by Wendy Walker
Edith was flustered. “I don’t really have time for all that—I have to make my shift at the hospital.”
“Then we can send you photos. Do we have your email address?”
She handed Reyes a business card. “You can use the one on here,” she said.
Reyes paused, let the discomfort ease in. “I think that’s everything.”
Nic touched her arm softly. “Thank you for coming all this way.”
“Well, you know how to reach me—if you have any questions. Or if this helps you find your mother. I didn’t come forward because of the money, but I’m sure you’ll let me know if this information turns out to be useful.”
Of course, Nic thought. There was nothing pure in this world.
Reyes answered. “We’ll let you know.”
They started to turn away from one another, but then Nic remembered the question her father had asked her.
“Hey—one last thing.”
Edith smiled, but she seemed nervous as she glanced between Nic and Reyes.
“How did you get my number?”
She shrugged, again looking between the two of them. It was an easy question. The answer should have rolled off her tongue.
It was Reyes who answered. “Was it Mrs. Urbansky?”
“Is that the woman at the police department?”
“Yes,” Nic said.
“Right. That’s it. Sorry. That’s not an easy name to remember.”
They said their goodbyes. Edith Moore left. Nic and Reyes got back in his car.
“What was that about?” Nic asked. “The way you grilled her.”
Reyes drove back onto Hastings Pass, heading into town.
“She’s lying. She never went to New York. She was never driving home.”
“Maybe she was at the casino. Maybe she didn’t want her boyfriend to know. She said she lives with him, right?” Nic threw out scenarios but they sounded unlikely, even to her.
Reyes hit the gas harder.
“Look—I don’t want to dick you around like everyone else. This woman is lying. Her E-ZPass records show her on the New York State Thruway the day before the storm, getting off at the exit that leads to Route 7. It’s not the fastest way to the casino. Only thing that makes sense is that she was headed right here, to Hastings, coming from the north, not the south. She must have spent the night.”
“Then someone in this town knows her.”
Reyes continued. “If she’s the reason you came back here and started looking again, and if you do find your mother, she’ll get the money even if there was no truck. It won’t matter—she brought you back.”
Nic had considered this. “But then why make up the story about the truck? It would only lead me in a wrong direction, further away from finding my mother. Further away from her getting the money. Why not just say she saw my mother—and I know she did because of what she said—about my mother’s purse with the letters.”
Reyes considered this. “So maybe there is a truck with a broken taillight.”
They were back at the inn. Nic reached for the door handle, then stopped.
“You really think she was in Hastings? That she was with someone here the night before the storm, before she left for home?”
Reyes shrugged. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Then, a thought that made her gasp.
“What is it?” Reyes asked.
Nic shook her head slowly, putting the pieces in place. “What if she saw my mother because she was involved in her disappearance? Maybe someone from Hastings is involved as well—with her. It could be anything—maybe they helped her get to Laguna but don’t want to be implicated. Or maybe something else … there’s money at stake even if she’s not found alive—five hundred thousand dollars. And the note—what if it really is a forgery?”
“Okay, stop right there.”
“What if they hurt her?” Nic’s voice started to tremble.
Reyes tried to talk her down, off this ledge.
“Listen—there’s a reason she doesn’t want to come clean about why she was here, but it doesn’t have to be something like that. People lie for all kinds of reasons.”
Reyes placed his hands squarely on her shoulders. “This is about the money. Nothing else. Edith Moore saw your mother and now she wants to play her lottery ticket. Look, we have new leads now—not just the truck, but the taillight and the reason Edith Moore lied.”
“And you’ll follow them?”
Reyes shrugged. “I’ll do my best. The chief, well, I may have some convincing to do there.”
“Then I should stay,” Nic said. “Maybe the second I leave is the second the search for Molly Clarke dies a second death.”
Another shrug. Then, “That’s up to you.”
Nic had planned on staying a day at most, just long enough to meet Edith Moore. But Reyes was right. Now there were new leads.
She turned back to the inn and the diner next to it. Something caught her eye in the side-view mirror.
“You should get going,” she said. “You probably have work to do.”
She reached for the door.
Reyes stopped her long enough to hand her his card.
“I’ll follow up on the taillight. If you think of anything, call me.”
Nic studied the card as the question formed in her head. She didn’t want to say it out loud, but she needed to know.
“Do you think she’s dead?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t. Do you really want to know what I think?”
“Of course.”
“I think she’s somewhere safe trying to get through whatever it is she needs to get through. I’ve seen it before. The stats support it. Her story supports it. The evidence supports it. But I also think we can find her. And I will help you any way I can.”
Reyes reached right into those hollow spaces and filled them up, just a little. A little dose of intoxication.
She waited for him to drive off, taking a few steps toward the diner. When he was gone, she turned and looked across the street.
At the bar.
And the bartender who was opening the door.
9
Day two
Alice watches me from the window as I walk down the driveway. The packed dirt is dry in places from the morning sun, but also littered with potholes that overflow with water from the storm. I scuffle more than walk because the boots slip down when I lift each foot. I make tracks in the dirt. I get stuck in the mud. I move quickly in spite of everything.
The driveway is no longer than a sixth of a mile. I counted the seconds as we drove it last night, the odometer just under thirty miles per hour. I pray I’m right.
The house sits on a sloping hill and when I reach the top and begin to descend, I turn to wave at Alice, to reassure her that I am just out for some air. I see her smile and wave back, and when she finally falls from sight, I take off the boots, holding them against my chest, and start to run.
I run down the driveway until I reach the gate. I pray that he forgot to replace the chain, or that he didn’t feel the need to. I tell myself that I am crazy and that he only locks the gate to protect Alice when she stays here alone. I delude myself just long enough to reach the chains, finding them locked. I pull on them furiously, knowing they won’t release. Knowing it’s futile.
I have to hold it together now. I have to be methodical. Time is precious.
I inspect the gates and the chain and the lock that holds them. I have scissors and a small kitchen knife. The gate is strong and the lock secure. I remind myself that this is the main point of entry. This is the place least likely to be vulnerable.
I look right and left. On both sides, the fence disappears into a dense tree line. I choose right because I remember turning left into the driveway. Somewhere to the right is the way back to town. This is all I have to work with. It’s entirely possible that he drove us in circles and that the town is closer to the left. It is possible we are nowhere near the town. We made
so many turns.
Still, I have to decide. I have to move.
I step into the ungroomed woods and am thankful for the boots. I stop long enough to put them back onto my frozen feet. The ground harbors the sharp edges of fallen branches and protruding roots. It is uneven and soaking wet. The water is cold in spite of the sun.
The fence is wire. It is woven in small squares and is about eight feet high. At the top is coiled barbed wire. But that is the least of my concerns. The wire at the top is thin and I think I could cut through it. I can cut the barbed wire at the top, and I can jump to the other side. What I cannot do is climb to the top.
The holes are too small for the boots to fit, and every inch of the wire has barbs. They are smaller, almost invisible. But when I run my finger across a piece of it, my skins catches and starts to bleed. Little, tiny metal barbs embedded in every inch of this fence that goes on for miles it seems. Surrounding this property. This fortress.
Why?
The question has no answer that does not terrify me.
Alice said her first mommy died in these woods.
But now I think her first mommy died trying to escape. I wonder if the same words were in her head. Just walk away. I wonder if they led her to her death. And now I wonder where they’ve led me.
No. I can’t wonder. Not about anything. I have work to do.
I can cut the wire, or saw through it. But it is thicker than at the top and will take time. As I walk along, pushing aside the branches of small trees, climbing over the roots of larger ones, my face stings from the ones I miss that snap back and scratch my skin. I think about the least number of cuts I will need to make in the wire to create an opening. Four up, four across. Then I can fold it along the midline, making a triangle flap large enough to slide through. I will put the boots on my hands and use them to push against the wire, to protect myself from the barbs.
Where do I stop? Where do I begin to cut this fence?
My legs want to keep moving. My mind tells me to run. It is instinct but instinct is not always smart. I could run and run and end up right back at the gate, having made a circle and gone nowhere. I fight against the instinct. I will only walk until I see something on the other side of the fence that will help me once I cut my way through.
* * *
I don’t know how much time passes. I feel tired. My legs ache from pulling the boots that want to fall from my feet. I am cold from air that is damp in the woods. The leaves and bushes are wet from the rain, and they rub against me and soak through these clothes I wear. My cheeks burn from the cold.
As I walk, my mind wanders. I think about John. I think about us years ago when we’d only just met. When we were two young lovers with all of life in front of us. And that’s what we were—lovers in every possible way. I loved him like I had never loved any man. I loved the things about him that drove other people crazy. He could be far too serious, too honest, too earnest. He was desperate to be a good man. I loved his desperation. I loved that I could ease it just by lying beside him.
We met at a deli on the campus where we both went to graduate school. He was studying business. I was getting my master’s degree. He was a customer. I worked behind the counter. I wore a bright blue apron and he told me it was the color of my eyes, which made me blush. He had ordered chicken salad, but I was so flustered by him, the way he’d noticed my eyes, that I gave him tuna. He came back later that day to tell me. But he didn’t want a new sandwich. He wanted to take me hiking.
We liked to walk in the woods, just like this. We would hike from March until November, cold, hot—it didn’t matter. We would drive up to the mountains. And we would hike until we felt our legs ache and our heads grow dizzy with endorphins. And then we would return to our little room at the bed and breakfast and make love, furiously. Passionately.
I loved him. But that was before.
Now there’s a line that divides the before from the after. Before our child died. After our child died. The love doesn’t dare try to cross, to try to navigate the new people we have become. Not much of me is left. I wonder how much of John is still there. The earnestness I always adored, the man who always wanted to do good and be good, now feels rigid. A man who must live by the strictest rules of behavior. Maybe it keeps him from having to think or feel. He still says I love you but that’s a lie. Lying is against the rules, isn’t it? And what about the other woman he now loves?
Maybe I don’t know the new rules. Maybe I don’t know John anymore.
The love won’t cross the line to find out.
I think about the man in this house with his dead wife and his child. I think about the odd rules they keep. The secrets.
The wondering returns as I walk.
How do they know about me? About my family? That I would be driving on Route 7 last night, in the storm? Or did they? Alice never leaves the house. She plays out her fantasies with her dolls. Maybe that’s all this is. A fantasy.
I told her about my family before she said she knew. Maybe she was lying.
She said she was nine. Did I tell her how old Annie was? God, I can’t remember!
I walk and walk until I see something on the other side of the fence. It makes me stop. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Fire. Smoke. Burning wood. I open my eyes and see it again—the white plumes rising in the sky. A house or factory, maybe. Someplace with a furnace. Or someone burning brush in the yard, although it seems too wet for that. More likely a furnace or fireplace.
It is, at the very least, a sign of life. A sign of people. People who might help me. A place to run. A place to hide.
I tell myself to stop. I kneel down into the wet debris and take out the scissors. I take out the knife. And I go to work.
* * *
More time passes. My fingers are sore from cutting. I have only cut through three wires. The barbs make it hard to hold steady. The scissors slip. The knife won’t stay in one groove. I have to saw and cut slowly. Carefully. I can’t steady the wire without cutting my fingers. My hands are cold and my tools slip from them. Over and over. They slip out and fall to the ground. I blow on my fingers desperately. I need to warm them up. I need to ease the muscles so they can hold my tools.
Please. One more cut up. Four more to the side …
* * *
A voice calls out. It tells me to stop. It asks me where I am.
I stand quickly and move away from the fence, leaving my tools in the leaves. Leaving my work behind me. I walk furiously away from the fence, into the woods. Away from the smoke and fire and the people who can help me. I have been picturing them. I have been seeing their faces as they fold me in blankets and call my family. As they call the police and break through the gates of this insanity and discover Alice and the man and put a stop to it, whatever it is. Tears fall as I leave them behind. I will find a place to hide. Somewhere in these woods. And then I will return to my work. To my cutting. I will not stop until I reach my saviors.
I walk carefully, but the dead brush snaps and pops beneath my feet. I get far enough away from the fence that it is out of sight. And then I hide. I find a large tree and I sit on the other side of its trunk from the voice that grows closer.
And when the voice stops, I hear only the footsteps. The same snaps and pops that my body had made, only louder and stronger. And then everything stops, except the sound of metal on metal.
“What are you doing?” the voice asks.
I look around the tree. The man is there and he holds a shotgun.
I stand but say nothing. I cannot manage to speak.
“You could get hurt out here,” he says. “You could get killed.”
I stare at him as my body trembles. I pray he can’t see the blisters that are forming on my hands.
“Didn’t Alice tell you about the bears?”
I shake my head. I study his face. He looks dismayed. He looks concerned, the way a person would, given the situation. The bears. His face becomes a mirror, reflecting back to me my own insanity. How ri
diculous I must appear. Have I let the fantasy of a little girl scare me into a frenzy?
He looks around us, swinging the shotgun. Then he sets it against the tree and gives me his hand, helping me to my feet. His grip is gentle and his face holds a smile. It’s the smile of a person trying to help a crazy person out of her craziness. He coaxes me and I begin to settle. What caused me to lose control of my senses? Alice said they followed me from the gas station. She knew about my family. But maybe that was all in her mind. Maybe they just saw me there. Maybe I told her first and she only pretended to know how old Annie was.
I consider that my thoughts are not normal. That the death of my child has carved paths inside my head that always lead to the darkest scenarios. Paranoia. It happened once. It could happen again. Horror.
But life is almost never horror. It can feel horrible. It can seem horrible. But not like this. Not this kind of crazy horror.
“I’m sorry,” I say then, meeting his eyes. “I got lost and then I panicked. I should have stayed in the house.”
“No harm done. But come on now,” he says. “If we hurry, there might be time to get you back to town.”
I want to throw my arms around him and thank him. He’s not going to shoot me. He’s not going to kill me. He’s going to take me to town.
Of course he is. I have had crazy thoughts and now I want to thank him for returning me to reality.
I almost bounce like Alice as I follow him back to the house.
10
Day fourteen
The bartender.
Nic could not remember his name, but she remembered other things about him. Like the calm in his voice, and the surrender in his eyes.
She remembered things about his story as well. A drug-addicted mother. Absent father. Little sister to care for.
He could have gone to college. But he stayed to work—here, and at the Gas n’ Go. Anything he could get. His sister was young. Or maybe that was all wrong. Maybe he was older and years had passed since his sister was young and he’d had to support her. Maybe he was still here because the other ships had all sailed.
