Legacy Reclaimed

by Robin Patchen

  Dylan turned a slow circle, taking in the spot. “Someone could have hidden back there”—he nodded toward the trees on a little rise opposite the birches—“or, really, anywhere, if they wanted to see you.”

  “Yes, well…” Rather than dwell on that unpleasant idea, she continued along the trail. “I came up that morning, turned in this direction.”

  Dylan walked behind her. His voice was quiet when he asked, “Now that we’re here, do you remember anything else? Did anything stand out to you? Any sounds, any smells…?”

  She tried to remember, but all that came to mind was the grief she’d felt. So strong, her eyes prickled.

  Focus.

  But she couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary.

  She’d been alone, or so she’d thought. But somebody had been lurking, watching her, as she’d climbed the mountain.

  They continued up the path until she saw the clearing ahead. She paused, and Dylan stepped beside her. “How’s the foot?”

  “Killing me,” she admitted but climbed the short rise, came through the last of the trees, and stepped onto the giant rock outcropping. She froze a good twenty feet from the edge of Ayasha View Point.

  He stepped forward slowly, taking it in. There was a family there, a mom and three teenagers. The teens were taking photos of each other, laughing. One filmed a video.

  Everything had to go on video these days. Chelsea hadn’t jumped on the social-media bandwagon, had never felt a need to share her personal life that way. Her mother had cautioned her against it, but even if she hadn’t, Chelsea didn’t understand the appeal of telling the world her every move.

  The woman asked Dylan to snap a photo for them. He took the offered phone and captured a few pictures of the family. They thanked him and continued on the path, leaving Dylan and Chelsea alone.

  It was beautiful—towering trees behind, mountains on the far side, valley and lake below. But, after Monday, she’d never see it the same way again.

  He faced her. “Where were you when it happened?”

  She pointed. “Just a few feet to your left there.”

  He stepped to the spot. “About here?”

  She resisted the urge to tell him to come back, tell him it wasn’t safe. “I was looking at the view.”

  He turned and took it in. “It’s beautiful.”

  “The sun was rising.”

  He turned to face her. “And the man came from where?”

  She walked toward the trees that rimmed the far edge of the giant boulder. Tried to remember… She stopped. “I think about right here.”

  “And you were crouched down,” he said.

  “Yes. I’d noticed my shoe was untied.”

  He crouched down, looked toward her. Then stood and walked her way. He passed her, stepped into the trees, looked around.

  “What do you see?” she asked.

  He moved deeper into the woods until he was hidden, or would have been if she hadn’t known he was there. “In movies, people would come in here and find a clue. A cigarette butt with DNA, a piece of fabric from a distinctive jacket, the print of a rare type of shoe. All I see is… dead leaves. And bugs and acorns and twigs.”

  “I always wondered about those shoe prints.”

  “It worked in the OJ case.” He stepped out of the woods. “Well, it didn’t, but it should have. Size… what, twelve super-expensive Italian loafers or something?” He marched across the boulder toward the edge.

  Her heart raced. “Please be careful.”

  He shot her a smile, his red hair blazing in the sun. “I promise not to fall.”

  She wanted to say something clever, but the sight of him so near the spot where she’d tumbled and nearly died caught her voice. She swallowed, closed her eyes. Protect him. It was ridiculous. People came here all the time, and nobody ever fell. You’d have to be a fool to…

  Dylan inched nearer the edge. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled forward.

  “What are you doing? You’re going to fall.”

  He ignored her, lowered to his belly, and army-crawled. The boulder sloped toward the edge like a slide. Was he crazy? Was he trying to kill himself?

  “Dylan, you need to come back. Right now.”

  Again, he turned to her, gave her that same smile, though it looked a bit wicked. “I promised, didn’t I?”

  “I’ll be sure to have that engraved on your tombstone.”

  He chuckled, inched forward until his head was over the cliff’s edge.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, sucked in a breath. She couldn’t watch.

  The whole scenario came back—tumbling down the hill, careening over the edge. The crash against the outcropping, the feel of leaves, branches. The scrape of bark against her hands as she caught herself. Hanging, praying, seconds from her own death.

  She covered her face with her hands, willing the images to go away.

  “Hey, hey.” Her eyes snapped open at the sound of Dylan’s voice. Somehow, he’d survived his foolish look over the edge. And made it back to safety while she’d cowered.

  She hated her fear.

  His hand slid around her back. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “I’m fine.” But his arm felt so good there. So safe. And she wasn’t fine. Her father was dead. Her mother was dead. And somebody had tried to kill her. Twice.

  She was tired, her foot throbbed. She wanted Mum. She wanted Daddy.

  A sob rose from her heart, escaped her mouth. She clamped her hand over it.

  Dylan stepped in front of her, pulled her close. “You’re okay.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m fine.” She tried to pull away, but his arms tightened around her.

  He held her while her tears soaked his shirt. His presence was comforting, safe, strong. She told herself she was making a fool of herself, but she couldn’t seem to stop. When the emotion passed, she backed away, embarrassed.

  “You’ve been through a lot,” he said. “This place must bring it all back.”

  She wiped her tears with her fingertips and stared out at the view. “I used to feel safe here. When I was in England, missing my father, longing for my mother, I used to think of Coventry with such fondness. In my memories… I’d thought I’d idealized it. Made it more beautiful, more magical than it truly was. But really…” She glanced around, shook her head. “It is magical, isn’t it? Except, I’m afraid I’ll never see it the same way again.”

  Dylan took her hand. “You will. It won’t always be colored with fear.”

  Except, her mother had died on this mountain, too.

  But the mountain couldn’t be blamed. “You’re right. I can’t let my fear ruin this place for me.”

  She should step away from him after such a pronouncement, but her hand felt so right in his. The attraction she’d felt for him before hadn’t waned since she’d met him. It had only grown.

  She didn’t know what to think. What she did know was that, if she let her thoughts run wild about this rugged redhead, they’d take her places she had no business going.

  The expression on Dylan’s face… Not sympathy, like she’d expected to see. Not concern.

  There was something else in his eyes, something she was afraid to name.

  Something that seemed to respond to the attraction simmering in her heart.

  She licked her lips, and his gaze dropped there. Then snapped up.

  He let go of her hand and stepped back. Shook his head. Turned his face to the cliff. “I can’t believe you fell over that.”

  Right. The fall. That brought her back to reality.

  She could hardly believe it herself.

  “I got a glimpse of the tree that caught you, but I couldn’t see the ledge you hit on the way down or the one you walked across to safety.”

  “They’re there.”

  He glanced at her, a quick peek. “They must be.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Cote seems to think I’m lying about the whole thing.”

 
“Yeah.” Dylan’s expression darkened. “Which is odd.”

  A rustling behind them had them both turning.

  “Hello?” Dylan called.

  A moment later, a man stepped out of the woods.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dylan stepped in front of Chelsea. “Who are you?”

  The man stepped back. He stared at his feet, shook his head. Tapped his legs with his fingertips—three taps on the right, three taps on the left.

  Behind him, Chelsea said, “Dougie?”

  “Chelsea Hamilton. You’re Chelsea Hamilton.” He nodded with the words, which were clear despite the fact that he hadn’t looked up.

  She stepped around Dylan toward him.

  Dylan gripped her arm to stop her, but she smiled up at him. “It’s okay. Dougie and I are friends.” She focused on the strange man again. “Aren’t we, Dougie?”

  Tap, tap, tap on his legs. “Chelsea Hamilton was my friend in school.” Tap, tap, tap.

  “Right. We sat together. You remember?”

  “You sat beside me at lunchtime. Other kids made fun of me, but you told them to stop.” The tapping continued, almost like a tic. Or maybe it was a tic. That made sense. “You told them to be nice to me, and you’re rich, so everyone always did what you said.”

  Chelsea’s laugh was natural and genuine. “That worked in fourth grade. It doesn’t work so well anymore.”

  “You went away. You were my friend, and you went away.”

  “I had to. I missed you, though.”

  His gaze slid up, bounced off Dylan’s, and fell back to his feet. “Your mother died. I’m sorry your mother died. I liked her. She was nice to me. Mr. Early said I should reflect feelings. So I’m not sad, but I should feel sad because you feel sad. Do you feel sad?”

  “Yes, Dougie.” Her voice cracked. “I loved my mum very much.”

  “I love my mom, too. Not the same because I don’t feel feelings right. But Mr. Early says I love her in my way.”

  “That’s all you can do.”

  The whole time they’d spoken, Dougie hadn’t moved closer to her, and she hadn’t moved closer to him. No old-friend’s hug, no handshake.

  Dougie’s glance came up again, focused on Dylan for a moment, and went back down.

  Dylan backed up a step and put his hands behind his back. The most non-threatening pose he could imagine.

  Chelsea sent him a quick smile. Apparently, that had been the right move.

  “This is my friend Dylan,” she said. “He wanted to see this place.”

  “This is where you were pushed.” Dougie phrased it not like a question but a statement. Dylan had to clamp his mouth closed to keep from speaking. Everything about Dougie said skittish. Dylan, while not the most imposing figure in the world, could easily scare him away.

  “I was standing over there.” Chelsea pointed to the spot on the boulder where Dylan had stood moments before, trying to imagine what had happened to her.

  The thought of her careening over that cliff… He hardly knew this woman, but what he did know, he liked. Respected. And watching her interact with Dougie only increased that respect.

  Chelsea said, “A man came out of the woods right about where you are and pushed me off the cliff.”

  “The detective said that.”

  “Did you see anything that morning?” she asked.

  Dougie shook his head, then nodded. Both movements were slight, like maybe he wasn’t sure.

  “If you did, you can tell me.”

  “The detective asked me if I saw any cars in the lot or any men on the trail. I didn’t. There were no cars in the lot. There were no men on the trail. I told him that.”

  Dylan willed Chelsea to press harder. Dylan didn’t know much about autistic people—and that’s what he guessed Dougie was—but maybe Cote had asked the wrong questions.

  “Did you see anyone that morning?” Chelsea asked.

  “Saw you, standing there.” He pointed to the cliff edge.

  “You did?” Her voice registered surprise. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I wasn’t sure it was you, but it looked like you. I saw your picture in the paper, and I remember you from school. So I thought it was you. But I had to leave. I walk all the trails every morning to make sure they’re safe before people get here. I have to walk the trails in case something happens overnight. I couldn’t stop to talk.”

  “Of course,” she said. “That makes sense.”

  “You didn’t come up from the parking lot or I would have seen you.”

  “There’s a trail down the side of the mountain that leads to my house.”

  “Not an official trail. They’re not on the map. I only walk the trails on the map.”

  “That’s good. That helps keep people safe.”

  “That’s my job. To help keep people safe.” He rocked, tapped his legs, tapped again. “I didn’t know you weren’t safe. I didn’t know. There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could do.” His voice rose. He rocked, tapped. “The trails are safe, but you weren’t safe.” He rocked more, tapped more.

  “It wasn’t your job, Dougie,” she said. “You did your job. You did a good job.”

  “I didn’t keep you safe.”

  “The trails were safe, Dougie. That’s your job, to keep the trails safe.”

  He rocked, tapped. Seemed to calm. “Yes. That’s my job.”

  “You do a very good job,” she said.

  Dylan itched to ask the next question. Had Chelsea picked up on it? Another minute and he’d ask himself.

  Dougie met her eyes for a split second.

  “You look good,” she said.

  “You look older. Older than before. You were twelve when you left. Your last day of school was a Thursday. I looked for you on Friday. Friday was hamburger day. I hated school hamburgers. You always brought food from home on Friday, and I did too. You used to share your cheese crackers with me.”

  “And you’d share your grapes with me,” she said.

  “I like grapes.”

  “Me, too.”

  He looked up, held her gaze longer before his slid to the left. But not down. Seemed like a good sign.

  Chelsea said, “May I ask you another question?”

  He rocked, tapped his legs. Nodded.

  “Did you see any men that morning? Off the trails or on them?”

  “There were no men on the trails.”

  “Okay.”

  This was absolute torture, waiting for Dougie to speak.

  “There was a man,” Dougie said, “but he wasn’t on the trail. He was in the woods. Running through the woods.”

  Chelsea glanced back at Dylan, who mouthed, When?

  “Was that after you saw me or before?” Chelsea asked.

  He pointed farther up the trail. “I was there, over there, on the red trail. After I saw you. You were on this trail, the blue trail. The first trail is the blue trail, and then it splits, and the red trail goes to the north. He was going north. Near the red trail.”

  “And he was running?”

  “Not on the trail. Through the woods.”

  Dylan clenched his fists behind him, willing questions into Chelsea’s head.

  “What was he wearing?”

  Good. Yes.

  “A black sweatshirt and black jeans.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  A beat. Dougie nodded, tapped each leg three times, then again. Then, “A little. Not much.”

  He’d seen him? Would Dougie be able to work with a police sketch artist? Or describe the man?

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?” Chelsea asked.

  “He had a big nose.”

  A big nose. Dylan had seen the same trait on the gunman. Maybe the same guy. Maybe two guys with big noses.

  “Anything else?” Chelsea asked.

  “I drew a picture.”

  What?

  “Oh!” Chelsea sounded delighted and perfectly relaxed—not at all what Dylan was feeling. “Can yo
u show me?”

  Dougie nodded, turned, and walked away.

  Chelsea followed, then gestured for Dylan to do the same.

  He fell in step behind her as quietly as possible.

  Dougie turned back and said, “I saw you and your friend. I finished walking the trails this morning, and I wanted to say I was sorry about your mom.”

  “Thank you, Dougie. It means a lot to me that you would go out of your way to tell me that.”

  “You were always nice to me.”

  Dylan could imagine that. Even as a child, an only child and the richest girl in town, Chelsea had been kind.

  They walked in silence. Dylan desperately wanted to know where they were going, but he kept his mouth shut and followed.

  They veered off the main trail to a little shack, like a guard shack, nearly hidden in the trees.

  “This is where I work,” Dougie said. “I come here when it’s raining or if I have to use the phone.”

  Dougie disappeared inside.

  Chelsea paused on the wooden platform just outside. She glanced at Dylan, shrugged.

  He put his hands behind his back again and stayed on the dirt a good ten feet away.

  A moment later, the door opened, and Dougie stepped outside holding a few pieces of paper. He held them out to her.

  Chelsea looked at the first and gasped. “That’s…” She paused, shifted her tone from shock back to gentle and kind. “You’re a good artist.”

  “I like to draw.”

  “I remember that. You were the best artist in third grade. You remember when we were supposed to write and illustrate books?”

  “I can draw but I can’t tell stories, so I just drew my mommy and daddy.”

  “Remember I wanted you to illustrate mine?”

  “You can’t draw very well. I couldn’t help you. It was against the rules.”

  Dylan couldn’t see her face, but he heard the smile in her voice when she said, “That’s right. You wouldn’t do it.”

  “Rules are important. It’s not okay to break the rules.”

  She looked at the next piece of paper, then the next. “Do you mind if I take a picture of these?”

  “You can have them. I made more. I have lots more inside.”