“Emma,” I whisper, putting the gun aside, entering the tent more fully. “Don’t worry. I’m a friend.”
Her head swivels towards me, and I feel as much as see the relief in her, though the relief is not complete. There is still fear, and still the sound of a slight whimper under a ragged breath. But there is hope on her face, in her eyes.
I pull off the hoodie I am wearing over my San Pasado T-shirt. I settle it over her as I untie her. The hoodie covers her small form completely.
It’s where my story begins.
She sits up and instinctively begins to rub her ankles and wrists where circulation has been cut off. The whimpering stops as she sets herself to this new task.
“Do you know where he is?” I ask.
She looks at me, still sputtering. Shakes her head. I feel maybe she is in shock. And no words come. If she has information for me, it is lost in a column of horror and terror. I don’t even want to know what she has seen. Right now, there is one thing only of greatest concern.
“We’re going to get you out of here, okay? We’re going to take you home.”
She looks up at me, then looks beyond me and screams, a sound so piercing I wonder if I’ll even still have hearing after the ringing stops.
If I hesitate, it is only half a beat of a heart. I am pure reaction. I raise the Bersa two-handed as I rise from where I’ve been crouching next to the child and I spin.
He is in the tent’s entrance and there is a chain in his hand. As I raise the gun, I see him see me and drop down to the embankment beneath the tent. Still, I feel certain I catch a piece of him. I hear something that sounds like “oof” as the slug hits home, and then I catch the white of his T-shirt retreating more deeply into the forest. I begin to follow him, but a shrill wail brings me back.
Ridiculously, I fire several rounds after him, feeling quite certain I won’t hit him, but wanting him to understand the depth of my capability and the completeness of my desire. I drop back next to Emma and gather her in my arms, collecting myself as I go. I am so conflicted. Relief at finding the child alive. Self-recrimination for letting Atwater get away. Fear, because we still have a bit of a hike to get back to the car, and he could be out there in the darkness somewhere, hopefully bleeding, but maybe not. I take some small comfort in the fact that he ran in the direction opposite of where I left the car. But still.
Emma’s whimpering slows, then stops, as I half lead, half carry her back to the car. The shadows are filled with bogeymen. Anything seems possible. I don’t take awareness away from my gun and my surroundings. My training and experience leave me ready to put the child down and pull the Bersa out of my purse and shoot with a moment’s notice. But, in the end, there is no need.
The car is only a few hundred yards into the forest, but with the weight of the little girl on my heart and the fear of Atwater on both of us, it feels like miles. And it is too easy to imagine him jumping out from behind every tree and bush. I have no illusions: he is larger than me and stronger, too. If I lose the slight advantage of my gun, all is lost.
At the car, I unlock it and we get moving quickly. I am still imagining Atwater jumping out at us from behind each bush and bend in the track. Emma is likewise silent, the only sound a ragged breath upon breath. She is not very old, but it is my sense that she knows what’s at stake.
At the car, the puppy greets us stoically, like he’s been waiting for us, which I suppose, in a way, he has. I see Emma relax visibly when I pop her onto the back seat next to the young dog and he snuggles against her instinctively. It’s like a new level of safety has been revealed to her. Safe when she was with me, safer still in a slightly larger pack that includes a canine.
Once they’re settled in, I get us moving, still ever watchful, even though the doors are locked with us inside. Despite my fears, the bumpy forest path remains clear. I don’t breathe until I get to the highway and then, when I do, I hit the accelerator as soon as I drive back around the boulders and feel the smoothness of pavement under my tires. With my foot heavy on the pedal, the car jumps ahead.
“Hang on, honey,” I say, reaching back to steady the little girl’s shoulder with my hand, trying not to read too much into the motion when she flinches away from my touch. She looks at me with shadowed eyes. I want to weep with joy, anger, relief.
I want to weep.
Before we get to San Pasado, I consult my phone for directions to the hospital. It seems the only choice I have. I know I take a risk going there, but I don’t feel there are any other options. The child needs professional care. That’s apparent to me right away, even though I don’t see any injuries. I know they are there. The ones you can’t see.
I park at a distance. She protests at leaving the puppy behind, but then gives it up without much effort when I make it clear the dog can’t come. There’s not much fight left in the child. I note this with sadness. I suspect she’d given what fight she had up in the forest. She holds my hand passively as we walk to the reception desk at the emergency entrance.
“Hello,” I say when it is our turn. “This child is Emma Schwartz. Does that name mean anything to you?”
The woman at the desk looks back at me openmouthed. She nods but doesn’t say anything. I don’t mind because, really, there’s nothing I need her to say.
“Good. Then you know she needs an examination on every level. I … I have to go.”
“But you can’t—” In her world, my entire speech has been outlandish. So outlandish, she doesn’t know how to process it. She is sputtering. I feel a little sorry for her. What’s happening here is unprecedented, and stopping to explain will endanger me. I know it’s only a matter of time before she thinks to call the authorities. And then where will I be? “There’s the paperwork,” she says, indicating a clipboard. “The necessary forms …”
I ignore her. Drop down to Emma’s level.
“I’m sorry to leave you, but I have to go …”
“But the paperwork.” This from the desk above us. I ignore it further. Emma just looks at me with her large, pale eyes. She doesn’t say anything, but I see she has calmed considerably since I found her. It seems to me there is a chance she’ll be all right. But what do I know?
“They are going to take super good care of you, Emma. And your parents will be here soon.” I think I can see a gleam of life ignite in her when I say this. I hope so. There are a lot of things to hope for this little girl. The child is breathing. She appears unscathed. I have reason to think that hope is not misplaced.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
AFTER I LEAVE Emma at the hospital, I drive pointlessly for a while. It’s like I have a decision to make but, in truth, I’ve already decided.
I want to head my car east; head my car home. I’m really tired. I want to go back to my forest. I am longing for it now. I want my peace and maybe some lamb stew.
But it isn’t what I must do. That is just as clear.
I’m passing a strip mall and I pull in, park the car. Slump in my seat. Rub my head with my hands.
I’m tired. Just so tired. It’s all beginning to take on the shades of a nightmare that won’t end. The kind where you wake up thankfully, glad it’s over; then fall back to sleep and it’s all still there.
As I sit there, I think the last few hours over. Did I hit him? I felt sure I had. And then, seconds later, I feel equally sure I did not. Whatever the case, I have to calculate my next move carefully. I need to find him. I need to hunt him down. And I need him to know he is hunted. I reason that if he knows he is hunted, he won’t feel comfortable enough to hurt anyone else. That is my hope.
What else to hope? Is he lying there in the forest? Has he bled to death? Has he gotten away? Do I go back there and scour the forest in the vicinity? And, if I do that, might he be speeding on his way? All of these things roiling around and I suddenly feel incapable of making a coherent decision; organizing my next strong move. I am overwrought. Jangly. And I can’t remember the last time I ate. There is a Starbucks acro
ss the parking lot, open, even though it’s late.
Inside I choose a cheese Danish and a latte, figuring that the milk will counteract the caffeine. I’m not worried about it keeping me up, anyway. When am I planning to sleep?
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” The voice jolts me. I squint at the speaker. He’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses and his hair is tousled, like a wind is blowing it even though we’re inside and so there is no wind.
“Curtis, right?”
“Yeah. And you’re the writer lady with the weird party habits.”
I feel myself color slightly at the memory of running into him at Walmart, but I don’t actually feel offended. His tone is genuine and warm and, certainly, the combination of things I was buying was weird. I don’t tell him that though.
“Weird is a bit of a judgment, wouldn’t you say?”
He laughs and you can tell that comes easily for him: laughter. Warmth. For a second. I envy him that. What must that feel like? The ability to put back your head and just laugh.
“Okay. Fair enough. Weird is a bit strong. Someday you’ll have to tell me, though.”
And I nod, because that’s polite. But I can’t imagine the future that has me telling him that.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Getting coffee,” he says, deadpan.
“Shaddup. You know what I mean. I would have thought you’d be back in L.A. by now.”
“I am,” he says. “I mean, I was. I’ve just flown in. Meeting my crew here. We got a tip. He’s at Morning Bay.”
A beat. And then, “He’s not,” I say with confidence.
“He’s not?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“If I tell you, is there some kind of ethical rule that keeps you from telling people how you found out?”
He regards me evenly before he answers. I can see him wondering what the author lady might be sitting on. But then the weird stuff at Walmart. He’s not quite sure what he’s dealing with.
“Sure. If you tell me stuff no one knows that can lead to a story, you’re a source. You can tell me anything and I won’t tell.”
“Like with a doctor?”
He grins his deeply charming crooked grin.
“Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”
I look him over. Up and down. Is there any chance in hell he’s going to believe me? And, really, what part of the story am I going to tell? The least amount possible, I decide. Just enough to get his help for what has to happen next.
I look into his eyes. They are a clear cerulean and I find it is difficult to look at them fully without flinching. I do it anyway. I want to be watching him closely when my news lands.
I lead him away from the center of the room and pitch my voice low. “A little over an hour ago, I shot—or I’m pretty sure I shot—William Atwater. Not dead,” I add when I see his look.
“What?”
“Yuh. He had a little girl with him. I dropped her off at the hospital a little while ago. Now I’m deciding what to do.”
He kind of rocks back a bit on his heels and looks at me, clearly perplexed. I understand this. My little speech would be outlandish to almost anyone. And he looks at me, not as though he doesn’t believe me, but like he can’t quite believe his ears. After a while, he speaks.
“How did you find him?” Coming from him, this is understandable. He and his team have been hunting. It’s what he’s doing back in town.
“It’s a long story. Let’s just say your psychic tip panned out.”
A raised eyebrow. A speculative look.
“Oh-kay.”
“So, yeah. I don’t have anything to show you that will help explain or demonstrate this is true. That said, I think it would be helpful—and what the hell do you have to lose?—for you and your team to follow me to where I last saw him and, I dunno, help me or whatever.”
“Why should we do that?” He doesn’t look like he’s not believing me or challenging me. He looks like he just really wants to know.
“Because I’m tired, Curtis. I’m tired of doing this alone.”
He keeps looking at me for what seems like a long time. I start thinking he’s going to turn me down flat.
“Okay,” he says, after a while. “I mean, what the hell, right? Morning Bay isn’t going anywhere.” And besides, he doesn’t need to add, if what I’ve said is true, he gets a better story than any of his colleagues. He wins. And you can tell just by looking at him that winning is something he likes to do.
He asks how far we are from the spot where I last saw Atwater. I tell him maybe half an hour. He nods. Reflective. I know it’s a half hour to Morning Bay from here, too, but it’s the other direction.
By now, his crew has arrived. They are solid-looking. This is the biggest story in the country at the moment, so we’ve got the first string.
Curtis pulls them aside—two battle-scarred old cats—one bearded and one with what looks like it’s probably a perpetual five-o’clock shadow—and a petite young woman with a fierce stance. I stay where I am, letting him talk his team through it. They either will or they won’t, I figure, and nothing I say is likely to influence it either way.
After a while, Curtis saunters back to me. A crooked grin. “Yuh, we’re in,” he says with a smile. “Like I said, we got nothing else to do.”
And I know what he’s really saying: worst-case scenario, he loses a couple hours. Best case? They have an exclusive story. Odds are probably against the latter, but it’s worth a shot. And so off we go.
I lead the way in my Volvo, dog in the back. The news van follows, but Curtis rides with me.
“You seriously got this tip from the psychic?” Curtis prompts.
“Yeah,” I say, eyes on the road. Not giving anything extra.
“And you said you shot him. Tell me again why you were carrying a gun.”
“I didn’t tell you. Nice try though.”
He lifts his hands in a helpless gesture. And I like him for not reminding me he’s a reporter and it’s his job to ask questions.
And then we’re upon it. The boulders. The reflective signs. The track into the forest. I park where I parked before and the van stops behind me.
“Now what?” Curtis asks.
“Now we hoof it.”
We follow the track in a little mob. We have one of the seasoned old dogs with us and the girl and they’re both lugging gear; just in case. Both of them turn out to be camera people. The guy left behind is some kind of tech, left to operate the space-age gear in the van. They might not think this is going to pan out, but they’re manning their battle stations. It looks like it’s just how they roll.
When we reach the spot where the tent was, we find nothing at all.
“He’s gone,” I say needlessly. And I have to admit, I’m surprised. I had been so sure I’d injured him. Breaking down the tent and getting the gear away so quickly would have taken strength and agility, something an injured man would surely lack.
I feel like an idiot and I avoid Curtis’s eye so if he thinks I’ve made something up, I don’t see it on his face: I’m not looking.
The more bearlike of the team is ahead of us with a bright light. Rocky. I’m glad to see the young woman sticking to his heels. No matter that it seems like Atwater has cleared out, it doesn’t seem to me to be a good idea to be alone out here right now.
Rocky stops suddenly and calls us towards him.
“Look at this,” he says as we approach.
The light clearly reflects the area that held the tent. The earth is bruised in some spots; the sparse brush growing there is pressed down. Branches are broken. All in a pretty obvious tenby-ten-foot square. It is on a slight embankment and the forest falls away quickly behind it.
“This is where the tent was,” I breathe, nearly sagging in relief.
The young woman is holding a flashlight; casting the light all around on the ground; searching. She spies something, walks over, and pick
s it up. Brings it to us. It is a black nylon strap, a few inches wide, a few feet long. An innocuous enough object, but it looks new—not as though it’s been out in the weather for months—and its presence and location seem to confirm the possible recent presence of a tent.
“That way,” I say, pointing into the forest. “That’s the way I saw him go.” And then more quietly, “I shot after him, but he was moving and it was dark. At first, I thought I hit him, but now it doesn’t seem like it.”
At this admission, three heads swivel towards me, and Curtis articulates the question, but I saw it coming anyway.
“Who the hell are you?”
And I can’t help but laugh a little, not unkindly. Because the way he says it—his tone and demeanor—he may as well be talking to Batman, even though I’m anything but that.
“It’s a long story. It’s complicated.”
“Are you even an author?”
“Yuh,” I say. “Something like that.”
I head in the direction I’d seen Atwater run, and the team troops behind me, as I’d hoped they would, their questions on hold for now. Rocky and the girl keep their lights going broad, and we can make out trails here and there, but we see no further signs of either humans or vehicles until we come to a crude road in the forest that heads in the direction of the highway. It hasn’t rained recently and in the dark we can’t be sure if a vehicle has been this way, even when we search with the aid of lights.
“Well, if he was here, he’s gone,” Curtis says needlessly.
“Yeah,” I say. “And I don’t know where this road ends up. Pretty sure it’s not connected to the one I took off the highway.”
So it’s another dead end, but oddly I don’t feel like the team disbelieves me. As we troop back through the forest, the girl suddenly calls out. “Wait,” she says. “Look at this.” She has a .380 caliber slug in her hand, and on inspection, it looks to have something that might be blood on it. It’s flattened on one side and looking—to my admittedly not knowledgeable eyes—as though it was prised out of something. Or someone. I don’t dare hope that.
Endings Page 20
