by Lisa Gardner
Cal went to work. He started with the gear. Despite his wisecrack to the sheriff, he understood her point: They couldn’t afford to spook the kid by revealing they’d discovered his base of operations. And while Cal would have liked to think he could outsmart a teenager, truth was, the kid was clever. All of Telly’s steps since the shooting had been surprisingly strategic. So Cal did the sensible thing and snapped a photo of the pile of supplies to serve as a model for reassembly.
He started with the sleeping bag, unrolling it fully, inspecting it inside and out. He followed along the seams, looking for . . . he didn’t know what. Anything that might help catch a killer. When the sleeping bag proved to contain nothing but nylon and flannel, he rolled it back up, returned it to its place on the wooden pallet.
Telly’s metal-framed hiking pack featured a multitude of pockets, straps, ties. Cal worked his way from the outside in, beginning with a smaller pocket that contained everything needed for hiking 101. Cal recognized the setup of first-aid gear, trail maps, etc. He kept his hiking pack similarly supplied.
Next up, he discovered an inner pouch containing granola bars, two clementines, and a bag of what might’ve been chocolate-covered almonds but was now a melted mess. Two bottles of water. Not nearly enough for these conditions, which gave Cal some hope. Once Telly consumed these bottles, which would be sooner versus later in these temperatures, he’d be forced to forage for more.
In the pack’s main compartment, Cal discovered his first surprise. Books. Telly had set out on a homicidal spree and he’d brought with him . . . books.
Cal reached in, then caught himself and snapped a quick photo of the pile. Would Telly notice if Cal replaced the articles out of order? Better to be safe than sorry.
First item Cal removed was a thin children’s book. Clifford the Big Red Dog. Apparently, property of the Bakersville County Library. And according to the back page, due back in twelve days. Cal didn’t get it. A teenager with a picture book? He photographed the cover, then the library page.
Moving on. A stack of thin, spiral-bound notebooks. Cheap, kind that could be picked up in any office supply store. He counted five of them. He started with the top copy, flipped open to the first page, and was once again caught off guard. No writings, but a photo. A four-by-six close-up of a baby, cocooned in blue, cradled in a woman’s arms, only the side of her face visible as she stared down at her newborn. Telly? With his mom. The page didn’t offer any captions, just the picture, colors fading with age, taped dead center.
It unsettled Cal to look at such a mundane shot. Cute, innocent baby. Happy, tender mom. And to realize seventeen years later, the baby in this photo would grow into a boy determined to kill them all.
Slowly, Cal flipped his way through, holding up his mobile phone to document each page as the baby became a toddler, then was joined by a second baby in a pink blanket.
Soon, both the little boy and little girl were growing up, with no captions to provide insight into the Kodak moments. And no parents in sight.
“Noonan,” Darren growled behind him.
“I know.”
Moving faster, he flipped to the final page in the photo album: a lone shot of an older gentleman. Blurred, not the best photo. Maybe the infamous father, or, to judge by the sparse gray, a grandfather. But again, no caption. Just a lone male, who at one time must’ve meant something to Telly Ray Nash.
Cal set the photo album down, moved quickly to the next notebook in the pile. Any second now Telly could burst into the campsite, guns blazing. Or worse, he could’ve been hunkered down all along in some hidey-hole they hadn’t discovered. And right this minute, he was settling the butt of his rifle into the pocket of his shoulder, deep breath in, deep breath out, as he placed the crosshairs on the back of Cal’s head.
Notebooks. Four more to go. He went with the one with the green cover. And finally was rewarded by the content he expected. Text. Every line, margin, top of a page, even the narrow little spaces between the wire binding, was covered with words. Disjointed. Fragments of sentences, repeated thoughts. Probably not written all at the same time either. Some lines held larger, sloppy letters, as if written by a grade schooler. Whereas the heavily inked words crammed into the spiral binding—he couldn’t even read most of them. The printing was almost microscopic, very controlled. Older Telly, who’d run out of space at the end so returned to compulsively fill the rest of the page?
He snapped a photo, realizing already there was way too much here for one twitchy tracker to read while waiting for his head to get blown off.
Quicker now, from notebook to notebook to notebook. Scanning, scanning, scanning, while Darren growled at him to hurry up.
Flipping to the final few pages of the last notebook, snap, snap, snap. Intel for the police, fodder for the retired profiler.
Then, because he couldn’t help himself, Cal lowered his phone and checked out the page.
He’d expected a litany of rage or petty grievances against the world. Maybe even a list of all the ways Telly had been done wrong. But instead, the final pages of the last notebook mirrored the content from the walls of Telly’s bedroom: not a recounting of the day’s events or ponderings into the greater universe but, instead, a litany of words:
Zero or hero. Who am I?
Protector. Destroyer. Protector. Destroyer. Protector.
What kind of man, what kind of man, what kind of man?
The writing was heaviest on the final two pages. The letters dark, as if Telly had gone over each word repeatedly, not just inking the page but scoring his anxiety into the paper.
Think, think, think, think, think, think, read the page.
About what? Cal wanted to know.
Then on the very last page. A single word. A single pledge.
Hero.
Cal shook his head.
He replaced all items, restaged the wooden pallets, then set up the motion-sensitive cameras. Work done, he motioned to his flankers, who rematerialized at his side. They headed down the trail.
Best-case scenario: Telly would return to his base camp shortly, triggering the motion-sensitive cameras as he unrolled his gear. He’d close his eyes. SWAT would descend and the community would be able to sleep at night.
Worst-case scenario: Telly would never return to camp. Meaning the mass murderer who labeled himself a hero . . .
Could be absolutely anywhere.
Chapter 30
LUKA IS WHINING LOW in his throat. I don’t blame him. I’m tired and confused myself. It feels like we’ve been wandering in the woods forever. Following the river toward . . . four-wheeler trails, my homicidal brother, nothing at all?
It’s late. I know because I keep checking my phone. Quick turns on and off. Checking the time and, of course, messages. But nothing else from Quincy or Rainie. Which proves what I initially suspected: Quincy’s text about having my brother in custody was a lie. I figured as much. I mean, they arrest a kid suspected of shooting how many people, and the first thing they do is reach out to his sister for a reunion?
I pay attention at family dinners. I know it’s okay to lie to a murder suspect, as well as to your teenage daughter. Whatever preserves the greater good. But the fact that I’m probably right doesn’t make me feel any better. Mostly it leaves me sad. And missing Quincy. Because he loves me enough to lie, and I respect that about him.
So Luka and I have been wandering. Along the river so we don’t get totally lost. And where there’s plenty of water for Luka, who’s stuck wearing a fur coat in this heat. From time to time I feed us both snacks. But I’m sparing because not knowing where we are going or how long it might take us, I’m not sure how to ration our supplies.
Luka is accustomed to dinner at five. On the dot. Frankly, at four, four forty-five, he starts hanging around in the kitchen, staring pointedly at his food bowl. Where does he hide his watch? I’ve never known. But Luka can
tell time better than any automated system, and sure enough, about an hour ago, he started getting very agitated with me.
I may not have Luka’s sense of time, but my stomach is rumbling. I pause long enough to gift each of us with half a granola bar. Luka eats his in two bites. I, at least, try to savor mine. But it’s been a while since lunch. And we’re hot, tired, and . . . dispirited.
Looking for a miracle, when I’m not that kind of kid.
Noise. It takes a moment to penetrate. Distant and buzzing, like bees. Except then I register the continuity and how the sound is growing louder. Closer. An engine.
Most likely of a four-wheeler. We’ve reached the recreational vehicle trails. Just like that, I’m excited, panicked, and terrified all at once. Is that him? My long-lost brother driving closer to us? I’ve found him.
What do I say? What do I do?
Hey, remember me? Stop, don’t shoot?
I pick up my steps. I can’t help myself. I’m so agitated and exhausted, I just have to know. Even if it’s horrible and I was all wrong and my own brother and last surviving family member shoots me, hey, at least it seems better than being in limbo.
I’m stupid, and rash, and everything Quincy and Rainie have ever accused me of, as I start jogging down the path, Luka at my heels, heading closer to the noise.
I arrive at the path just as the rugged black four-wheeler roars into sight and blows by me. My first impression, not a kid at all. But a big, burly guy, capped with a helmet, tearing up the trails. Then three seconds behind, another vehicle appears from around the bend and whips on by. Good old boys, having a time of it.
Because apparently my brother isn’t the only lunatic wandering these woods.
And . . . and I don’t know what to do.
I came. I saw. And now I’m utterly, totally done. I want to go home, hang my head in shame, and take my punishment. Rainie, at least, will hug me. I could really use a hug right now.
Growling. So low, it takes a moment to register. Luka has gone stiff-legged by my side. He’s peering into a bush, and he’s rumbling deep in his chest.
I frown, turn to shush my dog, and in the next moment . . .
I see him.
Holding so still, so motionless, his face painted in streaks of brown and black, he could be the bush around him or the tree right behind him. But he’s none of those things. He’s my brother.
Standing right there.
—
GUN. I SEE IT without really seeing it. The next second, I’m on my knees, throwing my arms around Luka’s furry neck, as my guard dog starts to bark in earnest. Shush, shush. I need to quiet him, calm him, but my Dutch has deserted me and all I can do is hang on to my dog, block his body with my own as I beg:
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. It’s not Luka’s fault. I made him come. But he’s a good dog. The best dog. Please don’t hurt my dog. Please.”
“Clifford,” my brother says, his voice hoarse, almost rusty sounding.
I nod without understanding it. Then I remember Dutch long enough to give Luka the command to stand down. He does, but I can tell from the stiffness of his body beneath my arms that he doesn’t believe me. I keep my head buried in the scruff of his neck. If my brother is about to shoot us both, I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to know that I led my dog to his death.
Seconds pass. Maybe a full minute. I’m not sure. Eventually, I feel the muscles soften in Luka’s shoulders. When I raise my head, I expect my brother to be gone. To have vanished as dramatically as he appeared.
But he’s still standing there. Not having moved an inch. With all the fancy streaks and paint on his face, it’s hard to make out his features. I see mostly the whites of his eyes. I wonder how he learned to disguise himself this well, become such an outdoorsman. And I realize there is much about this brother I don’t know.
“Sharlah,” he says.
“Telly,” I answer.
Then, for a long time, we say nothing at all.
Luka breaks the silence first. He whines. Licks my face. I realize for the first time I’m crying. It embarrasses me. I pull away from Luka long enough to scrub my cheeks. When I look up again, my brother is still there, the trails, the woods quiet all around us.
“I came looking for you,” I say, because someone’s gotta do something.
“I heard you got new parents. Cop parents. You should’ve stayed with them.”
“I didn’t want you to hurt them. I didn’t want them . . .” I make myself look him in the eye. “I didn’t want them to have to hurt you.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me with his disconcerting face blending into the tree trunk behind him, the rifle loose in his hands. I wonder if this is the same gun he used on his foster parents or those people at the gas station, or the police officers. Guess eight years later, Telly doesn’t need a baseball bat anymore.
“Your foster parents,” I say at last. “Why?”
He shakes his head, as if trying to deny my words.
“And strangers at the EZ Gas. Telly, what are you doing?”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“But I am.”
“Go home.”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” I draw myself up tall, proud of how brave I sound, even if I’m quivering on the inside.
My brother looks at me again, and for the first time, I can finally read his expression. Grief. Horror. Sadness. Deep, endless sadness. I can’t help myself. I reach out a hand.
That quickly, he fires to life. Rifle, pointed straight at me. Level, steady. Yep, he’s come a long way in the past eight years.
Luka starts growling again, and only my fingers, wrapped tight around his collar, keep him in place.
“Damn it, Sharlah—”
“Where’s a baseball bat when you need one?”
“Get out. Go home. I mean it! Get the hell away from me!”
“Or what, you’ll shoot?”
“You don’t understand—”
“Then tell me.”
“Get the hell away from me!”
“No!”
“I’ll pull the trigger. So help me God, I’ll do it.”
“Then do it!”
“You stupid— Think of your arm, Sharlah. Want me to break the other one?”
“Mom,” I say.
Just like that, he draws up short, rifle bobbing uncertainly. “What?”
“Mom,” I repeat.
He doesn’t say a word. But then I don’t expect him to.
“I remember Mom,” I say steadily. “I remember that night. And I know, Telly, I know why you broke my arm.”
I don’t wait anymore. I let go of my dog. I walk straight forward. Into the bush, into the rifle. I shove the firearm aside. I put my arms around my brother. Then I say what I should’ve said eight years ago.
I whisper in my brother’s ear: “I’m sorry, Telly. It was all my fault. And I’m so sorry.”
I wrap my arms around my big brother’s skinny waist and hold him as he cries.
—
TELLY PULLS AWAY. He starts to walk. Without bothering to ask, I scramble after him, Luka close at my heels.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Wherever they don’t expect me to be.”
“That’s not much of a plan. Can’t walk forever. Especially in this heat. And not to brag or anything, but my new parents, they’re pretty good. Quincy even tried to get me to return home by pretending to have found you already. It’s only a matter of time.”
Telly pauses briefly, shoots me a glance. “They found my camp. Is that what he said?”
“I don’t . . . remember.”
He nods, resuming his quick pace along the edge of the trail. “Bet they did. After finding Frank’s and Sandra’s bodies, they’d have to call Henry. He’d notic
e the missing camping gear. Knowing him, couldn’t resist mentioning Frank’s favorite campsite.” He nods again, more to himself than me. “Good.”
“Good?” I ask. “Doesn’t that mean the police now have all your camping gear?”
“Can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs,” he says. Which makes no sense to me.
“I have an apple left,” I offer shyly. He’s wearing a navy blue backpack, near the same size as mine. It appears heavy, but whether it’s weighed down with food or ammo, I’m too chicken to ask.
Telly shakes his head.
“Water?” he asks instead.
“One bottle.” I start slipping off my backpack. He shakes his head again, comes around behind me. I feel the jerk and tug as he works the zipper on my backpack himself, weight shifting and moving as he digs around. After a near eternity he reappears in front of me, plastic water bottle now in hand.
I have a piece of paper in my hand. My cell phone number written on a scrap of notebook. I hand it to him wordlessly. He doesn’t say anything, just slides it into his pocket.
Telly glances at Luka. In response, Luka curls up his lip, baring a long, white fang. Far from being fearful, my brother nods in satisfaction. “I heard he’s a police dog?”
“Retired. Bum knees.”
“Should he be hiking?”
“This kind of walking doesn’t bother him. And exercise is good for him. I still have some treats for him, and so far, he’s done just fine drinking out of streams. Do you have a plan?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer. Walks faster.
“Gonna do what? Keep roaming the woods, shooting at random strangers? Or are you now only firing at trained members of law enforcement?”
“You can go home anytime you’d like,” he informs me.
“But I know where you are.”
“Nah. You’d only know where I once was. Like the campsite. Knew the police would find it. Planned on it, actually. Because now they’re focusing their efforts up there, while I’m down here.” He glances at me. “How well do you know policing?”
