There is probably no one else on Earth I would have said it to in just that way. Matter-of-fact. With most people, I would have found some other, gentler way to say it. A euphemism or an intentional misdirect. Or, more likely, I would not have said anything like that at all. But this is a different conversation. Another sort of man. And my goal is different from anything I could ever have imagined.
I know that I should be concerned that once he is arrested—and I know that, if he lives, he will be—he’ll tell the police everything I’ve told him. On the other hand, though, are they likely to believe him? And, if they do, will they connect this inexplicable admission with me? I don’t think so. Plus, honestly, in this moment, I don’t care.
Whatever reaction I expected from my revelation, though, I don’t anticipate the one I get. He laughs. Full throat. It’s a mirthless sound.
“You’re, like, what? A hit man?” More laughter.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s right.” He quiets some, but not much.
“Someone put a hit on me? That’s rich.”
“No, actually,” I say matter-of-factly, and maybe with more malice than I thought I had around it. “No client. This is a freebie. I just want to see you dead.”
He looks at me a bit before speaking. I can see his Adam’s apple jump in his throat. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t look afraid. “So you’re going to kill me?”
“Oh, probably.” I reflect. Then, “Yes. I would think so.”
I am gratified to see him sit back and blink. It is apparently not the answer he’d been expecting.
“But there are variables,” he says finally. “That’s what you’re implying.”
I think quickly. “Well, death, right? That’s boring. Everybody dies. All of our stories end the same way. Death was always in your future. Yours more than many. The trick, William, is how.”
“How?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you trying to scare me?” He doesn’t look afraid, but he’s not laughing anymore. That’s something.
“Am I?” I consider. “I guess maybe I am. It’s real enough though. Listen, I don’t have to tell you that there are good and bad deaths. You and I? We’ve seen both kinds.”
He nods in agreement. Clearly, I’ve struck a chord. “Yes,” he says. “That’s so.” I try not to think about the pictures he’s seeing. Nothing good comes of thinking about that.
“Now me,” I say, “I’m paid to do it, so generally I make an effort that it be painless.” He kind of snickers. “But I could make an exception in your case if the situation demanded it.”
“Are you threatening me?” The belligerence is back. It is a light in his eye.
“I don’t think that’s the right word,” I say, thinking it through. “I’m probably going to kill you, though that’s not a foregone conclusion. But if you make things difficult, it will go worse.” I hesitate. Letting it all sink in. Hoping it matters. And then, “So Kandra Smithe …”
I let my words fall into a void, resisting the urge to chase them with more words. Letting them flutter and sink under their own weight. Nothing happens for a while, but I coach myself to be silent. There are words in him for me. I can feel them coming. And so I wait. After a while, he starts to talk.
“She was the first one.” His voice is low. I have to strain to hear. It is not shyness. I can identify what it isn’t, but not what it is. He says the words, and then I regard him silently. Without judgment, at least not on the surface. I know he has more to say.
“She was just so very tiny. And perfect. And she looked so soft. And her hair. These beautiful gold ringlets. And that softness. I really just wanted to pet her skin.”
I feel an eruption of tears pulling together inside me. A harvest of tears. A valley of regrets. And I know I don’t want to hear more. Not of this. Though there are things I do want and need to hear. And I’m not even sure why he’s telling me. I’m certain he was not afraid of my threats, even though he knows they weren’t empty. My fear is that he has recognized, at some level, a kindred spirit. He understands I have seen some of what he has seen. I don’t want to be connected with him in that way. My heart strains against it. But I don’t want to lose the ground I’ve gained.
“Where is she, William?” My voice is ragged, though as tender as I can manage. I am the hunter now. And I need to be gentle. I know I am close to getting what I need.
He is quiet for so long; I think maybe he’s not going to answer. And then he does.
“But she’s there, don’t you see?”
“Where?” I don’t quite understand, though a part of me does in an instant. Part of me understands and backs away.
“There in my garden, by the lake.”
“Garden.” I repeat the word. Think back to the rough plot near where I found him with Ashley and my heart sinks. I’m not even sure exactly why, but it plummets down, somewhere in the region of my feet, though I struggle to keep my face expressionless. “Garden. What do you grow there?”
“Flowers.” He laughs again. A small, soft laugh, devoid of mirth.
I imagine the feeling of the Bersa in my hand. The cold heat of her. I imagine the weight of Atwater dying, right here, right now. Imagine the weight of it on my soul. It is not a troublesome thought. I know it is a weight I could bear.
“More than one,” I say. It isn’t a question. The way he said it, I know I don’t need to ask. A single perfect flower does not a garden make. I ask it anyway, though I’m fairly certain I don’t want the answer.
“Yes. They’re all there. The ones that haven’t been found. So soft. All of them. Brittle.” There is a harsh accent on the last syllable. I suppress the shudder this invites.
He meets my eyes as he says this. He knows what he is doing. It is not for nothing he has been studying human emotion this closely. He has not come all these miles without learning a thing or two. He can see, or at least guess, the effect of these particular words on me.
“Why did you tell me?”
He doesn’t answer for so long, I think he isn’t going to. And, when he does, his words take me by surprise. “You’re going to set me free.”
“I am?”
He lifts his index finger. Points at me. Indicates a shooting.
“Yes. Free.”
It would be so easy. I can imagine all of the actions. Imagine, even, the release I would feel. I haven’t really wanted anything else since I first heard of William Atwater. It is almost like lust. I haven’t wanted anything beyond a world that doesn’t include him.
I raise the Bersa. At this close range, both the noise and the mess would be terrible. I can feel it in my gut, just thinking about it. And the force of the kick of the gun. But there is a terrible hunger on me. A force unseen. It would be almost like orgasm to kill him. To watch his face disintegrate under the force. To stand by while the world is cleansed of his presence. What arrogance on my part! But I know this. I feel the arrogance. And it doesn’t slow me down.
I tilt my head. Tilt the gun. Look at him. Feel the result of the muscle memory I have for this action.
It would have been so easy. Too easy. That is the answer. Too easy. Not the right course. It takes a force of will, but I lower the gun.
“No. That’s not how it’s going to be.”
Without taking my eyes off him, I grab the leg irons from where I’d left them on the passenger seat. The same ones I’d taken from his van and secured him with in the trunk of the car. While he’d been asleep in the grass, I had taken the time to remove part of the overhead storage so that the frame rail would be exposed. Now I instruct him to attach the leg irons to this frame. I knew that, having done as I instructed, there was no way he’d be able to get out of the RV without a key or tools.
“What are you going to do with me?” Is his voice weaker? Less sure? I’m not certain, but I let myself think it is true.
“Honestly, I don’t know yet. But I’m working on something.”
It is only par
tly a lie.
He is still dressed in his makeshift toga, and I wait for him to settle down on the bed in the RV and for his breathing to grow regular before I feel comfortable enough that he won’t try anything. It takes a while. But until the breathing changes, there is no part of me that feels I can relax at all.
The driver’s seat swivels so it can face the cabin where Atwater sleeps. I do that now so I can keep an eye on him while I think. But I have to stay awake: I don’t want to sleep in his presence. He is as dangerous a creature as I’ve ever encountered. He is capable of anything. More. I keep an eye on him as I sit and think and watch. It feels like meditation.
I have a lot to think about.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BY THREE IN the morning, Atwater has been sleeping for several hours. Sleeping soundly, too. I thought he would. The physical trauma he’s endured combined with the small amount of comfort he’s been given have taken their toll. He is entirely out. I figure he is down until first light, at least.
One of the things that has come to me while I sit in the dark listening to him breathe is that I’ve gotten everything I came for. Sadly, it was easier than I thought it would be. He was able to clear the list with just a few words. Sadly, because I would have liked a different answer. One with a happier ending; better outcomes for some of those missing. With that realization, my next move comes clear.
I leave a few of the plastic bottles of water and the bananas within his reach. If somehow no one gets to him for a couple of days, he’ll survive. And if he doesn’t? Well, that is a different conversation, but the thought doesn’t perplex me too much, either.
I pull my suitcase out of the RV as quietly as possible, then lock the door behind me. Next, I spend some time looking around for a rock to leave the key under. I need something distinctive. Something big enough to be remarkable. With that accomplished, I wheel my suitcase down the deserted campground road, feeling ridiculous but unobserved. It is off-season and a weeknight and there are no late-night partiers around. I’ve gotten lucky with a pale moon, and after a while my eyes adjust to the almost-total-darkness, and I’m not forced to use the flashlight on my phone. I want to be as invisible as possible. I want to be unseen.
Not a lot of the camping spaces are taken, but after a while, I spot a big land yacht with Arizona plates and a Jeep parked next to it. The Jeep is probably a tow vehicle, but it is loose now, and it looks like it will suit me fine. For one thing, I know I can boost a classic Jeep easily, but before I try to do that, I check the visor and, sure enough, the keys are there. I get lucky again because they’d parked the Jeep at the top of a little hill. I pop my case gently onto the passenger-side floor, closing the door quietly. Then I put the truck in neutral and push it forward, gratified when it moves and grateful the vehicle has a standard transmission and I can drive a stick. So many things to be grateful for. A car with automatic wouldn’t have budged, but it doesn’t take much pushing before the Jeep is bumping silently down the campground road. I swing into the driver’s seat and pop the clutch. With the RV well behind me, the Jeep comes to life, though I wait until I hit the highway to turn on the lights. And then I head north.
I drive until I see a gas station. There are enough cars parked there that I feel some shuffling might not be noticed if I am careful.
I park the Jeep close to a dark green minivan that looks as though it would not be out of place next to a soccer field. I use my slim jim to open the passenger door, relieved when there is no alarm.
As I transfer vehicles, I hesitate, thinking about fingerprints. I know that my fingerprints have never been recorded; at least not in relation to me. It’s not something I usually actively worry about. Still. I know I need to be careful. Mindful. I use one of the disinfectant wipes I always carry to wipe the Jeep down quickly as I leave it: conscious of where I have touched and where I have not. This, too, has gotten to be as easy to me as breathing.
In the driver’s seat of the minivan, I jam my OBD tool into the dataport. On-board diagnostic tools are little miracles. You can use one to prevent a thief from ever stealing your car. Most people don’t do that, though. In fact, they pretty much freak out when it hits home that basically anyone can take over your car’s computer and override all security functions with the right OBD tool. Which is what I have. It takes about thirty seconds before the car starts. I slide back onto the highway before anyone even notices.
Near Monterey, I pull into an all-night diner for a bite and a quiet place to think about what has to happen next.
I pick a corner booth where my laptop and I will be mostly unnoticed. I order a cheeseburger and a beer for the same reason: it is not an order that will draw attention in this place. I munch excellent fries and a passable cheeseburger while I think about what I’m going to do now. I don’t relish it, but I need to be done—complete—and I am now far enough away and with well enough covered tracks for it to happen.
I use my Tor browser to get the general information e-mail address on the San Pasado Police Department website. I figure that the general address will get it scattered out to several department heads, and feet will start moving quickly, one way or the other. Time, it seems to me, is of the essence.
I begin:
William Atwater is chained up inside a small RV in space 204 of the San Simeon State Park upper campground.
I’m saddened beyond words to report that, under duress, he confessed to me that he created what he described as a garden composed of the corpses of many of the children he has abducted. Sorry because I would have liked it to be better news. The garden is at Hoyo Lago in the north part of the county. This is based only on what he told me. I don’t know for certain it is true.
A young woman named Arden will have contacted you with the coordinates of this garden, as this is where we found her daughter, Ashley (alive!), along with Atwater and his van, which you probably already have by now.
My identity is unimportant but I’m happy to have been able to help in delivering him to you. I don’t need to tell you to handle him with care. He should never be put in a position where he is a danger to society again.
I look at the letter for a long time before sending. It sounds a little trite to me, but there’s no help for it: it is my truth and also my shield. In reality, the police could have an awful lot on me if they manage to put it all together. I hope I’ve been careful enough to avoid that happening, but this moment was what it was all about: delivering Atwater to police alive so he could be made to spill whatever additional things he knew. There are parents out there who will be able to sleep for the first time in years with this knowledge. Parents who can finally begin to grieve. Their possible final relief was the only thing that had kept him alive. With Atwater in custody and details on the whereabouts of his garden, the police will be able to pull further needed details out of him. And as long as he is in custody, he won’t be able to hurt anyone again, and I can’t imagine a world where anyone would release him.
I sit in the restaurant and consider the unsent note on my laptop. Consider the end of one of my fries. Consider the gentle froth at the top of my beer. The cold, amber liquid in the glass.
I consider.
I could go back. Right now, I could go back and finish him off. My whole body craves that solution. The only thing that holds me back is the thought of the parents. If I leave him alive—bring the law to him and allow justice to take its course—there is the chance that some of these parents will be able to rest. Finally. They will get to watch the course of justice. I am imagining clenched hands held in courtrooms. Reassuring grips on perspiring arms. Long-held breaths releasing. There is a chance that can happen for those parents. Completion. I don’t want to be what takes away that possibility.
The story, as written, is as close to a happy ending as it can be under the circumstances. I read my note back one last time before I hit Send. It will do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I CONSIDER THE personal implications of what I’ve don
e. It is the closest I’ve ever come to breaking cover, and yet I think I am safe. I’ve been careful. Even though people have seen me, and I’ve interacted with them, I am so very average. I can’t imagine anyone connecting me to my actual identity. And if they do? It would not be the end of the world. Some things are larger than we are, as individuals. Sometimes you just have to jump in and see which way the wind pushes you. Me? I hope somewhere in there to find flight.
I sent the message using my DeepNet mail program. It is untraceable. Now that it has been sent, I can feel the fullness of my actions and I know there is no going back. What’s done is done. I lean into this feeling. Savor it while I can.
Just as I leave the restaurant, a couple park their Chevy Silverado in the deep shadows right next to the green minivan. The truck would not have been my first choice, but a combination of factors make it the obvious candidate for my next ride. It is easy. It is invisible in this area of many trucks. It is one of the easiest cars to steal. And it is right there.
Once on the road, the big truck swallows the miles. I get to the Embarcadero at two in the afternoon and park the truck at a meter, plugging it dutifully so that it will be a few hours before it is ticketed. Then I jump on the BART train and head for the airport.
While I sit on the train, I locate the next available flight back to my own rural airport. It is not a direct flight from San Francisco, but everything meshes well enough that I don’t expect it will be a difficult trip.
And my assumptions prove to be correct. From the time I book the flight until the time I touch down near my home, I go into a kind of autopilot fugue state. I am dog tired. I am emotionally dead. All I want is to drop into my own little bed and sleep.
And sleep.
And even more sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THERE ARE NO immediate expectations of me. There is nowhere I need to be. As a result of this, once I get home, I am able to sleep for three solid days. I get up only occasionally to deal with the functions of my body. There is a vague recollection of occasional food and hits of cool water from a vacuum flask at my bedside.
Endings Page 14
