Misery Loves Company

by Rene Gutteridge

  Jules tried to process what he was saying. “But the captain told me they’d never stop looking for who killed Jason. That it was an open investigation.”

  “The file remained in the basement and it was never removed while I was there.”

  “So what does this mean?”

  “I asked myself the same question. Why weren’t they investigating this more? One night I was at the station. I hadn’t been sleeping well, so I decided to do some work at night.

  “It was very quiet and I heard voices upstairs. Coming through the ventilation system. I heard them shut a door. But I could hear their voices pretty clearly if I pressed my ear against the vent. So I did. And I heard them talking about . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “They were talking about having planted cocaine on an informant, saying that he was locked away for good, that nobody was going to find out what happened and if he did talk, he wouldn’t look credible. He’d just look vindictive.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Jason’s death.”

  “What?” Jules felt all the air in her lungs escape.

  “I had to piece it together, bit by bit, over a number of weeks. But what I believe happened was that several of the officers were getting paid to look the other way on a boat theft ring.”

  “No . . .”

  “They’d exposed it, basically, but then took bribes, kickbacks, to stay silent and make it possible for the ring to continue. The thefts happened in other counties, but the thieves were hiding the boats in Wissberry, in an old warehouse.”

  “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “I don’t know exactly how the informant is involved. But somehow Jason stumbled upon information leading him to suspect that his fellow officers might be part of a cover-up. Someone got wind of this and I think he was lured to that remote location, where he was gunned down.”

  “By his own?”

  “Doubtful. Probably by the thugs who were running the ring. But the officers knew if those guys were ever caught, they’d go down too. So they tried to cover it all up by closing Jason’s file. I suspect the snitch either tried to double-cross them or grew a conscience. Either way, they needed him silenced. If he was killed, that would open another investigation, which they didn’t need. So instead, they framed him for drug possession and another problem went away. With time, they hoped it would all be forgotten. But I didn’t forget.” He sighed. “The only piece of the puzzle that’s missing is the informant. I’m unable to figure out who he was or where he was incarcerated. I also thought you might know something. Anything. But you didn’t.”

  Jules took a tissue off the nightstand and wiped her eyes. This was almost more than she could take.

  “Why all this?” she asked. “Why kidnap me? Why bring me here?”

  Patrick seemed to think long and hard about the answer. Jules tried to wait patiently. Finally he said, “I saw promise in you from the start, you know. When I read your first blog, after I discovered all these things, I knew you had a gift. And as I’ve watched you over time, I’ve seen you grow. I suppose as I’ve watched you grow in this art, I’ve found myself disappearing into the trappings of commercialism. Amelia always said I worried too much about it. That art was art. But when the publisher sent me Enoch, I felt they were trying to hint to me that my writing was slipping. I was still grieving Amelia’s death. And then when I figured out it was you who had written the book, it was as though my emotions were split in half. I hated that it was you, but if it was going to be anybody, I wanted it to be you. Plus . . . I’d asked for a sign.”

  “A sign?”

  “I wasn’t a praying man, as you know. But I needed to know for sure if I was supposed to help you. So I asked for help, for a sign that I was meant to help you. And then I got your manuscript.”

  “Why would you want to help me? We didn’t know each other.”

  Patrick smiled gently. “Don’t you realize, Juliet, that when you put your words out there for people to read, they do know you? They know you intimately. The words come straight from our souls, don’t they? And there you were, several times a week, showing me your soul, over and over.”

  Jules looked down. “I never thought about it that way. I did it because it seemed safe and secure.”

  “You cannot guard your soul when you’re a writer. That is why I could not accept Enoch as your best. You stood guard at the gateway to your soul. Your words were precise and beautiful, and you turned a dozen phrases in the most clever of ways. But you didn’t let me all the way in, and I regretted that.”

  Jules looked up at the ceiling. “So what was that about?”

  “I hoped that as I ended my journey, I might be able to pass along some wisdom, help you cultivate your craft. Perhaps lend a little of my know-how to you.”

  She chuckled. “So this was all one big writing lesson?”

  He only smiled.

  But then she frowned. “What do you mean, ‘ended my journey’?”

  Patrick stood abruptly, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Juliet, it is over for me. It was the most excellent of adventures, but I cannot write. My muse, my lovely muse, is gone.”

  “Wouldn’t Amelia want you to continue?”

  “Oh yes. But what she never understood was that she was the one I let guard my soul, and she was the only one who could open its door.” He leaned against the nearby wall. “Juliet, I’m sorry for all of this. I have felt for quite some time that . . . things were happening up here.” His fingers tapped his temple. “I am not in my right mind very often anymore. I knew I possessed something important, a secret that I couldn’t let stay hidden. And I knew as I peered into your world that you had a great destiny in front of you—one that you would never be able to see on your own.”

  “You really think I’m a good writer?”

  “One of the best I’ve ever read. And that is why you will finish The Living End. It is yours now. And only you know how it will end. You’re the only one who can decide how it all will end.”

  Jules tried to sit up even more. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  Suddenly there was a loud banging on the front door. Jules jumped and gasped, so startled that she almost burst into tears.

  Patrick, strangely, didn’t seem fazed. “Stay here,” he said. “And be quiet, okay?” He left the room and she heard the front door open.

  Jules held her breath, but her mind raced. This could be her chance to be rescued. She could scream for help right now and somebody would know where she was.

  Yet just now, as he sat by her bedside, Patrick had seemed the most coherent since she’d been here. Was he finally getting a grip?

  She could hear the faint sound of a conversation. Both male voices, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  What if he fell into madness again? What if he wasn’t done terrifying her?

  Her hand moved to her mouth so she wouldn’t inadvertently scream, because she really wanted to. It could escape at any second.

  She was squeezing her eyes shut, trying to decide what to do, when she heard the front door gently close. Her hand fell to her lap and she collapsed back into the pillow. Who was the crazy one now? Her only chance out of here was gone.

  Patrick returned to the room, his cheeks pink from the cold outdoor air.

  “Who was that?” Jules asked.

  “That was Paul Watson. Do you remember Humphrey from my book Rage?”

  She nodded.

  “I based that character on Paul.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s my neighbor. Kind of. He lives about fifteen minutes away, up the mountain, but he’s reclusive and spends most of his time watching Terra Pass through his binoculars.”

  “What is Terra Pass?”

  “It’s the only road that leads here. There are five cabins in all that can be accessed through Terra Pass. It’s unusual to see any car on it, and most people don’t even know it exists. It’s not on the map, if you will.”
r />   “So what did he want?”

  “To alert me. It helps to have a paranoid neighbor every once in a while. He’s spotted a truck on the pass.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” he said, moving to the bedroom door, “that they’ve finally figured out where you are.”

  Jules swallowed. He disappeared for a moment, then returned. With a shotgun.

  “What is happening, Patrick?”

  He walked to the end of her bed. “They’re coming. For me. For you.”

  “How? Who?”

  “You have to understand what is at stake here. If these cops can be implicated in Jason’s death, you can only imagine the lengths to which they will go to make sure that information never sees the light of day. It was just a matter of time before they realized what I knew. But what they didn’t count on was that I would tell you. You’re in danger now because you’re with me.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “You are going to stay right here. Right in this bed. Do you understand me?”

  “Patrick, please . . . no. Please don’t leave me. Please.”

  He stepped around the edge of the bed to her side, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Juliet, I will take care of you. I am not going to let anything happen to you, okay? I couldn’t help Amelia, but I can help you. You just have to trust me. Stay in this bed.” He looked intently at her. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  “You didn’t. It’s okay. I’m fine. Just don’t leave me here.”

  “It’s the only way to keep you safe.” He set the gun down suddenly and pulled her into a hug, his strong arms holding her tightly. Jules stiffened but then relaxed and wrapped her arms around him. Her entire body trembled, but for the first time in a long time, she felt completely safe.

  Patrick released her and took his gun. At the edge of her room, he looked at his watch. “It’s time.” And then he shut the door.

  THE HEATER IN CHRIS’S TRUCK blew in fits and starts. It had never been able to keep up with the cold very well, but with the frigid air of the mountain and the steady snow, it really wasn’t happy. Chris was bundled up like an Eskimo, not because of his heater, but because of his fear that the truck was going to slide off the edge of a cliff, and if he made it out alive, he’d freeze to death instead.

  He’d wanted to race up the mountain as soon as he secured Maecoat, but he knew that where he was going, GPS was going to be of no help and speed was only going to get him killed before he got there. He was certain the unmarked roads Leona described were as treacherous as they were dark. Her instructions proved to be complicated to read anyway. But once he got off the main road that led up into the mountain and to the ski resorts, the roads grew narrower and more perilous. There were no guardrails or caution signs. It had taken him way longer than he expected and now the moon’s light was hidden by heavy snow clouds. Maybe that’s why Reagan stayed in his cabin all winter long. He couldn’t get down if he tried.

  It had taken him four hours just to get to the base of the mountain, which was just across the state line. From there, he took the main road up. About halfway up the mountain, he was to take something called Terra Pass. And now, as he drove twenty miles an hour and tried to navigate through the biggest snowflakes he’d seen in his life, he was not looking for a street sign. He was looking for a large boulder. That was where he was to turn.

  It felt a little like he was going after the Unabomber.

  His headlights bounced off the small drifts that had formed against the side of the mountain. He threw off his gloves to grip the steering wheel better. His fingers turned white and not because of the cold. Carefully, tediously, he steered around each curve. He dared once to peek over the side. If his truck went off, they’d find Jules before they ever found him.

  Since he’d gotten onto Terra Pass, he hadn’t seen a single car. There was a reverent, eerie quiet to the mountain. The wind howled and swayed his truck. He could hear the slight pitter-patter sound of the snowflakes hitting his windshield. If he hadn’t been on his way to rescue a woman from a madman, while driving on the edge of a cliff, he might’ve actually found this relaxing and peaceful. He just needed a choir singing “Silent Night” to round it off.

  His mind, like the snow, drifted as he continued to circle up the mountain. He was thinking about a ski vacation he and Jason had taken before he married Jules when his headlights bounced off something large and light brown—a boulder.

  He shifted carefully down to first gear, then made an immediate right onto a narrow road that went only about twenty yards before it stopped at an old iron gate like one that might be found on a cattle ranch.

  He opened the map and read the instructions Leona Patterson had included. They stated there would be a lock on the chain around the gate, but that it wasn’t really locked. He should pull down on the lock and then open the gate. After that, he was to continue on this road.

  Chris stepped out of the truck. The cold air punched through the gaps in his coat, under his shirt, and straight to his skin. These mighty gusts of wind were immediately followed by complete stillness and silence. The snow fell steadily, and the statuesque pine trees creaked like old doors opening. He found it difficult to breathe this high up.

  He grabbed the lock and pulled.

  But it didn’t snap open.

  It was . . . locked.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Chris tromped back to his truck and grabbed the instructions. They clearly said that it would be unlocked. In fact, they said that it remained unlocked year-round. Chris sighed and grabbed the hammer out of the toolbox in the back of his truck. He pulled on his gloves and walked to the gate. With three swift swings of the hammer, he broke the lock off. The gate swung open easily and he drove through. This time, though, he was headed downward.

  According to the map, he only had a mile or so to go.

  He checked his rearview mirror closely, as he had during the entire drive, to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  The best he could tell, he was the only vehicle on the mountain.

  But he still couldn’t let his guard down because there was no way of telling what he would find once he reached the cabin. A sense of urgency mingled with the thought that he was about to encounter a place thousands of people had wanted to find over the years. He wished he could enjoy marveling at that idea.

  One mile going down the side of the mountain took twenty minutes in the storm, though the decline didn’t seem as steep as the incline. And as he got closer to what was supposed to be the cabin, the road declined even less.

  At a fork in the road he found another gate constructed between two large trees with several signs warning that this was private property and no trespassing was allowed. At least seven more signs like this were posted nearby or hanging off the gate. Lots of pictures of guns.

  The instructions said that he should take the road that didn’t have the gate.

  There was nothing indicating it was a road. At most it looked like a small path with no trees. But snow had fallen and the path was virtually covered. If there was a road here, he’d guess it was traveled very rarely. And not in the last hour for sure.

  Chris swallowed his apprehension and followed the hidden road, mindful that there might be a booby trap hidden somewhere. Or a gunman.

  As he got closer, the road became less obvious than it already was. So much so that Chris wasn’t even sure he should drive forward, as it was unclear if there was an opening ahead big enough for his truck. But according to the directions, the cabin was just ahead. He might fare better on foot.

  He grabbed his gun off the seat next to him and killed the engine. He sat there for a moment, trying to decide if he should kill his headlights too. It was very dark out here now, with the moon hidden by clouds. His eyesight would adjust eventually, and he could take advantage of the cover of darkness, but he was in unknown territory. If he had to chase somebody or do anything other than walk, he was probably not going to do so well.r />
  It was such a simple decision, but he found himself frozen.

  Make a choice and go with it.

  Chris shut off the truck lights and opened the door.

  “Patrick?”

  She’d called his name numerous times but to no avail. The cabin was quiet. The last noise she’d heard was the door leading outside opening and closing. That was it. And she couldn’t fathom what he was trying to tell her. “It’s time.” Time for what? Who was after him? Her? Them?

  Although he assured her he would keep her safe, she felt vulnerable in the bed, unable to walk. Even the slightest movement caused searing pain.

  She tried one more time. “Patrick?”

  Then something caught her eye out the window of her room. It was lightning fast, but she thought she saw a beam of light bounce off the glass. Like a flashlight. A chill ran down her spine.

  She couldn’t stay here.

  Jules peered over the edge of the bed. It was a long drop—the bed was unusually high. How would she manage to get down without the use of her feet? Her hands might be faring better but were still sore.

  She lay back for a moment, trying to keep her wits about her, trying to be strong like she knew Jason would want her to be. If what Patrick said about what happened to Jason was true, she had to get out of here. She had to expose the truth and hold accountable those responsible for Jason’s death.

  But she had no weapon, no way of defending herself. What was she going to do?

  Her eyes fixed on the words that she’d read a hundred times by now, words written for her.

  But it was what was beyond the ceiling she wanted to see. God. His mercy. His love. His strength. She needed all of it right now. So she asked.

  With one resolving blink, her focus returned to the ceiling. And the words. Terrify me.

  Jules sat up, her eyes locked onto them.

  Terror.

  It was a powerful weapon.

  Even if she wasn’t powerful enough, she might be able to stir some terror, if need be. But not from this bed. She needed a different vantage point. She needed to know what was going on. She had to get out of this bedroom.