by Jeff Shelby
We walked for ten minutes before the forest broke in front of us, water shimmering just in front of the break. The area was surrounded by marshes and inlets that spider webbed away from the river and the sound; it was like the Everglades with more trees. Frogs and crickets chirped in places I couldn't see.
“Edge of the water,” I said. “Stop there.”
Dennison nodded, walked another twenty-five yards, then stopped, his toes at the edge of a brackish-looking pond covered in algae and moss. He turned around to face me, his heels sending ripples into the pond. I was ten feet from him. His eyes were flat, impassive. I didn't see any fight in him, only resignation.
He held the backpack out to me. “You might want to take a look in here.”
I eyed the bag. “Throw it to me.”
He threw it underhand and it landed at my feet. I bent down, keeping my eyes on him, then stood back up with it. I kept my gun on him and worked to unzip the main pocket of the bag. I turned it upside down and poured out the contents. A few articles of clothing tumbled downward to the pine needles, along with a money clip full of cash and a small handgun.
I looked at him.
“Bought it for a hundred bucks from a guy in the village I was living in in Mexico,” he said. “It's a piece of shit, but I didn't know if I'd need it or not.” An unhappy smile forced its way onto his face. “Dumb luck.”
I'd been worried about using my gun the entire trip. My weapon was registered and if by any chance Dennison's body was traced back to me, I knew there was a chance they'd be able to link the ballistics back to me. Now Dennison was offering me a way out of that.
“I can't pull the trigger, but I'm sure you'll be able to put it together afterward,” he said. “Put it near my hand or something like that.” A laugh ruptured from his mouth. “I've watched a lot of TV, I guess.”
I checked the chamber. Three bullets. I closed the chamber back up.
“But let's do it fast, alright?” he said, shuffling his feet, more ripples moving through the water behind him. “I don't want to—”
“Stop talking,” I said. “Just stop.”
His mouth clamped shut.
The more he talked, the more I doubted I'd be able to pull the trigger on him. He was getting in my head. His mother. His acquiescence. All of it. He was making it too easy, which was making it too hard.
And the clock was ticking.
“Do it,” he said.
I leveled the gun with his chest, my arm at a right angle from my body. Even though the gun was smaller than my own, it felt heavier than any I'd ever held. My index finger curled around the trigger.
“Do it,” he said, his voice pleading now. “Just get it over with.”
The trigger was cold against my finger.
But I couldn't squeeze it.
“Do it!” he yelled, anger contorting his face.
My heart hammered against my chest.
“You need me to come at you?” he growled. “Is that it? All of this has been an empty threat? Jesus fucking Christ. I wasn't kidding. I did think about offing myself in Mexico, because let's be honest. What in the hell do I have left anyway?” He shook his head, disgusted. “My son's dead because of me. I abandoned my wife. I'm a coward. I'm nothing. So just do it.” He glared at me, then shook his head, like he couldn't believe it. “I haven't given you enough reasons to kill me. You really need me to come at you?”
“Don't,” I said.
Something flashed through his eyes and he walked toward me.
“Don't,” I said again.
He kept walking until the gun was pressed against his chest. He was breathing hard, his eyes glassy. He reached for my hand, but I knocked it away.
“Don't,” I said again.
The weird smile crept onto his lips again. He swept his arm up fast this time and got his hand around my wrist. I reached for his hand with my free hand. He brought his other hand up and I set my feet, ready to fight with him.
Then his free hand covered my own, the hand that was holding the gun. I felt his finger snaking over mine.
“Nothing left for me,” he grunted as we stood there, locked in a strange embrace. “Go get your wife.”
His finger dug into mine, forcing them both against the trigger.
The gunshot exploded in the quiet of the forest and Dennison blinked, his weight leaning harder against the gun and me. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then he took a step back, his legs wobbly, the blood spreading like a puddle in the middle of his shirt.
“Go find her,” he said, his voice quieter, more distant.
He took another step to steady himself, then fell backward, his body crashing against the pine needles.
I stood there for a moment, listening to his labored breathing. Every instinct I had told me to lean down, to help him, but I knew saving him wasn’t an option. It couldn’t be, not if I wanted to save Lauren.
His breathing hitched and I wanted to scream, to beat my head against one of the knotted pines. A frog croaked nearby, and then another, until there was steady chorus, drowning out Dennison’s gasps for air. Slowly, their croaks died off, until there was no sound.
No sound at all.
EIGHTEEN
I dragged Dennison's body to the marsh, sliding him into the mud and murky water, pushing on his feet to get him all the way in. Then I snapped several photos, trying not to look directly at the images as they saved on my phone.
I picked up the gun, wiped it clean and dropped it into the water near his body.
I placed his backpack right side up and carefully shook the pine needles from his clothes, stuffing the clothing back into the back. I set the pack near the edge of the water.
I worked for thirty minutes, gathering pine needles from other spots in the forest, dumping them into the area where we'd stood and where I'd dragged his body. I spread them all carefully with my feet, then backtracked slowly out of the area, kicking pine needles to make sure there were no footprints left behind.
I got back into the rental and drove back out to the highway, went another mile north, then pulled into the lot of a fast food restaurant. I parked at the edge of the lot, got out and walked to the grassy area near the trees. I bent down and vomited, the contents of my stomach emptying onto the grass.
When I was done, I walked into the restaurant and located the bathroom. I washed my face and rinsed my mouth and avoided looking in the mirror. I purchased the largest coffee available from a disinterested twenty-something guy, walked outside and drank half of it, the hot, acidic liquid burning its way down my throat and into my now empty gut.
I'd killed before. Out of anger and out of vengeance. Those weren't reasons to be proud of, but I'd had a personal connection to the people whose lives I'd ended. They'd played a part in my daughter's disappearance. They weren't good people. And my decision to kill them, while maybe not the most moral, left me with no guilt after ridding the world of them.
Patrick Dennison felt different, though.
He was a man who'd made mistakes, ones that eventually ended up costing him his son, his marriage, and his life. He was a thief with poor judgment, a thief who had suffered the misfortune of working for some truly bad people.
I didn't think he was inherently evil, though.
He was dead simply because I owed someone a favor. And because I needed to get Lauren back. And because I'd screwed up the first time.
It was a terrible feeling, and I felt like that lead blanket was wrapped back around me, completely weighing me down.
I hoped it wouldn't stay with me forever.
But I knew better.
NINETEEN
“It's done,” I said.
“Oh, Mr. Tyler, it's you, ” John Anchor said. “I see you've procured a new phone for yourself. I almost didn't answer. Thought you might be one of those pesky telemarketers.”
I was sitting in the car, the phone to my ear, the coffee in my other hand, hoping the warmth from the cup would somehow spread into my body.
“It's done,” I repeated.
“Ah, yes. And where have I heard that before?”
“Check the email,” I said.
I'd been given a secure email a long time ago by Anchor. At least, he’d told me it was secure, so I'd believed him. I'd taken the photos of Dennison's body so that there would be no dispute as to what had happened this time. I didn't want there to be any doubt on Anchor's part as to whether or not I'd paid my debt in full.
“Ah, the email,” Anchor said. “I've been so busy today, I haven't had time to check.”
“Then do it now.”
“How was Mr. Dennison?” he asked. “Pleased to see you?”
“I want Lauren.”
“Was he shocked?” he asked, ignoring me. “Did he put up any resistance? Or did he think you two could strike another deal. I'm genuinely curious, Mr. Tyler.”
“Check your email and you'll see how it went.”
“Hmm. Alright. Give me a moment.” I heard tapping on a keyboard. “Ah, yes. I see the photos. Doesn't look like he put up a fight. Of course, these could be altered. Photoshopped, perhaps.”
“They aren't,” I told him. “About an hour old.”
“And you found him without issue? No—?”
“I want Lauren,” I said. “Stop fucking around with me.”
The line buzzed for a moment. “There's irony in that statement, don't you think, Mr. Tyler? The fucking around with me part, I mean.”
I set the coffee down in the drink holder between the seats. I flexed my hand several times, the joints having gone stiff from holding the cup for so long.
“I mean, we had an agreement,” he continued, his voice implacably calm. “You told me the agreement was complete. And then it turned out it wasn't.” He chuckled. “I think that's the very definition of fucking around, is it not, Mr. Tyler?”
“What are you looking for here, Anchor?”
“Looking for? Nothing really, I suppose. Just thinking out loud.”
He wasn't thinking out loud. He was mocking me. He was taunting me, making sure I knew he'd never forget that I'd lied to him.
“Do you need me to bring you his body?” I asked. “Because I will if that's what's needed here.”
He chuckled again. Anyone listening to his side of the conversation probably thought he was speaking to a friend, not someone he’d blackmailed into murdering for him. “No, no, that isn't necessary, nor would it be very prudent. I will take you at your word – again – and assume that the photos are genuine.”
“Then how do I arrange to get Lauren?”
“Excuse me?”
The hair on my neck stood up. “How do I arrange to get Lauren from you?”
He sighed loudly into the phone. “I think maybe you've misunderstood our deal, Mr. Tyler.”
I reached out and steadied my hand on the wheel, even though the car was parked.
“I never promised you anything,” Anchor said. “All I asked was that you keep your end of our agreement.”
“Bullshit,” I said, my fingers tightening on the wheel. “You know what our deal was.”
“No, I'm afraid, I don't,” he said. “I just told you that you had 72 hours to complete our agreement.”
“And after I did, I would get Lauren back,” I yelled into the phone. “That was the deal!”
“Our original deal had nothing to do with your former wife,” he said. “Nothing.”
“Then why did you take her?” I asked, unable to keep the desperation out of my voice.
“Come now, Mr. Tyler. Surely you can figure that out on your own. Do you really need me to explain that to you?”
My chest heaved and I fought to control my breathing.
“Well, I'm surprised by this,” Anchor murmured. “But, alright. I'll explain. When I learned that you failed to execute our agreement, I was, as you can imagine, very upset. I think furious might be accurate, though, for reasons I'm not entirely sure of, I didn't find it altogether surprising. But sometimes these things happen, right? And when they happen, I have to respond accordingly. I needed to get you to keep your end of our deal.” He paused. “And I had to decide on the consequences for deceiving me.”
Something cold and hard twisted inside my stomach.
“Something that would make sure you would understand that you made a very big mistake,” Anchor said. “Something that might send a message to others I might do business with in the future, others who need to understand how serious I take...agreements.”
My hands shook on the wheel.
“So by my count, you have roughly, what? Maybe a little over fifty hours left?
“Fifty hours left,” I said, not comprehending. “For what?”
“You completed part one of your task,” Anchor said. “You dealt with our mutual friend and finally held up your end of the deal.” He paused. “Now you've got fifty some odd hours left to get to Mrs. Tyler.”
My fingers were cramping on the wheel and I decided to play the one card I thought I still held. “Does Codaselli know about this?”
Codaselli was Peter Codaselli, Anchor's boss and a man whose son I’d found when I was searching for Elizabeth in Minnesota. He was the supposed leader of all organized crime in Minnesota, and he'd been the one whose debt I'd really been in when I'd asked for another favor. I didn't for a moment underestimate what he was capable of, but I had to wonder if he was comfortable with kidnapping Lauren.
“I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Codaselli passed recently,” Anchor answered.
My stomach dropped. Codaselli had been suffering from late stage cancer when I'd found his son. He'd been able to hold it off longer than most anticipated, but it apparently finally won out.
Which left me without options.
“Why are you making this a game?” I sounded just as desperate as I felt. “I did what you wanted. Give her back to me.”
“I assure you it's not a game, Mr. Tyler,” he said. “Consequences aren't a game.”
“Then just give her back to me,” I pleaded. Tears blurred my vision, tears I fought to keep out of my voice. “Please.”
“If only I could,” he said. “Goodbye, Mr. Tyler.”
TWENTY
I sat in the car, the phone still to my ear, my other hand glued to the wheel, panic paralyzing me.
It had never occurred to me that Anchor wouldn't return Lauren. Why, I wasn't sure, but I'd gone to South Carolina firm in the belief that if I took care of Dennison, I would get Lauren back.
And now Anchor was telling me something different.
I pried my fingers from the wheel, forced myself to take a few deep breaths. Inactivity was the last thing I needed, not when a clock was ticking. I had to get going, and I had to figure out a plan. I set the phone down and backed out of the parking spot and headed back to Charleston.
Halfway through the drive, when I thought I'd finally regained a decent amount of control over my emotions, I picked the phone up and punched in the number that I had for Carter. The voicemail was computer generated. At the beep, I said, “Call me back.”
Forty seconds later, my phone vibrated in my hand, a blocked number on the screen. “Hello?”
“Mr. Tyler. It's Carter. I got your message.”
“Yeah. My daughter okay?”
“Perfectly fine. No issues.”
“Can I speak with her?”
“Yeah, hang on.”
There was some rustling of the phone, some muted voices, then Elizabeth said, “Dad?”
My body went limp with relief, if only for a second. “Hey, kid. What's going on?”
“Nothing. How are you? Where are you? Do you have Mom yet?” The questions tumbled out, one right after another.
“I'm okay,” I said. It was a lie, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. “I'm still...traveling.”
“Did you find Mom?”
“Not yet,” I said. Another lie. “But I'm on my way to her now.”
“Is she okay?”
“I thin
k so.” The lies kept coming. I hated telling them, but I hated the alternative even more. “How are you? You're doing okay?”
“I'm okay,” she said.
“Those guys. They're okay?”
“Yeah. Both of them are very nice. The big guy is goofy and the other guy doesn't say much, but they've been nice to me.”
“You have food and stuff?”
“Yeah. They've brought food in. Hamburgers, sandwiches. I'm fine, Dad. Really.” She paused. “The only weird part is that I can't run.”
It was something I hadn’t really considered, something I didn’t really have time to think about as we hustled out of San Diego. She ran every single day. Even on her off days, she ran lightly. So being cooped up probably did make her feel like a caged animal.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“East Coast,” I said, deliberately vague.
“Is that where Mom is?”
“No. So I'm heading to an airport now.”
“Will you be back soon?”
“I hope so.”
She sighed and it tugged at my heart. I didn't have good answers for her and I couldn't tell her any of the things I knew. It was awful.
“Okay,” she finally said.
“Can I talk to Carter again?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said. “When will you call me again?”
“Probably tonight, okay? Try and give you more of an update.”
“Okay. I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, Elizabeth.”
The line buzzed for a moment, then Carter came on the line. “I'm here.”
“Hey. She doing okay?”
“Yeah, think so. She's watching TV, eating. Probably bored, but can't blame her. Wasn't happy that I took her phone, but I think she gets it.” He coughed. “Just took the battery out. I'll put it back together when everything's good.”
I nodded as I drove, remembering I’d done the same thing to mine. I was glad they were taking precautions. “Everything else is fine? Nothing weird?”
“Everything's cool,” he said. “Not a single wrinkle.”
“Okay, good.” I checked the rearview mirror. “Just for your ears, alright? Things aren't cool here. I don't think that means they'll make a run at my daughter, but I can't guarantee anything.”
