Convergence

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I don’t know. I may never know.

  But I am here to find out as much as I can.

  It is here, in Three Rivers, where my story will converge with Adelia’s story once more. Adelia possessed a trifold strength, a braid of physical, emotional, and spiritual power. It is that power I hope to carry with me, that I pray I will embody as I assume her name.

  Adelia’s identity is all her own, but while I’m here, I leave behind the old Denilyn and the fear that plagued her. The fear that angers me now. That fear has no place here. While I am here, I am born anew, inspired by the friend now lost to me. And if I return home—when I return home—a part of Adelia will return with me. I hope to carry her spirit with me from now on. For we are indelibly linked, as Sonia Alejandro informed me.

  There is one other reason I’ve taken her name. For reasons still unclear, we both attracted the same man.

  And now I’ve lured him here again.

  Simply by being here.

  Here, where he can’t touch those I love.

  May 12, 2017

  As I lock up the last storage unit, the late afternoon sun bakes my head and shoulders despite the sunscreen I reapplied earlier. I wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead and then make my way to the office, where a swamp cooler offers only a slight reprieve. Mick sits behind the counter, feet propped on the countertop.

  “Bet that water felt good today.” A toothpick hangs from one corner of his mouth.

  “Oh, you’re speaking to me today?”

  He pulls his feet off the counter and straightens on the stool. “Now, don’t be like that.”

  “I’m just never sure which mood I’ll meet when I walk in here these days.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s taken some adjustment. You know Addie was special to me, like a daughter, really. Having you here, using her name, that’s not the easiest thing.”

  I walk over to the small refrigerator Mick keeps behind the counter for employees and pull out a cold bottle of water. I unscrew the cap and then look at him. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t easy. But you know my reasons.”

  He shrugs. “May know them, but that doesn’t mean I agree with them. Anyway, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He squints at me, the leathered skin around his eyes wrinkling. “Nothing.” He shrugs one brown, spotted shoulder.

  “Mick? Is there something you haven’t told me? Something I need to know? Are you ready to tell me what you and Addie were talking about that afternoon?”

  “You take your bottle of water and get on out of here. When I have something to say, I’ll say it.”

  I stare at him a moment, then turn to go.

  “And cover that thing on your head with a hat. I shouldn’t have to look at that.”

  “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.” I toss the comment over my shoulder as I walk out the door.

  “Yeah, and don’t forget it,” he yells after me.

  When I reach the Jeep, my dad’s old Wrangler, I pull a beach towel off the driver’s seat, meant to keep the seat cool, though it didn’t do its job today. I left the luxury of air-conditioning behind when I decided to bring the Jeep rather than the new SUV I had to purchase when the auto body shop finally declared my old one a total loss. But the old Wrangler fits here and it makes me feel like a piece of my father is with me—a measure of comfort I welcome.

  I make the five-minute drive back to the house, hot wind blasting through the open cab. I’m grateful I didn’t forgo air-conditioning when looking for a house to rent. I knew better. As I drive, I wonder what Mick is keeping from me. Maybe it’s nothing. But today he alluded to knowing something, didn’t he? He’s either not ready to share what he knows, or not willing.

  In what way am I “barking up the wrong tree”?

  And why won’t he tell me about the conversation with Adelia? The first time I brought it up, he wrote it off. “You know how many conversations I had with that girl? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But something in his eyes told me he knew exactly the conversation I was referring to. Again, why would he keep what he knows from me?

  Only Mick knows the answers to my questions.

  After a cool shower, I make myself a salad—dinner, such as it is—and take it out to the deck. But after I’ve eaten, I’m restless. Evenings grow long here with little to do and no one to spend time with, unless I count a near deadly trip down the river with the young guides. I lift my arms above my head and stretch my still sore muscles. Then I pick up my dishes and take them back into the kitchen, where I load them into the dishwasher.

  I go to the family room, park on the sofa, and reach for the remote. I turn on the TV and slowly flip through channels. Television is not part of my usual routine either at home or here, and nothing piques my interest. I watch a little of the evening news detailing world events. But I find the news intrusive, an irritant, although I can’t pinpoint exactly why. I finally turn off the TV and relish the silence, or what has to pass for silence in this place where the river doesn’t quiet until late in the season.

  I get up from the sofa and wander through the house, where everything from the decor to the books on the shelf were chosen by and belong to someone else. It’s all become familiar, part of my daily backdrop, but none of it reflects who I am.

  But then, neither do I reflect myself at the moment.

  For the first time since arriving here, the sharp focus I’ve maintained wavers.

  What am I doing here? What made me think I could do this?

  Somewhere in this small, tight valley, Bradley Mathison waits. He will, I’m certain, try again to take me as his own, to take my life for himself. He will have me, one way or another. Nearly seven years in prison and just after his release, a release made possible only by an error, he was already here, watching, waiting, hoping I will die.

  The thought chills me.

  As I wander the rooms of this house that is not my home, my mind wanders too. I must not let it meander. I need something to occupy the open space. I go to the bedroom, where my laptop, untouched since I arrived here, is still in my briefcase. I pull it out and carry it to the table in the kitchen, where I turn it on and wait as it loads.

  I’ve not checked my email since I’ve been here, and tonight is as good a time as any to see what awaits my attention. I click the mail app and scroll through the contents of my inbox, deleting what is mostly junk. Both my university email and personal email come to this inbox, so there are a few general emails from PCU, event announcements and a couple of faculty updates. Then I see an email from Willow’s address sent to my personal email address. Did I give her that address?

  I open the email and quickly scan it.

  Hi Deni,

  I know you’re traveling or away somewhere, but I was wondering if we could talk. I’ve been…

  I look away from the screen. The same sense of irritation I felt when watching the news nags now, but this time understanding accompanies the annoyance.

  Like a sliver under the skin, both the news and now the email are foreign objects that have invaded a place not meant for them.

  I have to focus on my purpose here. I can’t go back, not even mentally. Not yet.

  I close the lid of the laptop.

  Focus. I have to focus.

  I get up from the table and go out to the deck, where the river reminds me why I’m here. I keep my eye on the constant current, moving forward at all times. Never ceasing. The same current that carried Adelia to her final resting place, presumably at the bottom of the reservoir, the reservoir appropriately named Terminus.

  The same current that will carry me as well, either to join Adelia or to another place where peace will finally reign.

  That is why I am here.

  This is who I am for now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Adelia

  May 13, 2017

  When I get to Mick’s property on Saturday, he’s beat me there. The g
ate is already unlocked, and he’s opening the storage units.

  “You’re early.” I put the keys to the locks back into my pocket.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Too hot.” He opens the last unit, then looks down and kicks at the dirt. A small cloud of dust rises. “Gonna be a short season if this keeps up.”

  “You think so? There’s still a lot of snow.”

  “At this rate, it’ll all melt at once. All or nothing.”

  “Cooler weather is forecasted for next week.” My attempt to encourage him seems to fail.

  “We’ll see…” He turns toward the office. “I’ll let you finish up here.”

  I begin pulling rafts and gear out of the units, grateful I’ll spend most of today on the water. Mick had me ride along in rafts guided by others the first few days I was back here. I just observed. The next couple of days I acted as guide, observed one day by Chase, the next day by Daphne.

  This week I’ve had my own raft. The morning safety talk has offered a sense of familiarity—I’m accustomed to teaching others. Having my own raft provides another role I’m used to, one of authority.

  It’s a role I need to remember while I’m here.

  Mathison has no authority over me.

  As I pull the last raft out of the first unit, I’m aware of a vehicle pulling into the lot. Our first rafter of the day, I assume. When I turn and look over my shoulder, a battered pickup truck, circa 1980s, I’d guess, has parked under one of the trees overhanging the fence around the property. A guy gets out then looks around. As his gaze lands on me, I turn away. When I hear the door of the truck slam shut, I glance back and watch as he heads toward the office, my heartbeat racing.

  It’s him.

  He didn’t recognize me. He didn’t. At least that’s what I tell myself. That’s part of the point of having shaved my head. Not only to expose the reminder of the Power that resides within me, but also to give me time…

  I look back at the storage unit, head down.

  I move to the next unit, where I pull the door of it open just enough that I can slip behind it and let it shield me. It makes unloading the gear awkward, but I’m not ready for him to see me.

  He’s followed me again, just as I knew he would. He’s tracked me down. He’s still watching me.

  Always watching me.

  Well, now it’s my turn to watch him.

  What is it they say? Turnabout is fair play?

  When I told Sonia Alejandro of my plan, she balked. “You will not go there. You will not use yourself as bait. I cannot and will not support your involvement in this… scheme. We will find him. But if you lead him away from this area, there’s nothing we can do.”

  By the end of that conversation, she’d agreed to coordinate with law enforcement in Three Rivers. Her last words play on my mind now. “If you’re going to do this, you must do it under the letter of the law. Do you understand? There can be no illegal activity. You are not above the law, Denilyn.”

  I have heeded Sonia’s warning. I will continue to heed her warning, though it may prove more difficult moving forward.

  I will not stalk Mathison the way he’s stalked me. Nor will I threaten him. Rather, I’ve ensured he is watched, both for my own protection and to facilitate the plan I’m here to carry out. Before my arrival, I retained a private investigator. Phil and his people are tracking Mathison. Watching. Waiting.

  Just as Bradley Mathison has done himself for so long.

  Phil’s daily calls keep me informed.

  Once he’d told me Mathison was here, I knew I had him.

  It won’t take long, I’m confident, to enact what I’m here to do. I am familiar, all too familiar, with Bradley Mathison’s pattern. His presence in Three Rivers now, while I’m here, assures me I’m right.

  A few minutes later, I hear voices coming from the direction of the office. I glance over my shoulder again, this time as Mathison and Mick walk out of the office together. I move back behind the door of the storage unit, where I can still see them, but I’m less visible.

  They’re coming my way. What is Mick doing? My fists ball at my sides.

  They stop in front of a pile of rafts and kayaks, just short of the unit I’m unloading. I back up against the wall of the unit, making sure I won’t be seen, my breaths coming in short bursts now. I wait until I hear their voices trailing off in the other direction. Then I step out of the shadow and watch.

  Mick is helping Mathison carry a kayak to his truck. When they reach the truck, they load it onto the rack on the bed. Then Mick slaps Mathison on the back, as if they’re… old friends? Then Mick heads back to the office.

  I recall Ryan telling me that Mathison used to rent kayaks from Mick. But when I mentioned him to Mick that afternoon we met at The Gateway, he didn’t act as if he knew Bradley Mathison. Although, he didn’t act as if he didn’t know him either.

  Something about Mick’s action, that slap on the back, strikes me as odd. More than odd. What is Mick hiding? What is his relationship with Bradley Mathison?

  For reasons not clear to me, I never questioned whether I could trust Mick. I just assumed. Why?

  As Mathison drives off, I head Mick’s way, my feet pounding the dirt of the lot.

  But he turns, looks at me, then shakes his head, the anger I read in his eyes as intense as my own. “Not now, Addie. Not now!” Then he walks away.

  May 19, 2017

  It’s been almost a week since Mathison showed up at Mick’s and almost a week since I’ve spoken with Mick, who has successfully avoided me. What’s Mathison up to? As I pull out of the Ride the Kaweah property following another exhausting day on the river and reach the stop sign at 193, rather than turn right to head back to the rental, I turn left onto the highway. I can’t abide the thought of the empty house and the long evening that stretches ahead, the Kaweah my only companion.

  Though I make the drive through the valley almost daily, it’s always with others as we head to the put-in. This afternoon I’ll make the drive alone, the wind filtering through the open Jeep, the river running alongside the road.

  The restlessness that’s plagued me for the last several days is insistent now. Maybe I’ll go into the park for a quick hike, or maybe I’ll stop before I reach the park’s entrance and grab an early dinner somewhere. I have to do something. Anything other than what I’ve done almost every evening since my arrival here.

  As I drive, the dense foliage along the roadway and the steep hillsides that loom on either side of the river close in. The sense of claustrophobia is nearly suffocating. There is nowhere to go. No escape.

  But there is no need to escape. I’m meant to be here, I remind myself.

  I mentally tick off the days I’ve been here and those still to come. Time is both standing still and running ahead of me. I spent so long hiding, first from Bradley Mathison, then from the memory of him and all that transpired. Now, as I’m waiting for him, it seems he’s the one hiding.

  Or if not hiding, at least he’s no longer following me or even searching for me, it seems.

  Before he showed up here, Sonia let me know they had picked him up and questioned him, but there was no evidence that he was involved in the accident that sent me into the wall of the canyon, the threatening texts I received—those three little letters—or Max’s poisoning. While he confessed he did know where I live, there’s no proof that he ever breeched the wall of the property. He denied any knowledge of my security system or cameras. Of course, his denial means nothing, but I can’t figure out how he’d have known that one corner of the yard where Max was poisoned wasn’t covered by a camera.

  In the same way I had a hard time believing he could have, or maybe would have, hired someone, while he was still incarcerated, to run me off the road, I have a difficult time imagining him connecting with someone from the security company that installed the cameras on my property and manipulating information from them. It’s the only way he could have known where he could enter the yard unobserved.

  T
he person who could manipulate those types of actions would need to possess both cunning and savvy I can’t quite attribute to Bradley Mathison.

  But that thought leads nowhere but to the road of doubt. And I can’t afford to doubt what I’m doing here.

  I was led here.

  Wasn’t I?

  I wait for some type of assurance, a settling of peace or something. But it doesn’t come, so I reassure myself. Bradley Mathison is the only suspect, and he certainly terrorized me and attacked me. Whether the equation adds up or not, as Sonia Alejandro suggested, Mathison is the primary factor.

  I was sure he’d followed me here, that I was his reason for returning to Three Rivers. Now I wonder if he even knows I’m here. If turnabout is fair play, maybe he’s playing me, rather than the other way around.

  Confusion, like the wind, swirls.

  When I spoke with Phil this morning, he said Mathison is staying with his dad and picked up a job at a convenience store outside the park. He’s gone between home and the job but almost nowhere else since his one trip to Ride the Kaweah. In Phil’s words, Mathison is “squeaky clean.” He also said he appears to be a loner and doesn’t seem to have friends here. He kayaked alone after leaving Mick’s last week.

  I wonder again about his relationship with Mick. It looked friendly at least. I will pin Mick down on what he knows about Mathison, eventually.

  As I round a bend in the road, the canopy of trees clears and Moro Rock, that towering monolith, becomes visible. I pull into a turnout where I can look at the rock.

  I may not understand what’s happening, or even exactly why I’m here. But I do know I didn’t make this trip or set this plan into motion on my own. I did none of this of my own accord.