Blood Will Tell (Point Last Seen)

by Henry, April

  Chris looked down at his notes. “The car’s owner is a seventy-seven-year-old woman named Lottie Landsman. She’s about five eight and one-eighty. The hiker says she was wearing black pants and a purple hooded jacket. Her son says she knows the woods well. Then again, she is seventy-seven years old and has a bad knee. She’s on a handful of medications for blood pressure, cholesterol, and acid reflux, but she could go at least another twenty-four hours before she would feel any side effects. Her son says she’s very independent. And maybe getting to be a little forgetful. Daylight saving time only ended a few weeks ago, and she may not have factored that in.”

  Jon added, “Mushroom pickers can get so focused on looking for mushrooms that they tend to wander. When they decide they’re done, they look up and realize they don’t recognize anything, and they often have no idea which direction they came from. Mushroom pickers are hard to track, since they aren’t going ‘to’”—he made air quotes—“any specific place at all. They’re just looking for mushrooms.”

  “It’s imperative that we find her today,” Chris continued. “Due to her age and the weather, the possibility she could survive a second night is slim. There’s a tracking dog already out. But so far she hasn’t turned up anything definitive. Hasty teams have cleared the local trails. And we have containment running the roads.” He paused. “But no sign of her. So far, all we really know is where she isn’t. That’s where you guys come in. We’re going to do a grid search today. First, we need to figure out critical separation.”

  In class, they had learned that to cover the most ground in a grid search, the searchers needed to be as far apart as possible and still see the smallest object they were looking for. A person was fairly big, so they could be pretty far apart, but not so far that the team members couldn’t see each other.

  Chris shrugged off his pack and put it down. “Imagine that this is an unresponsive person.” Each team member took a slightly different angle and walked away to the point where they could still see the pack and identify it. Then they all counted their paces from that point back to the pack and called out the number.

  Mitchell averaged the results—in his head, which impressed Ruby—and used that number of paces to decide that the critical spacing was thirty feet. That way, if Lottie was lying unconscious between two searchers, she would still be seen. Critical spacing was affected not only by the size of the object, but also by the terrain, the weather, and more.

  Because the line would otherwise be too spread out, he split them into two groups. Each would use one side of the road as a guide. “Remember to look up, down, and all around,” Mitchell said as they set their lines and got ready to count off.

  Ruby looked under every bush and tree, while at the same time trying not to twist an ankle on a root or trip on a rock. All while keeping an eye on Ezra, who was on her left. They had done practice search grids before, but those had been in a fairly open area. Rugged terrain and dense brush made staying in line and on track a challenge. Every few minutes they would blow their whistles and listen for a yell. But each time, there was only silence.

  After about an hour, Mitchell’s radio crackled and he called a halt. When everyone had gathered around, he said, “We just heard from the dog handler.”

  “So they found her?” Max asked. People were already starting to relax, rolling their necks, reaching for snacks.

  “No.” Mitchell screwed up his face. “It turns out the dog was following the scent of the hiker who called it in. Not the mushroom picker. Nobody told the dog handler that someone else had been in the car, so she used the driver’s seat as the scent article. The hiker sat there and looked through the glove compartment to get Lottie’s name before he called us. So his scent was not only fresher than Lottie’s, but he was also probably putting out more adrenaline.”

  It was so frustrating, Ruby thought as they lined back up and began to search again. The dog had been following a promising clue, but it hadn’t meant anything.

  Something about the idea teased her. Something that might apply to Nick. But the harder she tried to pin it down, the more it slid away.

  And then she forgot all about it when, after blowing their whistles for the millionth time, they heard a faint cry from the bottom of a steep embankment.

  “Help! I’ve broken my ankle!”

  CHAPTER 42

  NICK

  MONDAY

  YOU’RE THE ONE

  On Monday, Nick hadn’t even made it through the main doors of the school when Carson Canterbery detached himself from a group of guys and marched straight up to him. Carson was a senior and had never paid any attention to Nick before.

  “So is it true?” he demanded. He leaned down so his face was just a few inches from Nick’s.

  “Is what true?” Nick said, stalling for time.

  “There are rumors going around that you’re the one who knifed that girl to death last week.” Carson’s breath smelled like bitter coffee.

  “Of course it’s not true.” Nick attempted to go around, but Carson slid sideways and blocked his path. He played basketball and had six inches on Nick, easy.

  “But you live right next to where she was found.”

  “No, it’s like six blocks away. And besides, I’m not the one who did it.” How did anyone know he was a suspect? From reading the paper? From Mrs. Weissig? From the police themselves?

  Carson nodded rapidly, as if Nick had just confirmed everything he had heard. After giving him one last long look, he finally stepped aside.

  It pretty much went like that for the rest of the day. Kids stared at him, whispered, pointed. Fell silent if he got too close. Even stepped back from him as he walked down the hall.

  At lunch, the same invisible force field kept people away. Only Sasha Madigan dared to breach it. Any other day, Nick would have loved to have Sasha lean in close. But not when she did it just so she could say, “Are you really a murder suspect?”

  He was silent for a long moment, holding her gaze. “You know me, Sasha. What do you think?”

  “Uh, I don’t think you did it.” But she was backing away when she said it.

  When the classroom phone rang in his art class an hour later, Nick wasn’t surprised to be told he was wanted down at the office. Everyone, even the teacher, was silent as he gathered up his things. Some people looked away, not meeting his eyes. Others looked at him as if he weren’t a person but a particularly fascinating traffic accident that had happened on the other side of the freeway. Nick resolved never to look at anyone like that ever again. Those people had probably never thought that someday someone might be staring at them as if they were a different species. As if they were a photo printed on paper, not a real person.

  When he walked into the office, Mrs. Weissig stiffened. Her jaw jutted forward, making her look like a toad. But she wouldn’t look him in the eye, just told him that Mr. Loughlin was waiting for him.

  The principal steepled his fingers. “Look, Nick, we’ve been hearing from parents. They don’t feel comfortable having you in school right now.”

  Nick didn’t hurry to volunteer anything. He wasn’t going to make this easy for anyone. Not when it was his life that was being trashed. “And why is that?”

  “The thing is, Nick, we’ve been informed that you’re a person of interest in an ongoing murder investigation.”

  Nick looked the principal straight in the eyes, kept looking even when the older man looked away. “You really think I’m a murderer?”

  “Of course not, Nick.” He managed to look Nick in the face again. “It’s just that we have to look at the needs of all the students.” Nick, Nick, Nick. The principal was using his name as often as a used-car salesman, and he was just as convincing. “This situation—which we all hope is only temporary—isn’t conducive to a learning environment. Not for you, Nick, and not for the other students.”

  “So you’re just going to throw me under the bus?”

  “Of course not. This is just a temporary situation.”<
br />
  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm.

  “Look, Nick, this isn’t about just you. It’s about the entire school. I have to think about the other eight hundred kids. What’s the most fair thing for everyone? If you’re innocent, you have nothing to worry about. We’ll provide you with a tutor until this thing gets straightened out.” He got to his feet. “Let me walk you out.”

  This couldn’t be happening to him. A week ago he had saved a little girl’s life. Now everyone thought he was a killer, not a hero.

  Mr. Loughlin stood at the door, waiting for him. Nick didn’t know what to do. So he pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his pack.

  The bell rang as they were walking out of the office. The hall was full, but people slowed down and even stopped when they saw Nick walking with Mr. Loughlin. He started when he felt the principal’s hand under his elbow.

  “Just to be clear,” Mr. Loughlin said when they reached the city bus stop, “we don’t want to see you on school grounds again.” After a moment, he added, “Not until this thing is straightened out.”

  Nick was pretty sure that neither one of them believed that this would actually happen.

  Once he got onto the bus, he turned his face toward the window and put his hand up to cover it. He closed his eyes. If anyone was staring at him, he did not want to see. As he walked home from the bus stop, Nick heard a car behind him. But it didn’t pass. He looked over his shoulder. It was a brown Crown Victoria with a spotlight mounted above the driver’s side mirror. An unmarked police car, but the driver, an impassive guy staring at him through sunglasses, obviously didn’t care that Nick had just identified him. Nick looked closer. It was that Rich guy, Harriman’s partner. And he just kept driving at the same speed as Nick walked.

  As he turned onto his block, his phone rang. The caller ID showed PORTLAND COUNTY SHERIFF. Nick didn’t want to hear what they had to say. Still, his thumb pushed the green button.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nick, this is Deputy Nagle.”

  You mean Chris? Nick thought. He guessed that the days of Chris Nagle being Chris were over. “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been having some conversations with the Portland police. For the time being, I’m taking you off the roster for Search and Rescue callouts. And we’ll figure out a way for you to make up any missed classes.”

  Nick was silent.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Not until this thing is resolved.” Chris didn’t even bother to explain what “this thing” was.

  For an answer, Nick hung up.

  His dreams were all gone, stolen from him. His life was ruined. No school. No SAR. And, of course, there was no longer any point of thinking of the army.

  Nearly everyone thought he was a murderer. Especially the cops. The only people who didn’t were Alexis and Ruby.

  He was trapped without any way out.

  Except maybe there was always a way. If you were desperate enough.

  After he let himself inside the empty house, he went down to the basement. He sifted through the junk drawer, through the bent screwdrivers and little screws that might come in handy, until he found the box cutter. He undid it, took out the razor blade and hid it under the insole of his shoe.

  If they arrested him, he could always kill himself.

  Kill himself before he ended up sharing a cell with his dad.

  CHAPTER 43

  NICK

  MONDAY

  READY TO THROW IN THE TOWEL

  Kyle came into Nick’s room without knocking.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said, looking disgusted. “I thought I smelled cigarette smoke.”

  Nick took another drag on his cigarette. He had found the hidden pack when he was looking for the box cutter. He hadn’t been able to find a lighter, so he had used one of the wooden kitchen matches they kept for when the gas stove was acting up.

  “So these aren’t yours?” He turned and blew a stream of smoke out the open window. His room was about the same temperature as outside, so he was still wearing his coat. “I found them in the basement.”

  “They’re Mom’s. She smokes about one a year when she’s really stressed out.” One more secret Nick hadn’t been privy to. “Why in the heck are you smoking?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Nick sucked in another lungful of pollutants. “I got told I wasn’t welcome at both school and SAR today. Might as well act like the bad guy everyone thinks I am.” Besides, wasn’t this what people did in prison—smoked, bummed smokes, bartered with them?

  “Why did they do that?”

  “The cops told SAR and the school that I was a ‘person of interest’ in a murder case. Everyone knows what that means.”

  “So now you’re ready to throw in the towel?” Kyle gave his head a shake. “Once they get your DNA test back, they’re going to know it wasn’t you. Didn’t they tell you that there were other people who could match?”

  “Yeah. Like you.” Nick took another drag, suppressing the urge to cough. One thing about the cigarette was that it somehow allowed him to keep his face impassive, his gaze steady on Kyle.

  “You don’t really think that, do you?” When Nick didn’t answer and didn’t look away, Kyle swore, kicking one of the legs of the bed. “I already told you where I was that night. And that I never even talked to that Lucy person, let alone laid a hand on her. There’s got to be some other explanation. Like some fourth cousin three times removed we don’t even know about.”

  Did Kyle really believe that? Because Nick didn’t. He just shrugged.

  “What is wrong with you, man?” Kyle screwed his face up. “You were so eager to believe Dad was some big hero. And now you want to believe that I’m a killer. When neither one of those things is true.” Kyle left, slamming the door behind him. Because of the open window, it shook the house.

  As Nick was taking another drag, the doorbell rang, startling him. Nobody ever rang the doorbell. He stilled, straining to hear.

  “Kyle Walker?” he heard a man say. Nick didn’t recognize his voice, but whoever it was definitely sounded like a cop.

  “Yes?” Kyle’s voice shook. So much for his certainty.

  “We’d like to talk to your brother, Nick.”

  Without thinking, Nick took three steps toward the window, lay down on the sill, and rolled out.

  He landed with a thud on his belly in the backyard. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and the cigarette from his hands.

  Their yard was bordered on both sides by overgrown laurel hedges. At the back was a cinder block wall that separated their yard from Mrs. Watkins’s. Even with no breath in him, he scuttled toward it, keeping low.

  How many times had he crawled through this backyard, pretending to be a soldier? Now all that bear crawling, pretending he was sneaking up on the enemy, served him in good stead.

  Because today he was fighting for real. Fighting for his life. He scrabbled across the yard. Through a gap at the root level of the laurels, he saw two cop cars on his street.

  How long did he have? Would Kyle even try to stall them?

  He was up and over the wall in a second. When he landed on the other side, he saw Mrs. Watkins’s back through the window. She was drinking a cup of tea and watching TV. She didn’t turn around.

  Nick made it through two more yards, keeping low and moving fast. He was just lucky everyone was still at work. But the next barrier between backyards was a seven-foot-tall wooden fence. Even if he could figure out how to scale it, it felt like it would leave him too exposed.

  Where was he? On his mental map, Nick thought he might be at the point where the street started to curve. He cut through the side yard and out into the front yard, sticking close to the house. He risked one glance down the street, just one.

  Another cop car was skidding to a stop in front of his house. No, no, no.

  He cut through three more front yards, darted across a
busy street, and then risked a flat-out run, even though it would draw attention to him. Predators—including human beings—were hardwired to respond to sudden movement. But this wasn’t a case where playing dead would do him any good. His heart felt like it would beat out of his chest. His breath was coming in gasps.

  Traffic was thickening around him. The middle school up the street was letting out and parents were coming by to pick up their kids. At first, he started to cut away. But then he realized what the students were. Protective coloration. Forcing himself to slow to a walk, Nick plunged into the crowd of kids spilling out the double doors. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a few kids glance at him curiously.

  Pretending to look at his phone, he got on one of the buses. It was half full. He started walking down the aisle.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” It was the bus driver, a plump balding man. “You in the blue jacket!”

  Nick turned. Already new kids were climbing onto the bus. He was trapped. There was no way he could push past them and run out the door, not without the driver grabbing him. Could he run the length of the bus and somehow unlatch the emergency exit in the back before he was caught?

  “Yeah?”

  “You sure you’re on the right bus, kid?”

  He forced himself to speak calmly. “This is number twenty-one, right?” he asked, using the number he had seen on the front of the bus.

  “Yes, twenty-one, that’s right.” The driver nodded.

  “We just moved here from Seattle. This was my first day.” Nick had never thought he’d be happy about being the same size as an eighth grader, but for once it was coming in handy.

  “And you know your stop?”

  What was he going to say when the guy asked him which one it was? He had no idea where this bus was actually going. Nick nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Okay, then. Welcome to Portland.”

  He mumbled a thank you and then took an empty seat in the middle of the bus. Keeping his head down, he sat in an aisle seat. If he didn’t make eye contact, maybe no one would challenge him or ask questions. Because he was fresh out of answers.