Never Tell Them

by N L Hinkens

  Her mother had been right all along not to trust him. He was unhinged. There was no telling what he had in mind. Perhaps he’d lured her here because he suspected she knew too much already. He might be planning to return to the car with a gun and force her to accompany him to his brother’s cabin—if it even belonged to his brother. What if he’d killed Tom, and their father? She had no idea what he was capable of. Maybe his disjointed memories were more accurate than he realized. She moaned as she quickened her pace, thrashing through the damp undergrowth. He might actually be a serial killer. She knew she wasn’t thinking straight, but then monsters didn’t think straight either. They did the unthinkable, especially to those naive enough to lend a stranger a helping hand.

  She’d only been underway five minutes or less, when she heard the distinctive sound of a twig snapping like a firecracker behind her. She froze, turning her head slowly to scan her surroundings. Her heart was pulsing so hard in her chest it felt like it might burst. Scarcely daring to breathe, she crept as quietly as possible off the dirt road and slipped behind the trunk of a tree. Minutes ticked by, but she heard nothing more to indicate she was being followed, only the sound of her ragged breathing. Maybe it had been an animal moving through the brush. She peered cautiously out from behind the rough, corrugated bark of the tree, before continuing down the mountain. This time she elected to weave her way among the trees that lined the dirt road rather than remain exposed. Her purse strap kept slipping off her shoulders and she berated herself for not bringing something more practical. But then, she hadn’t been planning on fleeing down the mountain. Her Vans weren’t the best option for hiking in either, but at least she wasn’t wearing heels.

  Just when the tension in her shoulders had begun to dissipate, she picked up on a rustling sound a short distance behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Someone, or something, was definitely following her. Adrenalin surged through her as she struggled with a split second-decision—hide again, or run? She turned and ran.

  Branches clawed at her face in passing as she thundered blindly through the forest. Her purse slipped from her shoulder again, and she frantically threw the strap over her head and continued running, unhampered apart from the canvas shoes slipping on her heels. She barely felt the pain of the blisters forming as she squelched her way through a watery bed of mud and leaves, her one goal to reach the main road and flag down help.

  She could no longer hear if anyone was following her. But she couldn’t risk slowing down enough to look over her shoulder. Her only hope was that she was in better physical shape than Ray. Maybe the memory loss was a ruse, but he hadn’t been faking the bruises she’d seen in the hospital. Her hair slowly worked its way loose from the makeshift ponytail she’d put it in to work on her sketches, but she didn’t dare stop to adjust it. Pumping her arms, she propelled herself to go faster, hair plastered across her face.

  In the next instant, her shoe caught in a tree root and she tumbled forward, throwing her arms out in a desperate bid to break her fall. She landed on her hip in the dirt with a thud and let out a strangled yelp. Panting, she jerked her head around in terror, but there was no one in sight. She rubbed her hip, trying to calm her rapid breathing. Somehow, she had to get up and keep going. Wincing, she got to her feet and hobbled back for her shoe. As she bent over to pick it up, she froze at the sound of footsteps.

  “Sonia! Are you all right?” a voice cried out.

  She didn’t dare move a muscle. She couldn’t have moved anyway. Shock had turned her to stone.

  23

  TWO MONTHS PRIOR

  A myriad of emotions swirled around in Ray’s head as he exited the law offices of Smith & Buchanan, the firm in Booneville handling his mother’s modest estate. He’d driven down from Richmond the previous day and stayed in a hotel overnight, hoping to wrap everything up in one day. The minute he climbed back into his truck, he tore open the envelope the lawyer had given him and slid out the keys to his mother’s house. A familiar heaviness gripped his chest as memories he’d buried deep inside ripped through his consciousness like tree roots breaking through the dirt. Some small part of him was sorry to learn his mother was dead, but he was mostly numb. If he was grieving for anyone, it was for himself and the happy childhood he had missed out on. If he had been a drinker, he would have opted for a stiff drink right about then. But it wasn’t an appealing option for the child of an alcoholic. Even the smell of hard liquor, the very fabric of his childhood, was enough to turn his stomach to this day.

  In some ways, the physical beatings and deprivation had been easier to take than the mental and verbal abuse his father had hurled at him and Tom—an unremitting barrage of cruel taunts, and hurtful words that he could still hear echoing through the chambers of his mind during sleepless nights. A nightmare of a life that Celia had been adept at covering up in public. But behind closed doors, it was a different story. Often, their father would start drinking early in the evening and stay up all night watching television, growing increasingly aggressive and unpredictable as the hours wore on. Half the time, Ray and Tom were too terrified to go downstairs to eat their dinner, and too traumatized to fall asleep, praying their father would pass out before he could stumble upstairs to unleash his anger on them for some perceived offense or another. The only respite they ever really had was when he occasionally disappeared for days on end. Ray had no idea where he went, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t working, as Celia claimed.

  It had taken years of therapy for Ray to work through the scars from his childhood: the flashbacks, the anxiety, the depression. It had handicapped him in life relationally. In the jobs he’d held when he was younger, he was known as a loner. But his colleagues had no idea how hard it was to put your faith in people when those closest to you let you down time and time again.

  On many occasions growing up, Celia had promised him and Tom that she would leave their father, but she’d always chickened out in the end. A part of him hated her for her cowardice, even though he knew how scared she’d been. He would never put a child through anything like what they had suffered. Maybe that was why he shied away from serious relationships. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had his chances. He could have been married by now, but he always panicked and ended the relationship when it came time to commit. It was too terrifying a prospect to pledge yourself to someone for the rest of your life when you were convinced it would only be a matter of time before they hurt you.

  He tossed the envelope from the lawyer’s office on the passenger seat and put the truck in gear. He was dreading making the trip to the house his mother had been living in. But, like it or not, it had been left to him to handle her affairs. Her will had stipulated that everything was to be divided equally between him and Tom. Unsurprisingly, Smith & Buchanan had been unable to get in touch with Tom. After Ray explained that his brother had vanished without a trace when he was sixteen, the lawyer suggested filing a petition with the court requesting he be presumed dead. Ray wasn’t sure how he felt about that. It seemed too final—too cutthroat.

  For years, he’d clung to the hope that his brother was alive. He’d spent a fair amount of time and money trying to find him—even going so far as to put a highly rated private investigator on the job. She’d been thorough in pursuing all possible avenues but concluded that Tom was either deceased and law enforcement had been unable to determine his legal identity, or he was living off-grid somewhere and had no wish to be found.

  Ray and Tom had talked about the idea a lot when they were younger—romanticizing the notion of living off the land and being accountable to no one. But Ray doubted Tom had actually gone through with it. As hard as it was to accept, the more likely scenario was that his brother had succumbed to a life on the streets. The cards were stacked against him with addiction running in the family.

  Forty-five minutes later, Ray pulled into the driveway of a tired-looking craftsman-style bungalow. He sat in the truck staring at the building for several minutes before he became aware
of an older woman sitting on her porch peering curiously across at him. He snatched the envelope off the seat and climbed out, ducking his head to avoid having to acknowledge her as he made his way to the door. The less contact he had with his mother’s neighbors, the better.

  His plan was to look around inside and assess the situation. With a bit of luck, the house would only require a fresh coat of paint to get it ready for sale, and he could unload it quickly. He didn’t relish the idea of spending weeks on end sprucing it up and carrying out repairs. Nor was he interested in listing the contents on Craigslist or hosting a garage sale. Depending on the condition the furniture was in, he would either donate it or toss it. The quicker he got out of there, the sooner he could get on with his life.

  Stepping inside, he wrinkled his nose at the musty smell pervading the space. Every appointment bore witness to the age of the departed inhabitant. The kitchen was straight from the seventies—laminate cabinets and countertops, an avocado green dishwasher, and a harvest yellow tile backsplash. The wood cabinets were topped with wicker baskets overflowing with plastic ivy and faded fake flowers. Ray curled his lip in distaste. The color palette alone was enough to induce a migraine.

  With a mounting sense of dread, he made his way into the family room, groaning aloud at the hideous statement-stone fireplace wall that greeted him. Every square inch of space in the room was cluttered with lamps, ottomans, footstools, and nesting tables overflowing with ornaments and knickknacks. The arms and backs of the couch and chairs were bedecked with yellowing lace doilies. The entire room smacked of a love affair with the color brown, culminating in a particularly distasteful carpet that resembled dead leaves on a forest floor.

  Resigning himself to tackling a bigger job than he’d anticipated, Ray searched out Celia’s bedroom next. He grimaced as he took in the space: the obligatory shag carpet, a gaudy, floral window treatment that matched the comforter on the queen-sized bed, an uncomfortable-looking tufted chair upholstered in Wedgewood blue, and a lopsided oak dresser with grooves for handle pulls. There was no getting around it. The whole house would have to be renovated, beginning with renting a skip to handle all the junk he’d encountered so far.

  He slid apart the mirrored closet doors, almost gagging from the overpowering stench of mothballs that hit him. He didn’t relish the idea of going through his mother’s clothes. Maybe he could bag them up and donate them as is. By the looks of things, he would have more than enough to handle without sifting through an elderly woman’s wardrobe and trying to figure out what was worth saving.

  Eying the shoeboxes on the shelf above the clothing rack, he reached for the nearest one and peeked inside. It was jammed full of papers—letters and the like. Probably trash, but he would have to go through them all to make sure. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began rifling through the contents. Three shoeboxes later, he stumbled on a pile of bank statements. As he leafed disinterestedly through them, the sum of $4500 caught his eye. Scrutinizing the statements more closely, he was surprised to see that $4500 had been transferred out of Celia’s account every month for the past five years. Where on earth was the money going? It was almost two-thirds of her monthly income. She owned a modest rental property, but, apart from that, her only income was a small pension and her social security check.

  Ray returned the shoeboxes to the closet and took the pile of statements down to the kitchen. He would call the bank and see if they could help him get to the bottom of it. First, he needed some coffee. He rummaged through the array of brightly colored ceramic canisters on the countertop until he found what he was looking for.

  As he waited for the coffee to brew in the archaic machine, he ran his eye over a calendar hanging above the phone documenting his mother’s last known movements: a trip to the hairdresser, a doctor’s appointment, a grocery list; bread, milk, tuna, oranges. He pulled out the alphabetical address book beneath the phone and thumbed through it. The breath caught in his throat when he came to the letter “J.”

  Tom Jenkins, 35.7647° N, 82.2653° W

  24

  For several days, Ray went back-and-forth about what the coordinates meant, debating what to do about them. Was Tom alive—living off-grid someplace? Had he given Celia the coordinates? That would mean his mother and younger brother had been in contact with one another. It could also explain the $4500 Celia was transferring into an unidentified account each month. But why would Tom need the money? And why had no one told Ray his brother was alive?

  A wave of remorse coursed through him as the harsh truth hit home. He was the one who had cut off all contact. Even if his mother had wanted to tell him, she had no way of getting in touch with him—he’d made sure of that. He’d kept tabs on her through the years from a distance, but he’d never suspected that all this time Tom was alive. His heart shuddered when he pictured his brother’s small, pale face, taut with fear, as they’d huddled together in their bedroom listening to the sound of their father going on another rampage, dreading the moment they would hear his footsteps thumping up the stairs.

  He couldn’t put it off any longer. If Tom was alive, he had to know. He opened up the map he’d bought of the Blue Ridge mountains and jotted down the coordinates in the margin, then marked an approximate course with a yellow highlighter. After stashing a change of clothes in his backpack, he grabbed his GPS, some snacks and water, and headed out to his truck, already second-guessing his decision. He couldn’t be sure what he would find when he arrived. Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part believing Tom was alive. What if the GPS led him to a mound of rocks and a makeshift cross? Perhaps their mother had spread Tom’s ashes in the mountains and recorded the coordinates so she could visit his grave.

  An hour later, he turned off the main highway, and traversed along a dirt road for a mile or so up into the mountains, before parking his truck in the Deep Creek Campground. There was no official trail to the coordinates, which would make for slow going navigating his way through the shadowy, hulking forest. Despite all his talk of living like a prepper in the back country, he had ended up working in the city all his life. Without Tom, the off-grid dream had lost its appeal. Even with the GPS, he would have to be careful not to lose his bearings—he wasn’t good at directions. As best he could estimate, it would take him at least an hour to reach the coordinates, possibly longer. After adjusting his pack, he set off, a cautious swirl of excitement building inside him as he pictured reuniting with Tom after all these years.

  He was making good progress until he attempted to cross a stream and lost his footing on a moss-covered rock. As he fought a losing battle to keep his balance, the GPS slipped from his grasp and fell into the water with a sickening crack. He scrambled out onto the opposite bank, frantically trying to dry it off, willing the dead screen back to life. Despite his valiant efforts, it was apparent the device was shot. He had no choice now but to rely on his map to make it the rest of the way. He tried to stay calm and approach the setback in a logical manner, although his brain was screaming at him that he was an idiot for allowing this to happen. He wasn’t cut out for the backcountry. He hadn’t even brought a gun with him—just some snacks and enough water for a short hike. He’d been counting on making it to Tom’s cabin and spending the night, if things went well. Or making it back down the mountain before dark if it turned out to be a wild goose chase. The last thing he wanted to do was spend a night alone and lost with the risk of hypothermia or a deadly encounter with a wild animal.

  After consulting the map, he set off once more in what he hoped was a northwesterly direction. It wasn’t long before he came upon another stream and realized something wasn’t right. According to the map, he shouldn’t have to cross any more water to reach the coordinates. Was this the same stream he’d crossed earlier? He glanced at his watch. Only a little after noon. No need to panic, yet. He still had plenty of time to make it safely to Tom’s cabin, or back down the mountain, before nightfall.

  Pulling out his map, he sat down at the base of a
tree and munched on a granola bar while he got his bearings. After re-orienting himself, he adjusted his route and set off once more. Unused to the physical exertion, his joints were already protesting the steep incline. The hush of the forest had become unbearable, almost as if it were holding its breath and watching him—waiting for him to make a mistake. He only hoped he was hiking in the right direction this time. Without his GPS, he could be going in circles. The wisest course of action would probably be to turn around and try and find his way back to the campground.

  The sound of pinecones crunching underfoot startled him. Spinning around, he found himself face-to-face with a bearded man dressed head-to-toe in a mixture of camo and fur, a gun slung over his shoulder, and a menacing knife glinting at his waist. Ray swallowed down his apprehension at the imposing figure, only partially relieved to find himself no longer alone. He gave a tentative nod by way of greeting. ”Glad I ran into you. I think I’m lost.”

  The man cocked his head to one side, sizing him up, his eyes resting briefly on his canvas backpack. ”You’re a long way past the last campsite. Where are you headed?”

  “My brother has a cabin up here. Our mother passed away and I’m trying to get in contact with him.”

  The man drew his shaggy brows together in a skeptical manner. ”What’s his name?”

  “Tom Jenkins.” Ray gave a self-conscious shrug. ”Although, to be honest, I don’t know if he’s going by that name anymore. I’m Ray, by the way.”

  A flicker of shock, mingled with some other emotion Ray couldn’t pinpoint, crossed the man’s face. ”Tom Jenkins is your brother?”

  Ray gave a hesitant smile. ”Yes, my younger brother.”

  The man moved his jaw side-to-side, weighing Ray up with heightened interest. “I’m Buck. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that. I lost my hunting dog. I’ve been looking for him all morning, but I’m on my way back to my place—figured he might have found his way home by now. I can take you by your brother’s cabin on the way.”