henry, clutching his side.
Where he’d been wounded, I realized. Shot by the same man, most likely the guy from the EZ Gas, who’d handed me the bloody handgun and set all of this in motion. He was supposed to be my target, if only I could find him. Except now . . .
I stood on the roof, totally exposed. The hunter becoming the hunted.
As the man looked straight at me and pulled the trigger.
He didn’t miss.
Chapter 44
BY THREE A.M., Rainie could tell Sharlah was dragging. The girl put up a good fight, sitting at the conference room table, spinning a bottle of water in front of her. Luka was already crashed at her feet, the big dog stretching in his sleep, as if reveling in his slumber.
The third time Rainie caught Sharlah nodding off, she made her decision.
“Come on,” she said, rising to standing. “Shelly has an overstuffed recliner in her office for a reason.”
“I’m okay,” Sharlah mumbled.
“You’re asleep sitting up. If your head hangs any lower, you’re going to give yourself a concussion. Besides, it’s okay to sleep on the job. Look at him.” Rainie gestured to the tracker, who was sacked out in the corner of the conference room, hat covering his face, head on his pack.
“Quincy—” Sharlah mumbled.
“Will be back at any time. Then it’s all official questioning and piles of paperwork. Nothing for you to do anyway. Might as well get some sleep. You can be the lucid member of the family in the morning, because God knows Quincy and I won’t be.”
“Telly—”
“What will happen will happen,” Rainie prodded gently. “There is nothing you can do for him tonight.”
She could tell Sharlah was less than convinced. But Rainie made one last motion with her hand, and Sharlah reluctantly climbed to her feet. Luka came awake instantly, already falling in step beside her as Sharlah picked up her backpack and followed Rainie to the sheriff’s office.
As head muckety-muck, Shelly Atkins got the proverbial corner office. Not huge, but it did offer windows overlooking the back and side parking lots. Better yet, it featured an old, battered gray recliner. Straight out of the nineties, with one corner chewed off and mauve pin-striping, it promised the best hope for snagging a few hours’ sleep.
Sharlah didn’t even bother to recline. She curled up in the threadbare seat and was asleep with her head on the arm in seconds. Luka collapsed in front of the chair. Single sigh, and he was also out like a light.
Rainie paused. She stroked her daughter’s rumpled hair. Marveled at the peacefulness of Sharlah’s features at a time like this.
There was so much they still needed to say to each other. Present issues to resolve. Past issues to unravel.
But she loved this girl, loved her in a way she’d heard about but, even when they’d agreed to foster a child, hadn’t been sure she’d really feel. Sharlah had come to them all rough edges and awkward silences and stubborn defiance. Intent on doing everything she could to put them off.
Instead, Rainie looked at her and saw herself thirty years ago. Was that love or was that ego? She didn’t know. But the more Sharlah attempted to push them away, the more determined Rainie became to keep her close.
She saw the child beneath. She knew that girl. She’d been her once herself.
Someday, as she and Quincy often discussed, Sharlah would be a remarkable young woman. Assuming they all survived that long.
Now Rainie tucked a strand of brown hair behind her daughter’s ear. She kissed two fingers, brought them to Sharlah’s cheek. She wished her daughter sweet dreams, even though for both of them, that was easier said than done.
Then she returned to the conference room, having more work to do and wanting to let her daughter sleep undisturbed. She started once again with the crime scene photos. The Duvall residence, the EZ Gas station. What did they definitely know, and what had they missed?
Phone rang. Once. Hers? Someone else’s? She must’ve dozed off. Groggily she made her way down the hall to check on her daughter.
But Sharlah, Luka, the backpack . . .
Sheriff Atkins’s office was empty.
Sharlah was gone.
Chapter 45
WHEN MY PHONE FIRST RINGS, I’m disoriented. Gotta wake up, late for school. I fumble with my backpack, encountering Luka’s head before I finally grab the strap, pull the pack up onto the chair with me.
More chiming. The generic tone, not one of the personal songs I’ve selected for Rainie or Quincy. This is all the warning I have before I finally get my phone out, tap answer, and hear a strange man’s voice say, “If you want to see your brother alive again, you will bring me what he put in your backpack. Now.”
I freeze. I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. I sit, soundless, motionless, in the dark. In front of me, Luka issues a low growl.
“Bring the dog and I will shoot it,” the man says.
“Who are you?” I ask. I can’t help myself. Stupid question. He’ll never answer it, but I can’t get my brain to function. My brother’s life has been threatened, and I’ve gone stupid.
The man laughs. “Now,” he repeats.
“Wait!” I gotta say something, do something. Think like a profiler. What would Quincy or Rainie do? “How do I . . . Proof of life! Proof that you have Telly. That he’s alive. I need
that.”
Muffled sound. Maybe the phone being passed on the man’s end. Then a voice I do recognize: “Don’t do it,” Telly says. His voice sounds strained. Stressed, I wonder, or hurt?
“Give it back,” the man orders harshly in the background. “Now!”
“Remember Mom,” Telly whispers. Then he’s gone, and I’m left with a man I already don’t like.
“Henry Duvall?” I try now, finally starting to think. Though I pictured Henry as a young guy, and the voice sounds more like an old man to me.
“Is that who the police are looking for?” Short laugh. “Glad to see all my hard work wasn’t in vain. Nah. Henry’s a little busy right now. Bleeding to death. But not before he led me back to his parents’ house, straight into the arms of your brother. ’Fraid I got the drop on him, too. Youngsters these days. Spend all their time shooting up the bad guys on video games. Then hesitate when it matters in real life. Come on, now. According to your brother, you have what I want, and you’re gonna hand it over before more people get hurt.”
“I can’t drive,” I say, because honestly, that’s all I can think of right now. Not will I meet this person, nor will I hand over Telly’s secret, but how can I do such a thing.
“Brother says you know the library.”
“Yeah.”
“Not that far a walk from the sheriff’s department. Be there in twenty.”
“But—”
“Be there in twenty.”
Then the phone blinks off. Call ended. I’m back to being alone in the dark.
“Luka,” I whisper.
He whines, licks my face.
“Luka,” I say again. Then I throw my arms around his neck and hold him close, because I’m going to need his strength and training for what will happen next.
—
TELLY TAMPERED WITH MY BACKPACK in the woods. He didn’t just get out a bottle of water, he added to the contents. I knew it at the time, felt the shift in weight. And he knew that I knew. But I didn’t ask any questions, because I didn’t want to know what I didn’t want to know. Then later, with Rainie keeping me so close, there simply wasn’t the time to inspect my pack and confront the obvious.
Now I unzip the main compartment. I eye the heavy metal object I’ve been expecting to see. A handgun. The handgun, I suppose, used to kill those people at the EZ Gas. Then hidden in my pack by my brother, who couldn’t afford to be found with it on his person.
And now the caller wants it back again?
I don’t understand. Who is this guy anyway, especially if he isn’t Henry Duvall? And why does he want his gun again?
I reach in with a pencil. I hook it through the trigger guard, like I’ve seen them do in cop shows, and, very gingerly, I pull the weapon out. I eye the open door, willing Rainie not to appear as I inspect my find. It is what I expected, and yet . . .
Why would some guy be holding my brother hostage for this? A handgun is not a key to twenty million dollars.
Then, all of a sudden, I get it. My own foolishness. Telly needed to part with the gun, sure, but he also used it as a red herring, its obvious weight disguising what he really needed to hide. What, most likely, he expected me to find, maybe even turn over to my law enforcement parents, except I was too busy being hurt by my brother’s rejection to inspect what he left behind in my pack.
Now I peer back inside the main compartment. Beneath the half-empty bottle of water and granola wrappers, I see what I was meant to see hours ago. Small, innocuous, and, yeah, most likely the key to tens of millions of dollars.
It takes me another five minutes. Creeping around the sheriff’s office, firing up Shelly’s computer, belatedly doing my homework. But while I might be slow, I’m not a total idiot.
I can read a computer screen. And I understand now the full danger my brother is in.
The mystery caller is smart: The library is a good meeting place. Only a six-block walk. Deserted this time of night. The parking lot surrounded by enough bushes and trees to cover up a secret meeting.
I guess that’s good. Disturbances would be bad. Maybe goad the man into shooting Telly and/or me? Or maybe he will kill us anyway. I don’t know the man’s true identity, let alone what he’s capable of.
I’m going to go. Does that make me stupid?
Or are the events to come simply . . . inevitable?
My father’s beet-red face, bulging eyes, as he chased Telly and me with the bloody knife. Eight years apart, and now, here we are again. Another madman. Another night of do-or-die.
Remember Mom, Telly said.
I do.
I pull Luka close. I whisper in his ear, fiddle with his collar.
Then I slip the awful handgun in the back waistband of my shorts, sling my backpack over my shoulders, and tiptoe down the rear stairwell.
Luka has his instructions, I have mine. Library, here I come.
—
I START TO FEEL ANTSY within a block of the target. The Bakersville County Library is a two-story building with a yawning foyer and some clock tower thingy. The tower looks really cool, but it strikes me now as the perfect place to stand with a high-powered rifle. Maybe the caller is already watching me through the scope. What is to stop him from simply pulling the trigger, then grabbing my backpack?
I don’t know. I’m nervous and scared and . . . exposed. I miss Luka, always trotting by my side. But I’m also grateful he’s not here with me, because if the guy really is watching me from the clock tower . . .
I couldn’t bear for Luka to get hurt.
Besides, he can’t be here for this moment. Eight years ago, Telly and I didn’t have a pet.
I slow as I arrive at the street corner across from the library parking lot. Strain my ears for the sound of something, anything.
The streets are empty. Up ahead, a traffic light goes from red to green without any audience. Bakersville is hardly a busy place during the day, let alone this time of night.
Crossing the street, I have a small moment of inspiration. I unsling my pack, then turn it so it hangs from my shoulders in front of me. Now my torso has a makeshift shield. Shoot the pack, risk damaging Telly’s secret.
I would like to feel brilliant, but mostly I’m forcing some guy I’ve never met into taking a head shot. I’m pretty sure Quincy and Rainie would have a better master plan than that, but at the moment this is the best I can do.
Parking lot. I slow, approach the turn-in. There are lampposts in the lot. At least, that’s my memory. But either he’s done something to tamper with the bulbs or the lights automatically turn off, because currently the expanse is completely dark. I search the space, my eyes already adjusted to the lack of light, but I can’t make out anything.
Once again, my gaze goes up. Studying the roof, the clock tower.
Remember Mom, Telly said.
I do, I do, I do.
And I wish I had one moment in time to go back, hug Rainie, and tell her I’m sorry.
Ahead it is.
I walk through the trees now, easing in and out of the border plantings. I’m here, I’ve done as instructed. Next step is his problem, but I don’t want to be any bigger of a target than I already am.
Then, just as I’m getting close to the front doors of the library:
“Stop.”
The man’s voice is behind me. I turn, making out the shape of a truck in the rear corner of the parking lot. Maybe a man is standing beside it. Hard to tell from this distance.
“Set down the pack,” he says.
I don’t move.
“Set it down and get out of here, or I’ll shoot you and your brother both.”
I still don’t move. He definitely sounds like an old guy, but who?
“Did you hear me—”
“I want to see him. I’m not doing anything till I see him.”
Sil
ence. My turn to wonder if he heard me. My back is very sweaty now. And my shoulders twitchy.
“Listen, girl—”
“There’s a rain gutter here. Probably dumps into the ocean. I don’t know, but this close to the coast, wouldn’t you think?” I hold up a small metal object. I don’t know if he can see it in the dark, but I don’t care. “Show me my brother, or down the drain it goes.”
“You little shit—”
“Show me my brother.”
Sigh. I recognize the tone. Another adult clearly not happy with me. If I weren’t so terrified, I would feel proud of myself.
The sound of a vehicle door creaking open. Then:
“Sharlah.”
Telly. His voice sounds awful. He’s hurt, I think. The man hurt my brother.
“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
“Good enough,” he says, but I already don’t believe him.
“Henry?” I ask, still trying to understand.
“Come toward me,” the man orders now, interrupting.
“No.”
“Then I shoot—”
“And down the drain it goes!” My turn to interrupt, equally hostile. “Shoot my brother, shoot me, step left, step right, down the drain it goes. The key to twenty million dollars, right? That’s what this is all about. Twenty million dollars. It is a lot of money,” I assure him. “Would be a shame to lose it now.”
The man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. I can feel his rage and frustration from here. Welcome to oppositional defiant disorder, I want to tell him. If this is how you feel now, imagine my poor parents, who have to deal with it every day.
“You don’t know—”
“It’s a thumb drive,” I interrupt. “I know thumb drives. And how to stick them in computers and how to read them. She moved the money, didn’t she? Sandra Duvall took the twenty million dollars out of her father’s account and used it to start a foundation. The Isabelle R. Gemetti Foundation. Is that her mother? She’s going to use the money to help other women like her mom? Because that would be ironic, right? I know irony, too. Just like I know rain gutters.”