Right Behind You

by Lisa Gardner

  I got up myself, realizing now I had to pee, not to mention half my body had gone numb from sleeping on a wooden pallet.

  I slipped on my still-damp boots, then unzipped the small door, poked my head out into the real world.

  The woods were filled with mist. Long gray tendrils wrapping around moss-covered trees, sliding through tall mounds of lush green ferns. Quiet, just like Frank had said. Peaceful. And . . . beautiful.

  I’d read a lot of King Arthur in my younger days. Something about the woods looked the way I had pictured Avalon in my mind. Green and gray all at once. Real and ghostly.

  And no sign of Frank.

  I tended to business first. Then wandered around the small clearing. The camp stove was still cold, so he hadn’t started breakfast. No sign of him in the near vicinity. Then I thought to check where we’d hung our coats. Frank’s was missing.

  Next I checked the rifles, which he’d stashed with us inside the tent—gotta keep them dry. Both rifles were present. Frank’s twenty-two, however, which he often carried for personal protection, was missing.

  I got it then. The real reason we were having a “hunting” weekend. Why Frank would need to get away and take his handgun with him.

  I grabbed my wet jacket and hurried down the narrow deer trail that was the direct path in and out of the campsite.

  Sliding in places. Stumbling over loose rocks. Once, nearly biting it on a jutting tree root. But moving quickly because . . . just because.

  Near the bottom, I slowed. Already, I could hear voices.

  I crept the last few feet. Not all the way out of the woods. But keeping under the cover of the bushes, as I did my best to understand what was unfolding twenty feet ahead of me, roadside.

  Frank was talking to a man. An older guy, in an old-fashioned tan trench coat, with a fedora on his head. Old geezer dude, no doubt about it. Sandra’s father.

  They stood in front of a glossy black Cadillac. Geezer dude’s car, which he’d driven here, I would guess, as he didn’t look to be in any kind of shape to hike to our campsite.

  “You need to back off,” Frank was saying. “Whatever you want with my family, my family doesn’t want you.”

  “You always speak for your wife?”

  “Please. Sandra will never speak to you, and you know it.”

  “Henry looks to be a good kid.”

  “Push this, Dave, and I will be the least of your problems. Sandra will come after you herself. You really want that?”

  Silence.

  “I’m dying, Frank.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “I got cancer. Bad. It’s only a matter of time now.”

  Frank didn’t say anything.

  “Death,” the guy said at last, “has a way of changing a person. Makes him see things differently.”

  “Repenting, old man?”

  “And if I was?”

  Frank shook his head. “Too little, too late.”

  “At least let me talk to the kid. It’s not fair of her to keep my only grandson from me.”

  “She’ll gut you like a fish.”

  “My daughter—”

  “Learned everything she knows from you. Walk away, Dave. Consider the advice as my gift to a dying man. Walk away, or cancer will be the least of your concerns.”

  “I got money—”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I mean I got real money. Legitimate funds. Stay in business long enough, these things happen.”

  “She doesn’t want it.”

  “I am her father!”

  “Which is the only reason she’s let you live!” Frank’s voice was cold. Colder than I’d ever heard him. I shrunk back, not sure of this hard, angry man.

  “I’m dying,” the old guy said again.

  “Then I hope, for your own sake, you find some peace. But forgiveness from your daughter? That’s out of the question. Some sins a man gets to live with. And some sins I guess you get to die with, as well.”

  The old man didn’t say anything. Finally, he expelled a breath, which rattled ominously in his chest. He reached for his waist. I watched Frank move, arm going to the small of his back. Where he had his twenty-two, I realized.

  But the old man didn’t do anything. Just belted his trench coat tighter.

  He stared at Frank with his rheumy eyes.

  “My daughter, she’s always been stubborn, but she’s never been stupid. So you tell her, from me. My dying, it changes things. I’m not the only one who knows where she lives. I’m not the only one who’s been keeping tabs.”

  “You threatening my wife, Dave?”

  “My dying changes things,” the old man repeated simply. Then he turned and headed back to his car.

  Frank didn’t leave. He stood there, hand still at the small of his back, as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I found myself holding my own breath as the guy wrestled with the Cadillac’s heavy door, took another rattling breath, then worked on climbing inside the vehicle.

  Finally, the door shut, the engine fired to life.

  Sandra’s father drove away.

  Frank’s hand dropped from his concealed firearm.

  “You can come out now,” he said, without ever turning around.

  Self-consciously, I withdrew from the bushes, finished hoofing it to the road.

  “I didn’t see anything,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Didn’t hear nothing, either.”

  “Smart.”

  “That really Sandra’s father?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she hates him that much?”

  “More.”

  “Am I still supposed to shoot him on sight?”

  “Would save Sandra the hassle.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Frank finally looked at me. “Thank you.”

  We turned and hiked back up the trail.

  “Hey,” he said presently. “I brought some face paint. Instead of going hunting, let’s spend the day on woodland survival skills, starting, of course, with very important camouflage techniques.”

  Chapter 32

  RAINIE HAD ALWAYS KNOWN parenting would have rough patches. Times when doing the right thing would mean going against her first instincts. When she would be required to be tough rather than loving, the bad guy versus her child’s confidante. For example, this minute right now, seeing her daughter for the first time in hours, as the sun started to lower and the woods filled with shadows, and her heart clenched so tight in her chest it was a physical pain.

  She wanted to rush out of the vehicle. She wanted to grab Sharlah in a fierce embrace. Then search her daughter, limb by limb, for signs of injury, while reassuring herself over and over that her daughter was safe, the danger had passed, Rainie could breathe again.

  Sharlah walked out of the woods, and instead of rushing to her daughter’s side, Rainie forced herself to remain inside the car, quiet, calm, and, of course, aware of her surroundings.

  Sharlah’s brother had to be someplace close. At least until recently. Because she knew her stubborn child. There was no way Sharlah had simply given up on her mission. If Sharlah had called home, it could only mean she’d gotten a chance to finally see Telly. And her older brother had sent her packing.

  Her child hurt. Rainie could tell by the slump of her shoulders, the dejected line of her bowed head as Sharlah now crossed a grassy field, working her way toward Rainie’s vehicle with Luka by her side. Not the kind of wounds a limb-by-limb inspection would reveal, but still . . .

  Rainie climbed out of her SUV, studying the rapidly darkening woods behind her daughter. Telly had a rifle. If he was somewhere in those woods, watching her right now through his scope . . .

  The woods were too shadowed to penetrate. She heard distant birds, a light
wind rustle the grass, Sharlah’s heavy tread. That was it.

  Sharlah and Luka approached. Rainie hit the button to raise the rear hatch of her vehicle. Luka didn’t need any more invitation. He bounded across the last twenty yards and leapt into Rainie’s Lexus. Then, a minute later, Sharlah was there, her face sunburned, her hair sticking out in all kinds of directions, her bare arms and legs covered in scratches.

  “I’m sorry,” Sharlah said, and she sounded so sad, so disheartened, Rainie felt the hard knot of fear and rage in her chest dissolve just like that.

  “He sent you away, didn’t he?”

  “He told me to live happily ever after, so at least one of us did.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  “And then”—Sharlah took a deep breath, looked right at her—“he told me he had one more person to kill.”

  “Get in the car,” Rainie said. “I brought you some food and water. Luka, too.”

  “We’re not going home, are we?”

  “No, honey, we’re not.”

  —

  RAINIE DROVE STRAIGHT TO the sheriff’s department. Sharlah sat beside her, not saying a word, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich untouched on her lap. Luka, on the other hand, had wolfed down a bowl of kibble. At least one member of the family was happy.

  Rainie had spoken to Quincy on and off all afternoon. After the raid on Telly’s camp, he and the others had headed to the sheriff’s department to analyze their findings. They needed more space for spreading out the tracker’s photos of Telly’s notebooks, as well as access to a whiteboard for scribbling down questions, random thoughts, fresh leads. Last Rainie had heard, the motion-sensitive cameras remained at Telly’s campsite. If they fired to life, SWAT would instantly mobilize. Until then, they were operating more in an investigative mode. Which would make Sharlah’s report on her brother all the more interesting, not to mention Rainie’s own recent discovery.

  “Eat your sandwich,” she told Sharlah as they approached the sheriff’s office. “You’re going to need your strength.”

  The front of the sheriff’s department was still a circus of media vans and blazing lights. Which made Rainie grateful for her clearly civilian vehicle as she turned into the mob. A crush of reporters briefly descended, took in a boring-looking woman and her child, then backed away, in search of bigger prey. Rainie made it to the rear lot, which was quieter, and parked her car.

  Sharlah had managed three bites of her sandwich. That was it. At least the bottle of water had been drained.

  Rainie looked at her daughter, sighed.

  “I love you,” Rainie said abruptly.

  “You’re mad at me. I shouldn’t have run away.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “You’re going to ground me.” Sharlah’s gaze was on her lap.

  “There will be consequences. Sharlah . . . Trust is hard. Especially for people like us. You, me, Quincy. We have a tendency to think we know best. And to feel more comfortable going at things alone. But arrogance, comfort, that’s not what a family is about. Trusting each other, leaning on each other, that’s what we’re here for.”

  “I thought you might hurt him,” Sharlah whispered. “Or worse, he might hurt you.”

  “I know. But that’s the trust part. Instead of taking action on your own, you could’ve come to us. Told us your fears.”

  “You would’ve said you could handle him.”

  “Yes.”

  Sharlah appeared miserable. “I don’t know if that’s true,” she said, finally looking up. “This new Telly . . . His face, the rifle. I don’t know him at all.”

  “But he didn’t hurt you.”

  “No.”

  “He still loves you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sharlah.” Rainie turned in the driver’s seat so she was facing her daughter. “Maybe your brother didn’t say what you hoped he would say. But did you get the chance to say what you wanted to say?”

  “I told him I was sorry.”

  Rainie waited.

  “I shouldn’t have let him go, back then. I should’ve asked for him, demanded to see him, something. He was my brother. I should’ve fought harder.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Sharlah shook her head, glanced away.

  Rainie remained quiet another heartbeat. Close, she thought. They were so close to the words Sharlah needed to say. What had really happened that night with her parents, eight years ago. What Rainie had started to suspect, after talking to the doctor earlier in the afternoon.

  “Trust,” Rainie whispered.

  But some lessons took more than thirteen years to learn. Her troubled daughter shook her head again. Then Sharlah popped open the car door, and Rainie had no choice but to follow.

  —

  LUKA LOVED THE SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT. He moved in a stiff-legged trot, all keen eyes and pricked-up ears. Retired police officer, returning for duty.

  It was too hot to leave the German shepherd in the vehicle, even this time of night. And while Rainie would have liked to think her presence would give her daughter strength for the interview ahead, she already knew Luka made even more of a difference.

  They took the stairs to the second floor, Luka leading the way. They discovered Quincy, working with three others in the conference room. The walls were covered in photos. Printouts, Rainie realized. Not the best resolution, but given that the shots appeared to be photos of old pictures and journal entries, they didn’t need to be. Clustered in one corner were different images—Telly’s campsite, which appeared to be a wooden pallet piled with gear in the middle of a small clearing. Nothing remarkable to her, but then Rainie’s idea of a weekend away included room service.

  Quincy glanced up as they entered. Luka had already found him, was nuzzling his hand. Quincy patted the dog on the head, while his gaze went briefly to Rainie’s, then settled on Sharlah. Rainie could see in his face all the conflicting emotions that had earlier been in hers: relief, mixed with frustration, anger, more frustration, despair.

  The joys of parenting. And they’d volunteered for this.

  She answered his questioning gaze with a short nod of her own. Her signal that yes, she’d had a discussion with their daughter. Which, for now, would have to suffice, given this was not the time nor the place for Quincy to work out his own differences with Sharlah. Their daughter had returned home safe. For now, that would have to be enough.

  Rainie started the ball rolling. “She saw him.”

  A man got up from the table, slice of pizza in hand. He wore sweat-stained hiking gear and well-used boots. The tracker, she would guess. What had Quincy said was his name? Cal Noonan. Luka trotted over, sniffed the man up and down. Seemed to deem him acceptable. For his part, the man ignored the shepherd, finished his pizza.

  “Approximate location?” he asked, selecting a pushpin from the box on the table.

  When picking up Sharlah, Rainie had logged the GPS coordinates on her phone. Now she held up her screen for the man to read.

  “Rainie Conner,” she introduced herself.

  “Cal Noonan. Thanks.” There was a blown-up map on the wall behind Rainie and Sharlah. Cal used a bright blue tack to mark the coordinates. Then the tracker stood back, frowned.

  “That’s twelve miles south of the campsite.” He stared at Sharlah. “Was he still on the four-wheeler?”

  Mutely, the girl shook her head.

  “He had it parked somewhere?”

  “N-n-no.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  The girl shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with direct attention. “He was walking,” she whispered. “Before I saw him. And um . . . afterward.”

  Rainie studied the floor, the desire to wrap her daughter in a protective embrace nearly overwhelming. But facts remained facts: Sharlah had run off to meet with a
suspected mass murderer. And in doing so, she’d sealed her own fate regarding police interrogations, suspicious questions, and the like.

  “Is that his camp?” Sharlah surprised Rainie by asking. The girl raised her hand and pointed to an array of photos opposite them.

  The tracker nodded. His gaze was not unkind, Rainie thought. Just serious. A man who’d had a long day and seen two of his own shot in the line of duty. She noticed Luka remained at his side. A sign of approval of sorts. While Sheriff Atkins and her lead homicide sergeant, Roy, seemed content to let Cal do the talking. More signs of respect.

  “He said you would find it,” Sharlah stated now, her voice clearer.

  Shelly Atkins studied the girl with fresh interest. She crossed the room, hunkering down next to Sharlah. “Say that again. Telly knew we’d find the campsite?”

  “He said Henry wouldn’t be able to resist telling you about it.” Sharlah took a deep breath, looked the sheriff in the eye. She was trying. Rainie doubted the others in the room got it, except for Quincy of course, but shy, anxious, hate-to-be-in-the-spotlight Sharlah was trying very hard to do right. “Telly said . . . said he wanted you to find it. It would keep you busy. There, you know. You’d be inspecting the camp, while he headed south.”

  Cal shook his head. “Told you he was smart.”

  “Why was he headed south?” the sheriff asked, her gaze fixed on Sharlah’s.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he mention a destination?”

  “No.” Sharlah fidgeted, shifted from side to side. The girl’s voice dropped low. “Um . . . he said . . . he said I couldn’t go with him. I couldn’t follow, ’cause, um . . .” Sharlah’s voice became even softer. “He said he had one more person left to kill.”

  “Who?” Quincy’s voice, a whip snap across the room.

  Sharlah flinched. She kept her eyes on the sheriff as she answered her father’s question.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was he armed when you saw him?” Quincy asked steadily. Not father to daughter, but profiler to witness.

  Again, Rainie had to study the floor, force herself not to intervene. She had her approach. Quincy had his.