The Boy in the Woods

by Carter Wilson

  Thirty hours.

  Thirty hours had passed since Sofia had told him that he needed Elizabeth in his life.

  Thirty hours of no communication with anyone. No contact. No calls. No leaving the house, and barely even leaving the living room. Thirty hours of nearly non-stop writing, and his fingers, now rested, felt brittle as lifeless twigs.

  He checked the phone history. Fifteen missed calls, none from Becky or Sofia. One number was unlisted. None of the four voicemails was urgent.

  One text message.

  Steps of Red Rocks. 5 p.m. E.

  Once more, Elizabeth commanded him. She wanted to meet him inside Red Rocks Amphitheatre, just west of the city. Tommy knew it well and had memories of watching some of his favorite bands performing there over the years.

  This time there would be no band, and it would be he who was expected to perform. But Tommy was starting to feel a shift in his attitude. Maybe it was because he had finally told Becky everything, and it exploded in his face. Maybe it was because all that he hoped to protect was so close to being permanently gone he stopped worrying about consequences. Maybe he was just finally getting really fucking pissed off.

  Whatever it was, the change of attitude felt good. Tommy just wondered if he was going to do anything with it.

  FORTY

  The sun disappeared behind the mountains around six in early October, and it was well on its way as Tommy pulled into the parking lot of Red Rocks Amphitheatre. The venue was carved into the red sandstone that gave it its name, and being to the west and at a higher elevation than Denver, it offered amazing views of the city.

  Tommy got out of his car and scanned the blood-red sky. It was warm for the time of year, but the temperatures would plunge quickly after dark.

  No other cars were in the lot.

  He wondered if he was here before Elizabeth and, if not, where her car was. It was odd to think of her driving. Tommy just thought she could magically appear any place she wanted to be, without having to use any mode of transport.

  He made his way alone inside the gates and walked along the dirt path down toward the venue. As Tommy walked in along the lowest part of the amphitheatre he looked up at the long, curved rows of seating that climbed up toward dramatic rock outcroppings. The sun, large and wax-like, hung low in the western sky above them.

  Tommy scanned the entire arena and saw one person standing alone in the center of the uppermost row. A woman. Elizabeth.

  She stood there and looked at him but did not move. He was too far away to make out her face, but he knew those cold, blue-jean eyes were trained directly on him.

  She didn’t move, and neither did he.

  After a minute, her message was clear.

  You come to me. I don’t come to you.

  So Tommy did. He climbed the steps, keeping his pace steady, feeling the growing burn in his thighs.

  He reached her row and walked slowly toward her, letting his heartbeat slow. Elizabeth turned toward him, her impossibly tight jeans drawing a curved line down her legs and into the four-inch heels of black leather boots. Her long hair was unrestrained; the early-evening breeze pushed and lifted the outermost hairs around her face. The remaining sunlight glinted off her oversized sunglasses, and as Tommy got closer he saw himself in those lenses, the curve of the glass making him appear larger than he felt.

  ‘Hiya, sexy,’ she said.

  ‘You killed Mark,’ Tommy replied.

  ‘Well, that’s not the greeting I was hoping for.’

  ‘You killed Mark. Why the hell did you do that?’

  A hand went to her hip. ‘And now why do you think I killed Mark?’

  ‘Because he knew the truth.’

  ‘The truth? OK, Mulder. What truth are we talking about here?’

  ‘You know what truth. About Rade.’

  ‘Shit, Tommy, he knew the truth for thirty years. Don’t you think if I was worried he was going to say anything I would have been a little more proactive?’

  ‘You’re cleaning up everything. Before you die.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re paranoid.’ Elizabeth pulled the hair away from her face. ‘Next thing you’ll be telling me is Mark was in the alley the night we killed the homeless man. That he was a Watcher.’

  She winked at him and the temperature of the air dropped ten degrees.

  Images of Charleston flashed through Tommy’s mind. Standing there, alone in the alley, the blood of the homeless man pooling near his feet, deciding whether to stay or run. And then the movement, the sound, and then the sight of someone else there that night. Someone else running away, down the alley, fading in and out of the shadows before disappearing into the night.

  Mark.

  It was Mark. He was a Watcher. The killing, which seemed almost random, was planned well before that night. That murder wasn’t for Tommy. It was for Mark.

  ‘My God,’ he said. ‘He was there. He saw the whole thing.’

  ‘You see, just like I said. Paranoia.’

  Tommy stared out over the city to the east, as if he could see all the way back to that night. ‘That was why you wanted me to go see him. So he could be a Watcher. You two planned it all along. He was … he was like you.’

  Mark’s dark side extended well beyond what Tommy assumed, and now he was dead because of it. Watchers always died.

  ‘No one is quite like me, Tommy. Besides, you’re the one coming up with this story, not me.’

  ‘You haven’t denied it.’

  She removed her glasses. Her eyes nearly disappeared in the light. Tommy hated thinking she was beautiful.

  ‘And if I denied it, would you believe me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So let’s not waste our time here.’

  ‘Are you planning to kill me, too?’

  Her tone was that of a scolding mother. ‘Now, Tommy …’

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘Again, would you believe me if I said no?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we’re just going in circles here.’

  ‘So why am I here?’

  ‘I need an answer,’ she said.

  Tommy turned his head, more than anything because he didn’t want to look her in the eye. His gaze swept over all of Denver, which glowed against the eastern plains.

  ‘This is crazy,’ he said.

  ‘Life is crazy. Get over it.’

  ‘You don’t need me to do this. I can write the book without … without going through with it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how you feel about it. There are two choices, and two choices only. Kill Stykes in the manner and time period that I demand, or don’t kill him and deal with the consequences of that decision.’

  ‘I already told my wife, you know. And my assistant. I told them everything.’ Tommy hoped to shock her, but he knew immediately from her expression he hadn’t.

  ‘There’s a difference between the people who love you knowing your dirty secrets and the whole world knowing. You know that, Tommy. And I think you’ll still do everything I want you to in order to keep your secret quiet.’ She reached up and touched his shoulder. ‘Tommy, Alan Stykes deserves to die. The man is a child killer.’

  Now he looked at her. ‘So are you.’

  ‘Just that one time. But Stykes makes me look like a saint. What he did to those other little boys is … even beyond me.’

  ‘You know, I only have your word that he’s responsible for those other missing kids. You might be making all this up about him.’

  ‘You saw the pictures in the house. The gravesites.’

  ‘I saw photos of the woods, nothing more. Alan confessed nothing to me. Maybe you want me to kill an innocent man.’

  ‘Can you honestly tell me you think Alan is an innocent man?’

  Tommy knew Alan was not innocent. He hadn’t recognized his evil immediately, as he had with some killers he’d interviewed over the years. But those were criminals Tommy already knew were guilty. Alan was just a deputy sheriff he
’d met. No reason to suspect him of anything other than intense loneliness. But in Stykes’s house, in his bedroom, with Stykes blocking the door as Tommy had looked at those photos of the woods, Tommy had seen it. Once he’d recognized the look of a murderer in Alan Stykes’s cold stare, he was stunned he hadn’t recognized it right away.

  ‘So you kill him, then,’ Tommy said.

  ‘That’s not the point. You need to do this. Once you do, your book will have an authenticity that the readers will feel. I know it, Tommy. After you kill him and write about it …’ She smiled as she thought about it. ‘Your book will come alive.’

  ‘My life will be over. Either way. Don’t you see that? How can I live with myself after murdering someone?’

  She placed her right foot closer to his. ‘I think you want to do it.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘How the hell can you even say that?’

  ‘What father wouldn’t want to kill a child murderer?’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘It’s not complicated, Tommy. Decisions are easy. It’s thinking about them that makes them complicated.’

  He squeezed the back of his neck and spit out in frustration. ‘Why am I even here? Why come all the way out here to have this conversation? What the hell’s the point?’

  She leaned closer still, then grabbed his arm and ran her thumb along the scar she had given him thirty years ago. ‘Because we’re family, Tommy. Families need to be together.’

  She was close enough to kiss. She was close enough to kill.

  The attitude crept back over him. He wondered if he actually had it in him to kill her. Just finish everything, right here, right now. Could he do it? As superhuman as she wanted him to think she was, Elizabeth was flesh and bone. She used his own paranoia to make herself seem all-powerful, but Tommy had to remember that she was a murderer, not a demon. She hadn’t killed Mark. Nor had Mark been in the alley that night. It was too much to orchestrate, even for her capabilities. But she was happy to let Tommy believe all these things, and from them sprouted a fear of her as a god-like figure. So the question remained. Knowing she was just human, could he kill her?

  ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking, Tommy, but you look pretty damn serious.’

  Without another word, Tommy turned and walked back toward the steps. In the distance, high above the jagged sandstone, a hawk circled over the amphitheatre, searching for food.

  PART III

  FORTY-ONE

  Portland, Oregon

  Four days later

  For the second time in just a week, Tommy found himself inside the Portland airport. The luggage carousel squeaked and shuddered as it came to life. He stood before it and watched the faded metal fins stretch and contract. Other passengers from his flight slowly gathered around it and waited with varying degrees of patience to grab their bags and get on with life.

  Tommy never checked bags. He only had this time because he was in no hurry to get where he was going. A part of him actually wanted his luggage not to show up.

  The e-mail had come within hours of seeing Elizabeth at Red Rocks. It contained detailed instructions on when he was to arrive in Oregon and how he was to proceed after he did. It also said that, were he not on the designated flight, that would be taken as an unalterable sign of disobedience.

  Disobedience.

  Tommy had had a few days to make up his mind. Days of silence from Becky and the children. A few days to update his book, hoping the words would somehow guide him to the right choice. A few days of complete and utter aloneness.

  Yesterday, the day he had finally made a decision, the only decision he could make, he had written five letters, leaving them on his desk. One to Becky. A very long one to the kids, not to be read until they were older. One to Sofia. One to his editor and agent. And a general letter for everyone else in his life. In case he didn’t return home, those letters might provide some comfort, or at least some explanation, for what he had done.

  His bag was the first to appear on the carousel. That had never happened in his entire life. He grabbed it and walked over to the Starbucks near the exit. He wasn’t there for coffee. He was there to meet his driver.

  He stood alone scanning the crowd, and after twenty seconds a man approached him from his right.

  ‘Mr Devereaux?’

  Tommy turned. The man before him was impeccably dressed in the way a consigliere would be. Shiny gray suit. Crisp, cream shirt. Black tie with a gleaming silver tie pin. His tanned face had many more wrinkles around the eyes than Tommy’s, though Tommy guessed they were close in age. The wrinkles could be from either too much smiling or too much squinting. Tommy didn’t think they were from smiling.

  ‘Yes?’ Tommy said.

  ‘I’m your driver.’

  ‘OK.’

  The man reached for Tommy’s bag.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Tommy said. ‘I got it.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Follow me, please.’

  Tommy followed him outside to a black Lincoln Town Car parked impossibly close to the airport. But there was no ticket on the window or cop yelling at him to move the car. The man opened the back door for Tommy. Tommy glanced into the dark interior, feeling that he was looking down the throat of a shark.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Antoine,’ the man said.

  ‘I’ve never known an Antoine.’

  ‘First for everything.’

  Tommy glanced down at the car again.

  ‘Where are you taking me, Antoine?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Devereaux. I’m not supposed to tell you that.’

  ‘Can you tell me how long the trip will be?’

  ‘About an hour. Give or take.’

  ‘And what happens when we get there?’

  Antoine seemed genuinely stumped by the question.

  ‘Then my job is done.’

  Tommy accepted the answer, having expected nothing more revealing. He took a deep breath and got in the car, keeping his bag with him.

  The window tint seemed dark enough to block a nuclear bomb flash. Interior lights revealed a variety of newspapers and a fully stocked bar. Tommy was tempted and didn’t really care that it was only two in the afternoon, but he had to stay sharp.

  Antoine pulled the car away from the curb. As he did, the doors locked. Tommy half-expected to see the interior door handles missing, but they were there.

  Calm down, he told himself. What’s the point of coming all this way just to escape now? You’ve committed yourself by your actions.

  Tommy knew he’d end up in Lind Falls, because he was certain that was where the killing would take place. It was where Stykes lived, and it seemed fitting. He didn’t know why Elizabeth wanted him to have a driver, but he guessed in large part it was due to her not wanting Tommy to have his own car. Moreover, she wanted Tommy to obey her. Follow her orders.

  Tommy closed his eyes, listened to the hum of the motor, and visualized Elizabeth’s last e-mail to him.

  Bring a printed copy of your manuscript, along with some extra pages. You’ll want to take notes. You finally get to write your ending, Tommy.

  Tommy reached over, unzipped his bag, and removed the heavy block of pages. He turned on the interior dome light and scanned through the pages, still marveling at how much he’d written in such a short amount of time. And it wasn’t just the quantity. The words were good. They were right. Tommy had a healthy ego but secretly he’d never thought himself a literary giant, and he had no lack of critics reminding him of that. His sales were strong enough for his pride occasionally to get the better of him, which was why he had a large wooden sign made that he proudly displayed above his office desk. The words kept him humble and reminded himself of his own limitations:

  Drinks like Hemingway. Writes like Koontz.

  But this book would change that. Maybe it wasn’t literary, but it was more raw than anything he’d ever done. There was a pureness and truth to it, even if that truth was
an ugly one.

  Tommy shoved the manuscript back in the bag and turned off the light. He wanted to talk to Antoine, but he knew the conversation would be one-sided. Antoine was paid to drive, not to talk.

  Tommy removed his cell phone from his bag and checked for messages. None. He dialed Becky and left her one more message, which he figured would be the last one for a while.

  ‘Hey, it’s me. Just … well, I just hope you listen to this. I’m not home. I’m on the road. I’ve made a decision about things. I don’t know if it’s the right decision, but I feel like it’s the only thing I can do. Maybe this is the last time you’ll hear my voice. Maybe we still have an amazing life together ahead. I know I’ve made mistakes. Terrible mistakes. But I need you, and I’m doing this for all of us. To keep what we have. It’s for us, Becky. It’s for all of us.’ He closed his eyes and pressed the phone harder against his ear. ‘I won’t tell you to call me back, because you’re not going to. So, I’ll just call you again … later, when things are done. Please tell the kids I love them very much. And I love you. I love you.’

  He disconnected the call and put the phone back in his bag.

  Seconds later he took it back out and dialed Sofia. Again, it went to voicemail. This time Tommy didn’t leave a message. He wasn’t really sure what he wanted to say to Sofia anyway. Maybe he just wanted to hear her voice. He wanted someone to tell him what he was doing was right.

  He could call more people, he could check his e-mail, he could read the newspapers surrounding him. There were a dozen things Tommy could do to distract himself during the ride, but he didn’t do any of them.

  Despite the stress, or perhaps because of it, Tommy closed his eyes and fell asleep.

  FORTY-TWO

  ‘We’re here,’ the voice said.

  Tommy opened his eyes. He’d been sleeping either ten minutes or twelve hours. He looked forward and saw the back of Antoine’s head, remembering where he was. He sat up and stared out the tinted windows, trying to focus.

  The Town Car pulled into a gas station. The pumps were from another lifetime, when credit cards were only accepted inside at the cashier. A weathered plastic sign told Tommy this station was the property of someone named Nelson. Nelson somehow managed to keep his independent shop open despite, or perhaps because of, being in the middle of fucking nowhere.