by Steven James
Yes, there was a second person there on Saturday night.
It was him.
The one who drove Hollister to the house.
The one with the jackknife that—
Daniel could hardly believe who was actually behind all this, but he finally knew who it was.
The sound of a car approaching the cabin caught his attention.
Hollister must have heard the car too, because he called out to Daniel, “It’s too late.”
“Your family bought the property, didn’t they?” Daniel yelled back to him. “Sometime in the last eight years?”
“What?”
“Out on County Highway N. It didn’t belong to you back then.”
A tiny pause. “He’s not going to let you just walk out of here.”
No. It wasn’t Ty Bell.
He’s just letting Hollister use this place.
Malcolm Zacharias called them blurs—when you first met him he mentioned your blurs.
How did he know that you call them that? There are only a few people who know that you call them blurs.
He said he had a source—
It all fit.
It’s what you said on Sunday, that’s why he wanted you dead.
Not Mr. Zacharias.
No.
His source.
And that’s why he kept asking you about what you saw when your dad was attacked.
Yes.
The car engine outside stopped. Daniel and his dad were almost to the door when his father passed out.
“Dad, wake up!”
But his body had gone limp.
You’re not gonna get out in time.
Daniel lowered him to the floor next to the knife Hollister had been holding earlier, then slid it under his leg.
And waited for his psychiatrist, Dr. Fromke, to come in through the door.
CHAPTER
SIXTY-ONE
The lock clicked, the door swung open, and he appeared, holding a gun that looked to Daniel like his dad’s Glock.
Dr. Fromke stood there for a moment, the snow whipping and curling in around him, before coming inside and shutting the door.
He wore black jeans, a dark blue winter jacket and running shoes.
“I wondered if that was your car out there.” He aimed the gun at Daniel. “Let me see your hands.”
Still kneeling, and being careful to shift his weight to keep the knife hidden beneath his leg, Daniel held up his hands, showing his psychiatrist that they were empty.
“I’m in here,” Hollister shouted from the other room. “The kid called the cops. They’re on their way. I gave the sheriff Tribaxil. He’s not gonna last long, not with that much—”
Hollister’s words hit Daniel like a fist in the gut. “What do you mean he’s not gonna last long?”
Why would they want to kill him? Why, after keeping him alive since Saturday?
They’re desperate, Daniel. They’re not going to let either you or your dad leave here alive.
You need to go. You need to get to the hospital.
He lowered his hands.
Dr. Fromke evaluated things, then sighed and shook his head. “Daniel, why couldn’t you have just stayed in that root cellar? It would have made all this a lot easier.”
“You were afraid I’d piece things together about the barn on County N. That’s why you tried to kill me.”
The psychiatrist called for Brandon to come into the room.
“They cuffed me to the cot.”
Dr. Fromke asked Daniel. “Do you have the key?”
“I’ll only let you have it if you let me leave with my dad.” He wasn’t sure how that would work—he was making this up as he went along. “We go to the car first. I’ll give it to you when—”
“No. I’m afraid that’s not how things are going to play out here.”
Hollister begged Dr. Fromke, “Don’t let them take me back to that institute. Remember, I know everything that’s gone down here.” He made it sound like a threat.
“True,” Dr. Fromke said, then disappeared into the room where Hollister was. Daniel heard a gunshot and then the psychiatrist returned to the living room.
“Now,” he said, “we can talk undisturbed. Just the two of us.”
He killed him.
He just killed Brandon Hollister.
You need to get your dad out of here before he—
“You have a special gift, Daniel. I—”
“I know it was you. You’re the source.”
“Source?”
Find a way to get him close.
Use the knife.
“You’re the one who told Malcolm Zacharias that I was intuitive, that I have blurs.”
“Malcolm Zacharias?”
“The guy who helped me get out of the hospital.”
Mr. Zacharias is at the institute right now waiting for you. It’s close. He can help you. Get your dad there and—
“I was meaning to ask how you managed that.” Dr. Fromke approached Daniel and sat on the edge of the couch about eight feet away, aiming the Glock directly at him.
Daniel didn’t stand, just stayed crouched beside his dad, making sure the knife was out of sight, calculating when and how he’d be able to use it. “So you followed us from Beldon to the lighthouse?”
“Based on what I knew about you from our counseling sessions, I thought you might go to Nicole’s place. When I got word you’d disappeared from the hospital, I tried her house, then yours, but then I figured Kyle was the next best bet. As it turns out, third time’s a charm. Now let’s—”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Why did you contact Mr. Zacharias’s group? Why did you do any of this?”
“You have a special gift, Daniel.” He pointed the gun toward Daniel’s head. “There’s something up there. You see things no one else sees, pull things together in a way no one else can. There are people who are very interested in finding out how you’re able to do that and let’s just say they pay very well for referrals.”
“So. Money.”
“There are only so many things that motivate people, Daniel.”
“But how did you even hear about them?”
“It’s amazing what you can find on the Internet.”
“But then you turned your back on them to help Hollister?”
“I accepted my payment and moved on.”
“In your office on Friday I saw that certificate from the prison—ou helped as a counselor there. Is that where you met Hollister? Or did you just know him from selling the property to his family?”
He looked impressed. “You really are a sharp boy. It’s too bad things have to end this way.”
He sighted down the gun.
“I know about Grady,” Daniel said quickly. “What you did. The hay baler. I was there in the loft. I saw you carve his name on the barn wall.”
A stretch of stillness.
Dr. Fromke appeared deep in thought.
“Daniel, give me your phone.”
Get him closer.
Just get him close enough and then you can use the knife.
He set Larry’s cell down beside his leg. “Come and get it.”
“Slide it to me.”
“No, I—”
Dr. Fromke fired a shot into the floor next to Daniel’s dad, missing him by mere inches. “Slide it to me, Daniel. I didn’t have to miss that time. I won’t miss if I fire again.”
Unsure what else to do, Daniel flicked the phone across the floor toward the doctor. “How many of those names in the barn were your victims?”
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“I noticed seven of them all carved the same way into the wood. It was all with the same knife, right? What? That pocketknife you use as a letter opener at your office? Did you kill all those people?”
“You’re the one who killed Grady Planisek, Daniel.”
“What?”
“The two of you were in the loft. You pushed him into that hay bal
er. I watched it all happen. I owned the farm at the time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You killed that boy, repressed the memory, and now it’s resurfacing and causing you to have a psychic break. You’ve lost the ability to determine what’s real and what’s not. What’s right and what’s wrong.”
“No.”
Yes.
“You’re a very troubled boy, Daniel.”
You are troubled.
Yes.
You killed Grady.
No. You couldn’t have!
But—
“Think back to that day, Daniel. What did you really see?”
“You murdered him.”
“Did you see me do it?”
He’s trying to confuse you, he’s—
“I heard him screaming.”
“And?”
“The hay baler was running.”
“Yes.”
“Then you came up the ladder and . . .”
Reality.
Fantasy.
“You killed Grady,” Dr. Fromke repeated. “And you attacked your father—”
“No. That was you and Brandon. People around here know me. They know I would never do anything like that. They’ll never believe you.”
“But they already do. You’re a suspect in your dad’s disappearance, and now, tonight, you killed Brandon Hollister with your father’s gun—”
“It’s not going to work. No one will—”
“—and then, you shot me.”
“What?”
Dr. Fromke picked up Larry’s phone. “Since you’re my patient I knew what you were capable of, that’s why I had you committed up in Duluth. That’s why I had them station an officer outside your door.” He tapped at the screen of the phone, then held it to his ear.
Someone must have answered on the other end because Dr. Fromke said urgently, “He’s got a gun. You have to hurry. Daniel Byers. Yes! He’s going to kill me. He said he’s gonna kill me. I’m at 1594 West Creek Drive. Please!”
Daniel stood there in shock.
“Get away from me!” Dr. Fromke yelled loud enough for the dispatcher on the other end of the line to hear.
Then he shot himself through the shoulder.
“No, Daniel! Why would you—”
He dropped the phone and crushed it beneath his heel.
“The next move”—he clenched his teeth, obviously trying to help deal with the pain from the gunshot wound—“is up to you.”
CHAPTER
SIXTY-TWO
“What have you done?” Daniel gasped.
Dr. Fromke kept the gun out, pointing it at him. “You’re a mentally disturbed young man who hallucinates and does things he doesn’t remember. No one will believe your word over mine. What proof do you have that I ever harmed anyone? But don’t worry, Daniel. You won’t suffer. I’ll make sure the medications they give you at the psychiatric hospital won’t allow you to feel much of anything. It’s over. Now we wait.”
Your dad’s dying. You can’t wait.
You need to get help. You need to do something.
“They’ll know it wasn’t me. My fingerprints aren’t even on that gun.”
Dr. Fromke surprised Daniel by flipping the Glock around in his hand and walking toward him.
Do it. Take the gun.
No! Your prints will be on it.
As the doctor approached, Daniel slowly reached for the knife that was under his leg.
“Here.” Dr. Fromke held out the gun. “It’s all yours.”
Screw it. You need to go. You need to help your dad. Take the gun.
“Oh, wait,” Dr. Fromke said. “They can check gunshot residue, blowback, right? You won’t have any on you—unless you were close to the gun when it was fired.”
He was only a few feet away and directed the Glock at Daniel’s dad’s forehead. “It’s a shame you had to shoot your own father in the head.”
“No!” Daniel snatched up the knife and launched himself between the gun barrel and his dad. Obviously taken by surprise, Dr. Fromke held back just long enough from squeezing the trigger, and Daniel drove the knife down through the man’s shoe, through his foot, and into the floor.
Dr. Fromke cried out in shock and pain and Daniel went for the gun, wrestled it from his hand. It dropped.
He grabbed it.
Backed up a step.
He was going to set you up for his murder. He was going to shoot your dad.
Anger.
Rage.
Fury.
Caught up in the moment, Daniel stomped on the knife handle, driving the blade farther into the floorboards.
Dr. Fromke screamed and swung a fist at Daniel, but he leapt back in time to avoid the blow. “I’ll tell them to match your jackknife, the one you keep on your desk, with the carvings in the barn,” he said. “I’m sure someone who’s good at forensics will be able to tell what blade made those carvings.”
Dr. Fromke’s face darkened.
“You were right: it is over.” Daniel slipped the gun beneath his belt. “And you’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison.”
He bent down, slung his dad’s arm across his shoulder, then lifted him—fireman’s carrand headed for the porch.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dr. Fromke grab the handle of the knife to try to work it free from the floor.
CHAPTER
SIXTY-THREE
In the distance, sirens wailed through the night.
As Daniel took his dad to the car, he hoped that the snow pelting against his face would revive him, but it didn’t happen.
How are you going to get him into the car while he’s unconscious? You’ll never be able to . . . maybe the back seat instead of the front?
Moments later, as Daniel was positioning his dad in the back of the car, he heard the cabin door bang open.
Dr. Fromke stood, backlit in the doorway forty feet away, holding the shovel. He started limping across the porch toward the steps.
Go!
Daniel shoved his dad the rest of the way in, closed the door, climbed into the front, and fired up the engine.
As the wipers brushed the snow off the windshield he saw Dr. Fromke lurching across the driveway. Though he was forced to drag his wounded foot, he was already nearly halfway to the car.
Dr. Fromke’s car was behind Daniel, blocking him in, but he thought he might have just enough space to get by it if he could edge along the bank of snow piled up alongside the driveway.
He locked the doors and backed up, trying to maneuver past the doctor’s vehicle, but his car slid across the icy driveway and one of the rear tires lodged into the snowbank.
Dr. Fromke was now only ten feet away, and Daniel couldn’t pull forward or he would hit him, but he couldn’t back up either because of the snowbank.
You have the gun.
You could—
No, don’t shoot him. You’d be a murderer. Don’t—
Dr. Fromke arrived at Daniel’s car, tried the door, found it locked, and despite the gunshot wound in his shoulder, hefted the shovel back and swung it at the windshield.
The glass shattered on impact, but thankfully remained intact, just like it’s designed to do in case of a crash.
With Dr. Fromke next to the car, Daniel tried pulling forward, but the back tire didn’t come unstuck from the snowbank.
Dr. Fromke drew the shovel back and smashed the blade against the windshield again, and it crunched inward toward Daniel. Another blow and it would probably give way.
You have to help your dad.
You have to get out of here.
Daniel threw the car into reverse and then into drive, and this time the tires spun for a moment, then found traction and his car jerked forward, brushing past Dr. Fromke.
Daniel stopped the car before smacking into the porch.
He could either try getting through between Dr. Fromke’s car and the snowbank again, or wait here.
Sitting arou
nd waiting for the cops to arrive is not an option. Not with Dr. Fromke out there.
In the side-view mirror, Daniel could see Dr. Fromke approaching.
The sirens were getting closer.
Daniel lowered his window an inch. “Get back!” he yelled, as he popped the car into reverse. “Get out of the way!”
But Dr. Fromke was obviously more intent on attacking Daniel than staying safe, and he came toward the car, cocking back the shovel.
As Daniel tried to thread through the gap, his tires spun on the ice and the car whipped around.
Everything outside the window was whirling.
Turning.
A smear of white.
And then.
The jolt of impact as the car collided into Dr. Fromke’s car, pinning the doctor between the two vehicles.
Dr. Fromke’s legs might have been trapped, but when he shouted out threats against Daniel it seemed to be more from wrath than from pain.
Daniel tried to drive forward or back up—anything—but his tires spun on the ice.
The red-blue-red-blue swirl of police lights cut through the storm as a state patrol cruiser careened around the corner and came to a sliding stop on the driveway.
Two state troopers exited the cruiser, guns drawn.
Daniel left his dad’s Glock in the car and climbed out, holding his hands up to show that he was unarmed. “They drugged my dad, we need to—”
“Get on the ground!” one of the troopers yelled.
“Listen, I’m—”
“Now! On the ground! Arms out to the side!”
The dispatchers couldn’t possibly have believed Dr. Fromke’s phone call.
But maybe they did.
An ambulance followed closely behind the patrol car.
Daniel knelt, then lay facedown and the trooper came over and cuffed his wrists behind his back while his partner went to check on Dr. Fromke.
“My dad’s unconscious,” Daniel said urgently. “He’s in the back seat of my car. You need to get him to a hospital now.”
“Sir,” the other trooper said to Dr. Fromke, “we’re going to help you.”
“He shot me.” The psychiatrist had tossed the shovel to the ground and was acting innocent. “He stabbed my foot and then tried to run me over. You need to stop that boy. He’s out of control.”
“No,” Daniel said to the trooper beside him, “that’s not—” Sort it out later. “Listen, tell the paramedics: Tribaxil. That’s what they gave my dad. A whole syringe of it. He’s the sheriff—Sheriff Byers. You need to help him.”
