by Lisa Regan
Wyatt didn’t know if he had blacked out or if it was simply that thoughts of Sarah consumed his attention at the expense of all else, but he was still pumping gas when Cameron Bishop appeared next to him. The man seemed to materialize out of the air. He was grayer than the last time Wyatt had seen him. His frame seemed to have thickened and shrunk. He looked stockier than when Wyatt was a teenager.
“You,” Cameron said. The man’s voice trembled. His face was so pale that for a split second Wyatt wondered if he was having a heart attack. Bishop’s mouth moved soundlessly. Then came the accusatory “you” again. Bishop was close enough for Wyatt to smell the coffee on his breath. He poked Wyatt’s sternum with a stiff index finger. “I know who you are.” Wyatt tried to move away, but Bishop had him pinned against the vehicle. Suddenly, Wyatt was sixteen again. A younger, taller but equally pale Cameron Bishop descended the steps of Wyatt’s childhood home and slapped cuffs on Wyatt’s skinny teenage wrists. Momentarily, Wyatt wondered if he was hallucinating. He half-expected to hear thunder. He couldn’t catch his breath.
“Let’s go,” Cameron said.
Wyatt’s voice seemed to come from far away. “You remember me.”
Cameron stared at him, not giving an inch. Wyatt couldn’t read the man. “You recognize me,” Wyatt said.
Bishop squinted, the skin around his eyes crinkling. He leaned in, his face even closer and looked hard into Wyatt’s eyes, as if he were looking inside him. He wanted desperately to push the old man away, but he couldn’t move. The moment stretched on until Wyatt’s legs ached. Bishop’s gaze burned his face. It was then that Wyatt noticed the town police car entering the parking lot.
“You’re coming with me,” Cameron said.
The cruiser pulled up crosswise in front of Wyatt’s MKX. The officer got out of the car. He was young, and he looked slightly confused. He rested one hand on his gun. Cameron waved him over. Wyatt gulped air, feeling dizzy. His heart pounded in his ears. He had to do something.
As the officer pulled out a pair of handcuffs, Wyatt yanked the gas nozzle from the MKX. He used one hand to hold the pressurization sheath back and the other to squeeze the handle. He sprayed both men, aiming for their eyes. He swept the nozzle back and forth, hitting the officer first. The young man let out a startled cry and stumbled back, rubbing his eyes frantically. As the gasoline splashed into Cameron Bishop’s face, the old man lunged at Wyatt with a loud grunt. The two of them fell between the car and the gas pump, fighting for control of the gas nozzle. The strong-smelling fluid flew everywhere soaking them both. Wyatt tasted it in his mouth and gagged. The gasoline fumes made him nauseous.
Bishop’s hands seized the nozzle. Wyatt relinquished it and rolled away from Bishop. Bracing himself against the car, Wyatt kicked the man repeatedly until Bishop found purchase on the gasoline-soaked concrete and scrambled toward the other side of the pump.
Before Bishop could come back at Wyatt for another try, Wyatt scurried to the driver’s side of the MKX and climbed in. His hands trembled as he started the car. He threw the vehicle in drive and gunned it, smashing the side of the police cruiser and pushing it out of the way. Sparks flew as metal hit metal and the hood of the cruiser erupted in flames. Wyatt heard the police officer yell for Cameron to run. The tires of the MKX squealed as he pulled out onto the road. In his rear-view mirror, he saw the two men running away from the gas pumps. Then a powerful explosion rocked the ground beneath Wyatt’s vehicle. He felt the heat even as he drove away from the gas station.
He headed for the nearest interstate and sped along the mostly deserted highway. He’d put ten miles between him and Bishop before he allowed himself to think about what the confrontation meant. He popped two Xanax and checked the speedometer. He didn’t want to attract any attention to himself by breaking traffic laws, but soon police all over the state would be hunting down his vehicle. If Cameron Bishop had had time to call the local police before trying to detain Wyatt, then he had had time to take down Wyatt’s license plate number.
Wyatt still did not understand how Bishop had recognized him after twenty years. Wyatt had been around other people who had known him as Blake Foster, and they had not recognized him. He’d broken his nose a couple of times over the years—once in a fight and once falling down icy steps. There was a kink in his nose that made his face look harder, his jaw line more pronounced. He had a few scars he hadn’t had when he was a teenager. He often wore color contacts or glasses to change up his appearance, and he dyed his normally dark hair a light shade of brown. In the last couple of days, he had cut it close to his head. They weren’t radical changes, but enough that in twenty years, only Cameron Bishop recognized him as Blake Foster.
Dizziness returned as he realized just how close he had come to being caught.
All of his plans had gone to shit. If the authorities were this close to finding him, he had no choice but to take Kassidy. It might be his last chance to convince her that they should be together. Now or never—it was time to act.
First, he would have to get rid of the MKX and change identities completely.
No more Wyatt Anderton.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
KASSIDY
November 26th
“There was over $300,000.00 in money orders in the package you overnighted us,” TK said.
Isaac gave a low whistle.
“Holy shit,” I said.
We were sitting around my parents’ kitchen table. My mother had gone to work, and my father had gone out. Isaac was already there when TK and I returned from the cemetery. We did not speak to each other. TK kept glancing back and forth between us as if he expected one of us to say something to break the tension. We weren’t talking.
“They’re processing the money orders now. It’s going to take awhile. The last one he sent is dated seven weeks ago. It was purchased at a check cashing place in Portland, Oregon. It was bought one week after Megan Wilkins’ murder.”
“So he was there. He was in Portland when Jory died,” I pointed out.
TK nodded. “What did Remy say?”
I sighed. “The same thing he said last time. It’s going to take a couple of weeks to get a list of people who rented blue Hondas in and around the city of Portland for those two days, but he is working on it.”
TK flipped a page in his notebook. “The blood they found on Dale’s wall was human blood. They took a DNA sample from his hairbrush, but it will take quite some time to match the two in order to determine if it was Dale’s blood on the wall.”
I hugged my belly as the baby kicked. I squeezed my eyes shut to stop my unshed tears from leaking out. I sent up a silent prayer that somehow Dale was still alive.
“We tried to notify his next of kin,” TK went on. “But as you know, his father is in a nursing home with pretty advanced Alzheimer’s.”
I nodded. TK put his notebook down. “Did you know Dale was in the military?”
“What?” Isaac and I said in unison.
TK gave a short chuckle, as if in disbelief. “Yeah. He enlisted in the Army reserves at twenty, served for eight years. Honorable discharge.”
“He never told me,” I mumbled. I tried picturing Dale in the military, but the image would not come. I couldn’t even imagine him holding a gun. “That seems so out of character for him.”
“Yeah,” TK agreed. “I thought they had the wrong guy, but we checked the social security number three times. He was in the Army.”
“People change,” I said. I looked into Isaac’s blue eyes. “Life changes you.”
He said nothing but continued holding my gaze.
TK cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something else when my cell phone rang. I answered it to my father’s labored breathing and the sounds of sirens in the background. “Dad?” I said.
“I almost had him. The fucker doused m
e with gasoline and took off. He blew up a police cruiser. I called the county and state police, but if your FBI friends are there, I sure could use their help.”
My heart pounded. “Dad, slow down. What are you talking about?”
A grunt of frustration. “I’m talking about Blake Foster,” he said. “I saw him at the gas station on Pine Street. I called the town police to come arrest him, but when he saw us, he sprayed us with gasoline and took off. He hit the cruiser on the way out of the parking lot and it blew up. It’s a goddamn mess out here.”
Before I could ask, he added, “I’m fine. A little bruised. The townie and I hauled ass out of the parking lot as soon as we saw the spark. Jumped into the creek that runs behind the lot. I still stink to high heaven, but I’m fine. But I don’t want you out here, it’s too dangerous. Is your colleague there? The one who came by today? Put him on.”
Stunned, I held out the phone to TK. I swallowed. “My dad wants to talk to you. He just tried to arrest Blake Foster.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
KASSIDY
November 26th
TK and Isaac left me behind. Tires squealed as they tore out of my parents’ driveway, laying rubber in the street. Isaac took my mother’s car in case he and TK needed to separate later. TK took his rental, already on the phone to twenty different people. When my mother got home, I cried in her arms like a small child. My hormones were out of control, and the stress of the last few days finally got to me.
I couldn’t stop the torrent of tears, the wracking sobs. Jory, Dale, Lexie and today I had almost lost my father. My three dogs looked on in dismay, lined up all in row in front of the couch where my mother clutched me to her chest and rocked me back and forth.
The baby tumbled inside me as if the walls were closing in on her. I felt terribly guilty because I could not calm myself down. After a time, she was still. I stroked my stomach in jerky movements. My mother smoothed my hair back from my face and kissed my forehead gently like I was a little girl.
I thought I would never stop crying, but after a solid half-hour the tears dried up, leaving me puffy-faced and exhausted. Much to my shock, I actually dozed off. I woke with my head in my mother’s lap. I sprung up, a wave of dizziness assailing me.
“How long was I out?”
“Not long,” my mother said. She put a hand on my forearm. Her touch was warm. “There hasn’t been any news.”
I checked the clock on my cell phone. It had been one hour. I called TK’s cell phone, but all he had to report was that the state police were looking for Foster. He promised to call me as soon as he knew anything. My mother took my hand and led me into the kitchen. The gesture reminded me of my sister. I realized that one day I’d have to turn over Lexie’s diary to my mother. But not yet.
“You have to eat,” my mother said.
“I can’t eat now,” I responded, but even as the words were out of my mouth my body craved food. Where before stress would cause me to go days without eating or sleeping, now my body, the baby, kept me on a regular schedule. Even when I didn’t have an appetite, I had an appetite.
My mother heated up Thanksgiving leftovers, and I ate like I hadn’t eaten in a week. As I stuffed my face, I checked my cell phone every few minutes to make sure the ringer was still on. Two hours passed. Finally, after four hours, Isaac came in. My father dropped him off and drove away. I was on the couch, dogs at my feet. I sprung up when he came in.
“We didn’t get him.”
“Where’s my dad?”
Isaac hooked a thumb toward the front door. “He went back out.”
He looked haggard. There were lines around his mouth I had never noticed before. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. I recognized his handwriting. “The state police are still out looking for him. We notified all local police departments within a two-hundred-mile radius. Your dad and I went down the interstate after him. About fifty miles from here, on the side of a service road, we found the MKX.” He paused. Finally, he looked at me. His eyes were tired. “It was on fire. As far as the fire department can tell, there wasn’t anyone in it. The vehicle was registered to a Wyatt Anderton of RR 1, Box 49, Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. Sent patrols there. It’s nothing but a few acres of wooded land. No house, no garage. Nothing.”
“So he’s gone,” I said. Then I clapped my hands together as the idea came to me. “Surveillance video,” I said. “From the gas station. He would be on it if he got gas. We could get his photo out.”
Isaac sighed. I knew what he was going to say. I’d lived in Sunderlin long enough to know it was not only technologically behind the times, but it was also a place where people didn’t even lock their doors. They didn’t have to. Crime was unheard of.
“There are no surveillance tapes,” Isaac said. “They don’t have cameras in that gas station.”
“What about a driver’s license photo?” I said.
“Your dad and TK are on their way to the State Police barracks now to see if they can get one. But look, this guy is pretty slick. I’m betting when they pull up that photo it won’t be Blake Foster. Your dad will give a composite if they can’t find anything.”
Isaac stepped toward me and peered into my face. “Have you been crying?”
I looked at the floor. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Awkwardly, he touched my arm. “We’ll get him, Bishop.”
I shifted from foot to foot and nodded, my eyes still glued to the floor.
“Do you want me to wait up with you?” he asked. “For your dad to get home?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Get some sleep.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
KASSIDY
November 26th
TK called a few hours later. The driver’s license photo was not a match, just as Isaac had suspected. My father had helped a sketch artist put together a composite. A BOLO, or Be On the Lookout, had been issued across the state. TK was wired and had decided to drive back to Quantico that night. He promised to call me with any news. My father finally came home around nine p.m., the gasoline smell that covered him filling up the house. My mother put his clothes in a trash bag and put them outside. She opened windows and sprayed air freshener. My dad spent almost an hour in the shower. We talked briefly about the pursuit before he went to bed, still stinking and exhausted.
Isaac had gone to bed in my father’s study, but I was watching the eleven o’clock news when they showed the composite. It looked like any white male with buzz-cut, blonde hair, a slightly crooked nose and brown eyes. It looked nothing like the age-progression photo TK had presented me with a few days ago at the diner in Manassas.
I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my old bed with Smalls beside me and Pugsley at my feet. Rocky slept in the doorway. I shifted from one side to the other, the weight of the baby heavier than ever, tugging at my back and stomach muscles. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dale’s living room, the bloody words. I even tried to think of Jory instead, but it didn’t help. It was too painful. I got out of bed and padded downstairs. I went to the door of my dad’s study where Isaac slept. I raised my hand to knock but couldn’t work up the nerve, so I went back to bed.
I listened to the familiar sounds of my childhood home. The heater kicking on and off, the grandfather clock in the hallway ticking, the occasional creak of the house settling. The only thing missing was the sound of Lexie sighing in her sleep. Even after all these years, I still expected to hear it whenever I was home.
Another hour crept by. I went back downstairs, to my dad’s study. The door was open this time. My father’s screensaver, which showed the time floating across a black screen in red numbers, illuminated the room slightly. I could make out Isaac’s prone figure on the cot. His back was turned to me. I watched him breathing evenly for a minute, then turned to go.
His voice startled me. “
Just come in. I can’t sleep either.”
For a split second, as I stepped into the room, I thought of tip-toeing over and climbing under the covers with him, snuggling warm against his broad chest. Not only was the thought completely absurd, but we would never both fit on the cot. I went into the room and Smalls followed. Rocky and Pugsley had stayed upstairs. Smalls nudged Isaac’s hand and laid down on the floor. Isaac sat up and stretched his arms over his head. I sat beside him on the cot, leaving a good foot and a half between us.
We sat side by side in the dark, both staring straight ahead like we were watching something, each lost in our own thoughts. It wasn’t awkward. It was easy. It felt effortless, sitting silently with Isaac, not needing to fill up the silence between us with useless talk. It was soothing in a way.
Eventually, we did talk. After several minutes I said, “How long has it been?”
“How long has it been since what?” he asked.
“Since your wife and daughter died.”
“Oh. Five and a half years.”
“How do you do it?”
“What’s that?”
It was easier to ask in the darkness. “How do you go on living after what happened to you? Losing your family?”
I felt more than saw him shrug. “Don’t know. When it first happened—most of that time is a blur. The funerals, the months after that—I don’t remember it all that well. Most of the time, even now, I try not to think about it too much.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay.”
“Didn’t you ever just want to die?”
He chuckled softly. “Oh Bishop, I almost put a bullet in my brain every day for the first two years. Then about two dozen times after that. You tell yourself a lot of things to get through the days. Like they would want me to keep living, want me to be happy. Like one day you’ll see them again on some spiritual plane or something. You tell yourself they’re watching over you. You say to yourself what kind of man would I be if I just offed myself? I could tell you a million and one things that went through my head—me trying to find reasons not to put myself out of my misery. I don’t know the answer to your question. I just know I’m still here.”
