If I Should Die lk-3

by Allison Brennan

  He definitely wanted to pay a visit to Spruce Lake.

  As Ricky pulled out of the high school parking lot that afternoon, he thought he saw Sean Rogan, the guy he’d tricked into falling down the mine shaft.

  He had to be wrong.

  When he looked again, he didn’t see anything but a blur of the white truck as it made a U-turn and went in the opposite direction. Ricky tried to breathe easier, told himself his mind was playing tricks on him, but that didn’t help. It was guilt, he knew, that had him on edge. He was relieved Rogan hadn’t died, but he hadn’t been able to eat or sleep much in the last two days. He knew he’d survived the fall-everyone in town had heard about the friend of Tim Hendrickson’s who’d fallen down the mine in pursuit of an arsonist-but that didn’t appease Ricky.

  He kept his eyes on the rearview mirror until he was confident that Rogan, if it had been Rogan, wasn’t following him. He decided to take a roundabout way home, partly because he really didn’t want to face his uncle right now. Uncle Jimmy had been furious when he first found out Ricky had been working for Reverend Browne. That was months ago.

  “I’ve done everything to keep you safe and out of harm’s way,” Jimmy had said. “Make sure you go to college and get out of this backwater. And you’re walking right into the shit. Who are you, Rick? Are you your mother’s son or your father’s son?”

  Ricky hadn’t spoken to Jimmy for a week after that. His uncle knew how he felt about his father. Ricky wanted to do the right thing, but he no longer knew what was right. And Jimmy was a hypocrite. He was in deeper illegal shit than Ricky.

  He promised to lay low, but Ricky had been terrified after Rogan had fallen down the mine shaft, and he had to tell Jimmy the truth. Maybe Jimmy wasn’t still upset with him. He couldn’t be madder at Ricky than Ricky was at himself.

  He felt awful about setting the fire. He hadn’t wanted to do it in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to do anything to Joe Hendrickson’s place. He’d liked the old man, missed him more than he’d miss his dad if he croaked.

  The reason he agreed to help Reverend Browne was because he hated Adam Hendrickson. Adam hadn’t even remembered him.

  Ricky didn’t know Tim, the older brother, but Adam spent nearly every summer here. They’d gone fishing half a dozen times. The last time, Adam was seventeen and Ricky was twelve, two months before his mom died. Joe had taken them on an overnight fishing trip. They’d camped under the stars and Ricky desperately wished that Joe was his dad and Adam was his brother and his mom wasn’t dying.

  Stupid, stupid childish fantasy.

  Adam didn’t even remember Ricky, and why should he? Ricky had been a runt until recently, and when Adam went to college he stopped visiting Spruce Lake. That was fine with Ricky. He had Joe all to himself. He started helping him with chores every Saturday. Joe paid him, but Ricky did it for the company, not the money.

  Then he died. A heart attack, Doc Griffin said. Ricky had found Joe on the kitchen floor when he’d come by the first Saturday in March, over a year ago. After that, he started doing odd jobs for Reverend Browne.

  “I’ll help make this right. I mean what I say.”

  Ricky felt queasy as he remembered Rogan’s words. Why would a stranger offer to help him? Rogan was a friend of Tim Hendrickson, which meant he was one of them. And even if he tried to help, what could he do? Ricky just needed to lay low, stay out of Rogan’s sight, and eventually the dude would go home. The resort wouldn’t open, and everyone would finally relax. Get back to business as usual. It was the whole resort thing that made everyone crazy. And while Ricky understood the resort wouldn’t be good for the town’s illegal business, he didn’t understand why everyone was so freaked out.

  He turned down a long, bumpy street that bordered the so-called town of Spruce Lake. The potholes were so bad he had to work on his alignment damn near every month. The sad houses mirrored their occupants-tired, sagging, appearing older than their years. Everyone had big lots filled with cars and junk. The skinny Doberman across the street from his house barked at Ricky, teeth bared. The chain-link fence didn’t keep the attack dog in the yard, but the rope he was tethered to did. Ricky suspected that one day, the dog would bust the rope and rip out someone’s throat.

  He pulled into the carport, relieved Uncle Jimmy wasn’t home yet. He worked a three days on, three days off schedule at the fire station. Ricky went in through the side door, dumped his backpack on the kitchen table, and opened the refrigerator. Nearly empty, but at least the milk was fresh. He took the container, drank half from the bottle, and put it back.

  As he closed the refrigerator door, his peripheral vision caught movement to his right. He glanced around, looking for something to defend himself with, when he recognized the intruder.

  “Hello,” Sean Rogan said. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you tried to kill me? Spare no details. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Sean stared the kid in the eye. First reactions tended to be the most honest.

  The kid was scared, but ready to defend himself. A survivor. Cocky and cautious, a familiar combination. So much like the young Sean Rogan that he could have been looking at himself in a mirror fifteen years ago.

  Still, because he, too, was a survivor, Sean watched the kid’s body language for signs that he had a hidden weapon. Sean didn’t think so-but there could be a gun under a table or cabinet.

  “I could kill you for breaking into my house,” he said.

  “So James Benson is your dad? He seems kind of young to father a teenager, but anything’s possible.”

  The kid couldn’t hide his surprise. “You followed me?”

  “I thought you’d spotted me at the school, but I didn’t need to follow you,” Sean replied. “I tagged the license plate number, ran it, found the registered owner was James Benson at this address.”

  Benson lived in town, one of the few side streets off the main road that intersected the highway two miles west. About half the nearly four hundred residents lived in the one-mile-square “town” on large parcels with small, ramshackle homes where the “newer” houses, like Benson’s, were still more than fifty years old. The rest of the town lived in the “country” on acreage, but most of the houses were just as rundown.

  “I didn’t want to follow you,” Sean continued. “Didn’t want you to do something stupid like drive off the road trying to get away. This way, I could do a little research. Like figure out that James Benson is an employee of Fire and Rescue. And he’s one of the few residents here who still owns his house. Very interesting to me, since Jon Callahan owns seventy percent of the properties in Spruce Lake. Been buying them up for the last couple years.”

  At the mention of Callahan, the kid tensed.

  “I offered to help you,” Sean said, “and you tried to kill me.”

  The kid spoke. “I didn’t want to kill you.”

  “You’re lucky my girlfriend is smart and tracked me down. Otherwise, I could have died down there. So right now, you have two options. I haul your ass to Canton and have you arrested for arson and attempted murder or you tell me what the fuck is going on, starting with your name.”

  Sean watched the teenager weigh whether he was serious or not. Sean let him stew.

  Finally, he said, “I don’t want your help.”

  “Fair enough. Come with me.”

  “I ain’t going anywhere.” He backed away, eyeing a butcher block of knives.

  Sean was getting pissed. “Look, kid, I can draw my gun faster than you can grab one of those knives, and that’s not taking into account that I doubt you know how to throw a knife with any accuracy. I want to help you. But you have to want help. You can think there’s no way out, that you’re drowning in whatever shit you’re stuck in, but I promise you-there’s always a way out. Might not be pretty, but when you’re drowning and someone offers you a life preserver, you’d be smart to grab it.”

  Sean held out his hand. “You know my name. I don’
t know yours.”

  “You found Jimmy, I bet you can figure it out.”

  Jimmy. That meant either an older brother or an uncle.

  “Let me tell you what I think is going on. I think Jimmy has you doing something you don’t want to do. That he’s mixed up with some people and got you mixed up with them, too. First you start small-basic sabotage. Slows construction at the Hendrickson place, costs them a bit of money, but doesn’t stop them.”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Jimmy has you by the throat, and he’s going to get you killed or in prison if you don’t take my help.” He held out his card. “I’m being straightforward with you, kid.”

  “Jimmy’s not-” He cut himself off and grabbed the card. Stared at it as if it were a lifeline, his face trying not to show how worried he was. How scared. How protective of Jimmy.

  “Jimmy’s not what? Maybe I should just hang out here until he gets done with his shift, talk to him, find out if he knows what you’ve been doing while he’s been working seventy-two-hour shifts.” Sean pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. He leaned back, pretending to relax.

  “You can’t stay here. You gotta leave.” His voice cracked as he looked at the closest exit.

  “I don’t want to play games with you. But you nearly killed me, and worse? You scared my girlfriend. I want to help, but right now I don’t like you much. Give me a reason.”

  The kid looked up as if asking God for help, but not expecting any.

  “Start with your name. First name, that’s all.”

  Through clenched teeth, he said, “Ricky.”

  “Good. I don’t know what’s going on in this town, but I’m pretty sure you-and Jimmy-aren’t orchestrating it. I will find out the truth.”

  A car door slammed and Ricky jumped. Panicked, he craned his head toward the kitchen window, so he could see down the driveway. “You’re a liar,” he said to Sean.

  Sean looked out. A sheriff’s truck was parked behind Ricky’s car, but the man who was walking up the weed-infested path wasn’t Deputy Weddle. This guy was ten years older and out of uniform, though he had a badge clipped to his utility belt next to his gun.

  “I didn’t call the cops, Ricky.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Prove it.”

  There was a knock on the door. Sean glanced around, motioned toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. “I’m not here.”

  Ricky looked skeptical, but Sean walked to the bathroom and quietly closed the door. A moment later, he heard the front door open.

  The house was small and the walls were thin, so Sean was able to hear nearly everything the cop said.

  “Are you James Benson’s nephew?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ricky said. “Why?”

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Kyle Dillard. What’s your name, son?”

  “Ricky. Where’s Jimmy?”

  “Do you have any other relatives in town?”

  “No. What happened? Did he get hurt? Why didn’t his chief call me?”

  “He wasn’t hurt on the job,” Dillard said. “May I come in a moment?”

  There was a long pause, then Sean heard the door click close. “I’m really sorry, son, but your uncle’s truck went off the bridge outside Colton Wednesday night. He’s presumed dead.”

  “Wednesday?”

  “I gather you haven’t missed him for the last couple days?”

  “He was on duty.”

  “I spoke to his unit. They said he left sick Wednesday afternoon. You didn’t see him?”

  “No. Are you sure? You said presumed dead. He could be okay?” Ricky was trying to sound brave, but his voice cracked at the end. Sean wished he could go out there and stand by him. Ricky needed someone in his corner, now more than ever.

  “It took some time to assess the scene and bring the truck up. I’m looking into the cause of the accident. I don’t think anyone could have survived.”

  Ricky wasn’t talking, or he spoke too quietly for Sean to hear. It was a minute later when the detective said, “Are you sure I can’t call someone for you? A teacher or friend maybe?”

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone!” Ricky’s grief turned to anger.

  “You’re over sixteen, I can’t force you into custody, but I can get you a temporary place to stay in Canton if you don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  “I said no! I just need to know what happened to Jimmy.”

  Silence again. Sean strained to hear. “I understand,” Dillard said quietly. “You didn’t know he’d left duty?”

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you spoke with him?”

  “Tuesday night. When-” Ricky hesitated. Something in his tone made Sean suspect he was lying. “When can, I mean who-what happens now?”

  “You don’t have to make any decisions. I would advise you to talk to someone-a minister maybe, or your uncle’s boss. Someone will help you make the decisions that need to be made, but you have time. Do you know if your uncle had a will?”

  Ricky didn’t say anything but he must have shook his head, because Dillard said, “I can call Chief Homdus for you. I know him personally; I’m certain he’ll help. Go through your uncle’s papers.”

  “I’ll call him,” Ricky’s voice was rough and Sean suspected he was trying hard not to cry. He closed his eyes for a moment. He knew how Ricky felt. He hadn’t wanted his brothers, or sister, or anyone else, to see him cry after his parents were killed. He hadn’t wanted to be around anyone, especially people offering their condolences. He’d sat through their funeral like a stone, and as soon as they were buried, he bolted. Duke didn’t find him for nearly a week. Sean hadn’t wanted to be found, but when he was fourteen, Duke was better at tracking him down than Sean was at hiding. Today, Sean would know how to disappear.

  What happened to Ricky’s parents? Why was he living with his uncle? Had he just lost the last of his family?

  “Are you okay to be alone? I asked the chief not to say anything until I spoke with you. I’m pretty certain if you don’t call him, he’ll be coming by later.”

  A few minutes later, the front door shut. Sean exited the bathroom and when he didn’t see Ricky, he looked out the window. The teenager stood in the driveway talking to the detective. Sean didn’t like this-what was Ricky saying that he didn’t want Sean to hear? He almost walked out to confront him and turn him over to the detective as an arsonist. But Sean couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. He’d had Duke on his side when he was an angry, grieving teenager; Ricky had no one. Sean couldn’t send him to juvie. It could force the kid over the line permanently. And by the body language, the detective gave no indication that Ricky was telling him anything related to Sean or the fire. Still, something felt unsettled, and Sean continued watching.

  Detective Dillard drove away a few minutes later, and Ricky stared after him. When he turned toward the house, Sean saw his face, red and wet with tears, the anger that he couldn’t control. Sean knew how that felt. He’d cried once in front of Duke and hated that his brother had seen him so raw. He turned his head, giving Ricky a moment of privacy.

  He glanced around the small, tidy house. The furniture was clean but worn, the sofa so faded and threadbare that Sean could tell that the pattern was small flowers only by the edges. It wasn’t a pattern a man would choose; in fact, though there weren’t any frills, the furnishings themselves had a feminine touch. He walked over to a well-stocked bookshelf in the corner. On the top was a photograph of a young pretty blond woman. As he picked it up, he heard the engine of Ricky’s Camaro.

  “Shit!” He ran out the front door, but Ricky had already backed out. Sean was parked down the street to stay out of sight, and he wouldn’t be able to catch up. Especially since his leg still ached, and his short sprint out of the house sent searing pain up his nerves.

  Sean limped back inside, scratching the outside of the stitches through his jeans. He p
ut the picture back on the shelf, angry with himself. He’d known Ricky didn’t want to talk to him; the kid had taken the first opportunity to bolt.

  Sean had a hundred questions for the kid, starting with the coincidence that the day Ricky set fire to the lodge and Lucy found a dead woman, Jimmy Benson called in sick and died in an alleged car accident.

  Sean’s instincts drummed home that Ricky was in danger, but he didn’t know where to look for him. He glanced around the house. At least he had a place to start.

  Sean started in Ricky’s room and quickly learned that he was a fairly tidy kid. His closet was packed to the ceiling with winter gear, books, shoes-some obviously too small for a teenager-and junk. His desk was cluttered, telling Sean he spent time there. He opened a letter from the College Board and was mildly surprised that Ricky had high SAT scores-nearly as high as Sean’s. He flipped through some old papers, all A’s, a couple of B’s. Good student, and there were letters from two colleges outside New York State that had sent him information about early enrollment.

  There was no laptop or desktop computer in his room. Did he have one in his backpack or car? Sean searched the desk. Every drawer was cluttered-magazines, pens, junk. Except the only thing in the bottom drawer was a baby-blue box.

  Sean hesitated only a moment before he opened the box. Inside were letters in flowery handwriting, and for a split second he thought they were love letters.

  And in one sense, they were. From a mother to her son.

  Sean felt uncomfortable reading the personal letters, all dated more than five years ago. But he quickly got the sense of why Ricky’s mom had written them.

  She had known she was dying.

  When Ricky was eight, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She wrote a letter every couple of months to her son. First, she had surgery. Later, the cancer returned and she started chemotherapy, but stopped after only one treatment. The tone of the last few letters changed dramatically.

  The last one was dated December 2, five years ago.