Falling

by Rebecca Swartz

  She has planned everything down to the last detail. What she hasn’t planned on is a grown man who breaks down beneath the towering elms, and who cries like a baby when she throws his conviction in his face. She eyes his bent frame with disgust, prepared to consider the event a wash, a failure, until he suddenly rears and whirls on her, and she sees that the tables can turn in an eye blink, and she fires twice, reflexively.

  He drops to the ground, and she takes a moment to gape in surprise. She stumbles back several steps, then turns and bends at the waist. She takes a handful of deep breaths before sprinting away. Even in her haste, she takes care to run a zigzag path, to leave no clear track, no obvious sign of her being there. Half an hour later, when she has recovered her equilibrium, sitting in another section of the park a couple of miles away, it occurs to her she didn’t check to ensure he was dead. The realization causes her to sit bolt upright; the thought that she must go back to make sure she has actually killed him is appalling. But if he is not dead, if he is discovered, and lives, he has seen her face; she may as well go into hiding for the rest of her life.

  Back she goes. She is grateful for the deserted bicycle paths, the rushing sound of the creek, the privacy of the trees and undergrowth. There is no one around to see her furtive dashes between tree trunks. When she comes within sight of where she shot him, she skulks forward with trepidation. And when she sees his body, still lying where he’d fallen, she crouches for a minute, her heart hammering in her chest, ears attuned for any sound, eyes narrowed and watchful for any movement. Finally, she dashes forward, comes to a halt near his head, and looks down.

  She does not need to feel for a pulse, or check for breathing. His eyes are open, glazed and empty. It’s all the confirmation she requires. She turns and sprints off again, this time in a different direction, using the same care as before to leave as little trace of herself as possible behind.

  It is an important lesson learned. She never repeats that first mistake.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I knew it was Kael; not for a moment did I doubt that. She’d colored her hair darker and cut it even shorter than it had been, and maybe that would be enough to throw someone else, but not me. I got out of the Jeep and made my way to where she had disappeared from sight, a short breezeway maybe fifty feet long, between the sidewalk out front and the parking lot in back. I concentrated on not rushing, calmly making my way through, to be greeted by the stink of asphalt that had been cooking in the sun and the rear view of several local businesses. The parking lot was a good size and well filled. People made their way to or from their vehicles, and others stood around behind the buildings, smoking. I did not see Kael. Fully aware that she could have gone anywhere, I stayed for almost thirty seconds, wanting to see her, and feeling confused by that want. I was also confused as to her presence. How was it possible she had ended up in the same small town as I, or that our paths had crossed again so soon?

  And then I had to laugh, feeling foolish. Our paths hadn’t exactly crossed. She was nowhere in sight and I had no idea where she’d gone. It was entirely possible, more likely probable, that I wouldn’t see her again during the rest of my time in Hills Valley. If my business went according to plan, I’d be there a whole five days, the weekend included. In fact, if I were being honest with myself, it would likely be best if I didn’t see her again. Kael, and whatever she was involved in, troubled me as much as intrigued me.

  I turned in a half circle, and shaded my eyes against the setting sun. I stopped and faced north, took in the parking lot and, a little farther down, the side and rear view of the local police department. That made me pause. North was the direction Kael had been coming from, which meant she had probably passed right by the building. That seemed quite brazen of her. I had to laugh again. Brazen was pretty much the best descriptor of Kael I could think of. With a bemused snort, I turned to head back to the Jeep.

  At the hotel, I carried my gun case up to my room. I had a permit that allowed me to cross state lines with the weapon, but I never liked to leave it out of my presence for too long. I then went to the guests’ laundry facility and tossed my load of damp clothes into the dryer. Finally, I collected my laptop and went outside to the pool. Its still waters were uninterrupted by any hotel patrons. I made myself comfortable in an Adirondack chair and attended to the paperwork in my documents file that I had neglected the night before. While I worked, I heard the occasional cardinal, mockingbird and Carolina wren. The sharp tang of the numerous long-leaf pines in the area wafted on the light evening breeze, as well as the more delicate scent of the crape myrtles planted along the periphery of the hotel. It was peaceful; the building was set at least a hundred yards back from the main thoroughfare and about the same distance from I-85, which ran perpendicular to it. A veritable forest surrounded it. I liked it. A lot.

  It took me about an hour to finish everything. By then the sun was setting and I was exhausted. I saved the documents to a flash drive. Now that the contract was complete, I could stop in at the copy place I’d noticed in town earlier and print up the paperwork. I closed the laptop, and paused briefly to listen to a whippoorwill somewhere in the trees behind me. I headed in to collect my laundry, and then to my room for some much-needed sleep.

  The last thing I remember before I dropped off was wishing I knew if Kael had a cell phone; it would have been nice to be able to call her and ask what the hell she was doing in Hills Valley.

  * * *

  I awoke early, as I always did when on the road. I’ve never been very good sleeping away from home, even as a child. After my parents broke up, nothing felt secure, and I was always afraid that if I left home, even for one night, when I returned everything would be gone, not just my father. As a result, things like sleepovers were torturous. Instead of laughing and having fun like the other little girls, I would sit pensive and withdrawn, refusing to join in, and lose myself in the atmosphere. My biggest fear was that something would happen to my little sister while in our mother’s questionable care. Even as a child, I knew her mothering skills left something to be desired.

  I climbed out of bed and crossed to the window. I pulled back the drapes and was greeted by a sky that was still a deep azure to the west, but was lightening in the east, where a long, narrow smudge of gray cloud partially obscured the rising sun. The shadows of the trees stretched across the parking lot, reflecting the early hour. I had no illusions the day would be any less warm than the day before, but I didn’t intend to spend too much of it outdoors.

  The hot water of the shower helped to flush away the dregs of drowsiness; a cup of coffee and some breakfast would finish the job. I’d noticed a market with patio seating on the way into town. That would be my first stop of the morning; after that, the print shop, and then my client.

  With the iron and ironing board provided, I did a quick job of pressing a pair of khakis and a sleeveless white button-down shirt. I dressed quickly and took a look in the mirror: other than needing a haircut sometime soon, I had easily achieved the look of a laid-back professional. The thought made me grin, since laid-back was a pretty good description of me. I had always been told I have open and friendly features. As a cop, that had served me well. Some cops like to go for the hard-assed, squinty-eyed, edgy look. I never found that such a demeanor suited me. In my current line of work, my affable competence was what won my clients over; women who have been assaulted, or live in fear of it, don’t wish to be patronized or mollycoddled. They want to feel safe, and they want results. I gave them what they wanted without any kind of sales-pitch or pushiness. Simply put, I was incapable of any kind of deception. It was one of the few things I could thank my mother for; she had been deceptive enough for both of us.

  With a final glance at my reflection, I gathered up my laptop, flash drive and gun case, and headed out for the Jeep and the start of my day.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After the first killing, she returns to Asheville, to her family, her dog, her job. She needs to reg
roup, to rethink; she is less bothered by the fact she has killed a man than she is by her sloppiness. Sloppiness could land her in prison, or get her injured or killed. She prefers to avoid all of those scenarios and resolves to toughen up, to never forget that her targets are predators, deviants.

  She keeps an eye on the Georgetown, Kentucky online newspaper, but other than a short article citing the death of a known pedophile, that foul play is suspected but there are no leads and no suspects, there is no further coverage. This is enough to ease the few worries she has. Still, she is cautious. She does not speak of her time away. She stores her gun in a safe deposit box at the bank. Any clothing used during the encounter she has thrown away. The RAV4 has been to the carwash for detailing.

  The weeks, and then months, pass. She hikes, goes to the gym, visits the shooting range, signs up for a kickboxing class. Life goes on.

  Exactly one year after setting out on the first trip, she sets out on the second. It is three weeks past her twenty-first birthday. This time she chooses San Antonio, Texas. She parks in the Houston airport’s long-term parking, takes a bus to the Greyhound terminal, buys a one-way ticket. Her target is a repeat offender who lives in a halfway house on the west side of the city. She tracks his movements for three days and nights. On the fourth night she follows him as he walks home from the hole-in-the-wall pub he’s visited every night. He arrives alone and leaves alone. Whether or not he drinks alone, she does not care to know.

  It is easy enough to overtake him, proposition him, let him lead her to an alleyway. Before he can put his hands on her, she quickly turns to face him. Her accusation is mild, almost conversational. He freezes in place; the alley is dark, she can barely see his features, but his actions speak volumes. He seems unable to move, making it easy for her. Even in the poor light, her aim is unerring. He drops without making a sound. The shot echoes in the narrow corridor. The neighborhood is old, run-down. The alley remains deserted. She sprints away anyway, having memorized her route.

  From San Antonio she hitches to Corpus Christi, where she experiences two things for the very first time: The ocean, courtesy of the Gulf of Mexico, and sex, courtesy of an athletic twenty-something Australian girl whom she meets while beachcombing. Both take her breath away, yet she allows herself only three days of enjoyment before taking her leave. It pains her to do so, but she knows it would be unwise to form any kind of attachments at this point. With true regret, she hitches a ride back to Houston and leaves Texas behind.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Both the market and the print shop were on my way to my client’s address. The market turned out to be just what I was hoping for, a community-owned co-op that focused on local, organic, and natural groceries and products, with a hot food bar set up for breakfast. I grabbed a cup of coffee, a plate of scrambled eggs and buckwheat pancakes, and sat outside at one of the wrought-iron table and chair arrangements beneath the trees.

  The day was already warm, yesterday’s humidity still hanging about, ready to be built upon. Quite a few people were enjoying the morning with a cup of coffee. The sun was just climbing above the treetops across the road, its rays splashing gold onto every surface it touched. The barest of breezes teased the leaves above me, and once again I was almost in awe of the brilliance around me. Everything was so green, so vibrant and healthy. There was a depth of color to the foliage in the South that I hadn’t experienced before, and as I turned my attention to my breakfast, I made a mental note to try to see more of it.

  I was waiting in my Jeep outside the print shop when it opened. I made three copies of each document I had designed for this particular client. I could have gone with a standardized form, but doing so would have relegated all of my jobs, and by proxy, my clients, to one standard, and there was nothing standard about any of my clients. Each and every one was treated as an individual because each and every situation was unique. As a result, all paperwork and job plans were customized to each client. And as a result I had no unhappy clients.

  With several minutes yet to spare I drove up the hill through town, then turned east, headed into a residential area. I crossed a small bridge over a steep decline that ended in a winding creek at its foot. Massive trees, tangled undergrowth, and deadfall interspersed spacious lots. Most of the homes had broad covered porches with ceiling fans and brightly painted metal furniture. The speed limit was only twenty miles an hour, so I was able to look around as I drove. I passed a cemetery and wondered how old some of the headstones and markers were; if Hills Valley was as historic as it claimed, I imagined some were well over two hundred years old.

  My client’s address was the last house at the end of a dead-end street. I saw another of those white signs hanging above the mailbox. It proclaimed, in faded and peeling black paint, that the building, Ashleigh House by name, had been built circa 1790. The hedges, which shielded the house from view, were at least six feet tall, untrimmed and gone wild. I pulled into a gravel driveway, long and circular, and the yard and house spread out before me. My initial impression was of a very handsome house, two stories, large and roomy, with huge picture windows on either side of the front door. Four square support columns on the covered porch added an elegant touch. But the air of neglect that hung over the house quickly overwhelmed my impression. The white paint on the wooden siding was peeling and flaking, some of the boards of the wide porch were sagging or sprung or actually missing, and the roof needed repairs. A quick glance was all I could afford. My immediate concern was navigating around the numerous potholes in the driveway, some of which were large and deep.

  When I finally reached the house, I pulled well off to the side next to a late model Toyota Camry whose hunter-green paint job had seen better days. I hopped out and took a quick look around. The property seemed quite extensive, and I could see outbuildings of varying sizes spread out behind the house. Shade was in abundance, provided by enormous tulip poplar, pine and oak trees. The lawn was in serious need of a trim and the flower gardens could use a good weeding. My eyes kept straying to the appalling condition of the driveway. I had no idea how anyone could let something get to that point without attending to it, and guessed that the Camry’s paint job wasn’t the only thing suffering on the vehicle. Despite the visible deficits, the property still had much of the beauty and promise it must have held for years.

  “Hello! Good morning!”

  I turned to see a slender woman in a flowered print sundress standing on the wide porch. She held a dish towel in one hand, resting the other against one of the square support columns.

  “You must be Amy Squires,” she said, and she clasped both hands over the dish towel, smiling warmly as she descended the front steps.

  “That I am,” I replied, moving forward to meet her. “And you must be Lena Bowman.”

  The smile broadened as she reached the paving stones when I did. “That I am,” she said, extending a hand in a very demure fashion. I grasped her fingers, a gesture I’d never been fond of, and quickly let go.

  “I hope I’m not too early,” I offered, to cover my discomfort.

  “Not at all. You’re exactly on time.” Both hands went back to the dish towel, gripping it firmly. Her voice was soft, her Southern inflection gentle but clear. “I hope you had no trouble finding the place.”

  “No,” I assured her, “your directions were perfect. And this place is lovely, by the way.” I gave the property a perfunctory glance before meeting her hazel eyes once more. She was an attractive woman in a casual way, no makeup other than a trace of liner along her lower eyelids, but her olive complexion didn’t require more. Her long chestnut hair was pulled up and away from her face, allowing her high cheekbones to stand out. She was maybe an inch shorter than I, maybe a couple of years either older or younger, but she carried herself with a straight-backed grace and dignity that seemed guarded and detached.

  “I’m afraid it’s not as lovely as it could be,” she said, with a hint of embarrassment, “but thank you for saying so. Will you come in
for some coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee would be great, thank you. Let me just get the paperwork.” I retrieved the folder from the Jeep, then rejoined her at the foot of the steps.

  “Do you think it’ll take long to get the system in place?” she asked, giving the folder in my hand a sidelong look.

  “Technically, no. The only hitch is that today being Friday, the parts won’t come in until Monday, or Tuesday at the latest. The actual installation won’t take more than an hour.”

  She nodded at this. “It’s an unavoidable delay, but I don’t see that it’s a problem, as long as it’s no later than that.” She paused, and then turned back to me. “And thank you, Ms. Squires—”

  “Amy,” I offered, smiling.

  “Amy,” she amended, returning the smile. “Thank you, Amy, for coming all this way to do this job. I’m very grateful.”

  “I’m happy to do it,” I told her.

  She gave a very slight nod, clasped the dish towel tightly against her chest, and turned once more to climb the stairs. I followed after her into the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The house was indeed spacious. As we walked into the foyer, I could see straight through to the rear entrance some forty feet beyond, with the stairwell from upstairs facing it. It was an unusual design, as most stairways faced the front entrance. On either side of the hallway were two large rooms, sunlight flooded in through the oversized picture windows. The high ceilings appeared to be about eleven feet.