Crossed

by Meredith Doench

  “Luce? Take my hand.”

  With Ainsley’s help, I’m able to stand. My balance is off, though, and my boots are no contender against the slick ice. Together we manage to get to the bank and onto sure footing. “Have they found Rowan?”

  “I followed two squads out here. Davis broadcast her location. I’m sure by now they’ve got her.”

  I breathe in relief. “She’s number seven.”

  “Yes,” Ainsley says. “Why else would he take her?”

  “Kaitlin’s the one who lured Rowan into his trap.”

  Ainsley doesn’t respond, only continues to push through the undergrowth and snow ahead of me. Fighting to keep my balance, it’s like I’m trying to walk inside a spinning kaleidoscope, never certain of my footing against the bank. When the radio crackles on Ainsley’s belt, I stop and take a step back from him. One by one, officers from all over the quarry call in their locations as they make their way toward the bottom of the ravine. Ainsley never reports his position. The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly prickle.

  Ainsley thought of the access road when no one else did. He was the first man down the ravine and alone. If Kaitlin was meant to be number six, she would have been killed immediately so Picasso could move on to number seven. I seem to have a way with timing. Is Ainsley the masked man Kaitlin and Sambino are assisting with the murders? Did my fall interrupt his kill?

  “I saw a light down here along the water’s edge,” I tell Ainsley, hesitant now. “Didn’t you?” I fake a stretch and my hand creeps up to where my shoulder holster should be. The entire holster is gone. A gaping tear in the back of my shirt leaves the exposed skin beaten and scraped raw from the fall.

  “Which way was the light going?” Ainsley stops and waits for me to catch up. “The first thing I saw was you falling down from that limestone ledge.”

  I take another step back, then another, and stand where the icy water’s seam meets the land.

  “Hansen?”

  “What’s going on, Ainsley? Where’s my weapon?”

  Ainsley turns to face my wide stance. He watches me watching him. “Jesus! You think I’m the one with the light down here?” He reaches into his pocket and holds up his car keys and jingles them. “I got here in my Jeep, Hansen. I didn’t come with the cavalry.”

  “Where’s my weapon?”

  “How the fuck should I know? You just fell down a rocky cliff, for Christ’s sake!” He reaches for his waist and grabs his radio. “I’ve already called in our location. Why do you think everyone’s making their way down here?”

  “Give me your gun.” My voice comes out much calmer and steadier than I expect it to. My head’s beginning to clear.

  “Hansen.” He says my name as if he’s very tired. He bends over and sets the radio on the ground between us.

  “The gun, Ainsley.”

  Angry now, he rips the gun from his holster as though he’s about to throw it at me. “Take it.”

  “Set it next to the radio.”

  Once he drops the weapon, I scramble for it and hold Ainsley at gunpoint.

  “We’re wasting time with this bullshit. We’re completely exposed here.”

  I hold the aim of the gun on him. “Radio in we need help,” I demand. I don’t know what to believe. I want to trust what Ainsley is telling me but he is the only person I see inside the ravine with a flashlight. I have to play it safe. “We’re not moving until someone else from the team gets here.”

  Ainsley groans, but he picks up the radio and holds in the talk tab. “Davis?” he calls into it. “Hansen’s—”

  Without warning, a loud whomp yells through the night from somewhere above and behind me. The whoosh of the crossbow sizzles past my right ear and lodges its shaft deep within Ainsley’s lower abdomen. The impact of the arrow knocks him flat on his back. Instinctively, I drop down beside him. Only the sounds of my quick breath and his jagged groans surround us. I wait for a few seconds in the silence. Then I’m up and pulling Ainsley with all my strength between two enormous oak trees along the bank. Once behind the oaks, I can make out the shadowy figure near the spot where I fell. And I see the red eye, the dot-like glow of the crossbow’s target. The controlled movement of that light from side to side tells me he’s searching to secure us within his crosshairs.

  I unlock the safety of Ainsley’s gun, learning the feel of his weapon in my hands. It’s heavier than mine, wider. My small grip fumbles with the wide handle. Small hands or not, my shots have to count—the killer has the advantage by shooting at us from above. Ainsley and I are merely squatting ducks behind this tree. The moment I move, our location will be blown.

  Ainsley writhes in pain and the words spill out of my mouth without a second thought. “Please God,” I bargain, “keep Rowan and Ainsley safe and I’ll do whatever you want of me. Please.” The final plea comes out jagged and hoarse. Then, out of nowhere, a wave of calm strikes me. The voice. It has to be now. Holding the gun close to my chest, I take a deep breath.

  In one motion, I roll my body around the trunk of the tree and fire up at the limestone ledge. Explosions of rock and dust rumble down the cliff. The next arrow whizzes past me as I squeeze off another round, this one narrowly missing Picasso. His footfalls crash as he retreats to the inner realm of the forest.

  Ainsley is still alive. His flashlight lies in the snow. The spread of its yellowish gleam puts an eerie glow on the scene before me. Bubbles of blood run over the corner of his mouth with each jagged breath. The blood vessels in his neck throb chaotically. Silence closes in around us after a company of birds perched high above finish squawking. Ainsley is sprawled on his back, the arrow’s end juts from his lower belly.

  Nearby Ainsley’s radio spits out Davis’s voice. I scramble for the radio, which is difficult to find in the flashlight’s shadow. Finally I grab hold of it from a snowbank near the water’s edge. “Ainsley’s down! Shooter’s on the move with crossbow.” I scan the area wildly for any sign of movement. In the distance, the wail of emergency sirens calls to me.

  I kneel beside Ainsley. “You’re doing fine,” I whisper. “Cole, look at me.” I tap his cheeks until he opens his eyes, rolling and unfocused beneath his fluttering lids. “Stay with me. We’re going to get out of this mess, I promise.”

  Ainsley’s eyes grow wide behind his crooked glasses. He struggles to tell me something while he gestures to his gun in my hand. At first horror rockets through me: Absolutely not. I will not shoot you. But as he continues to struggle to call me closer, I understand he has something much different in mind. His lips whisper against the ridges of my ear. “Two,” he mouths with barely any sound.

  I get it: only two rounds left. “What about the other rounds?” But Ainsley fades fast, his skin cold with the sweat of the body fighting for life. An answer wouldn’t have changed the reality.

  There is the rustle of earth, the snap of winter-frozen branches behind me. Pistol aimed, I turn to locate the movement. Picasso stands there, at most only about seven steps away from me. The tip of the crossbow’s arrow isn’t pointed at me, but directly down at Ainsley’s heart.

  “He’s still alive. Do what I say and he might stay that way. No promises.” He waits for my nod. “Drop the weapon.”

  I do as I’m instructed. The black mask has been rolled up to his forehead, his glasses the identifying marker against his pale skin. There is only one reason he’d let me see his face. He intends for no one to get out of this quarry alive.

  “Mr. Eldridge, there’s still time to turn this around.” The centered calm from my years of training falls into place. It never ceases to amaze me how easily I can retreat into my professional role even with the hot danger that pulsates through me. Rote and ingrained in me, it’s like reverting to the role of student.

  Chad Eldridge shifts the crossbow from Ainsley to me. Standing face-to-face, he tosses a fisted cloth at me that I catch on reflex.

  The fabric opens like a blooming flower in my hands. It’s the faded plaid of Marci�
�s shirt I know all too well—the button-up I’d been so certain she wore the day I found her dead. The cloth is stiff in places, blackened with Marci’s long-dried blood.

  “Put it on.”

  I slip into the snug short sleeves and leave the buttons open. I imagine for a second that I can smell Marci on the shirt, feel her touch with the caress of the cotton, and it’s like she’s folding her arms around me. I’m safe inside the protection of her.

  A much younger Eldridge had been in the forest that day in July 1989; he’d been no older than eighteen or so. He watched me find Marci. Once I left to call for help, he returned to her body. He came back for the plaid shirt—the trophy. Remnants of my nightmares come back to me in flashes. The slim hips. I’d gotten away from Picasso then by jumping into the quarry. He didn’t follow me into the quarry, I’m certain of it now. He’s terrified of water. I step back onto the quarry’s icy covering. Then I take two more steps back toward the center of the quarry.

  “Stop,” he warns.

  I take two more large steps. The ice has significantly thinned beneath my boots. I hear the water’s heavy movement deep below. Picasso doesn’t follow and my confidence spikes.

  Anger boils over inside, tunneling up my throat and erupting out at him. “You let me go that day.” My eyes fill with tears. “Why didn’t you kill me, too?”

  “I would have if it wasn’t for the stunt you pulled. Don’t take another step.”

  I dare him. I take another step back and suddenly there is a tremendous burn in my right shoulder before the sound of the arrow’s release can register in my mind. Hot liquid runs down between my shoulder blades. My fresh blood soaks into the plaid shirt mixing with Marci’s. Dropping to my knees, my hands shoot up to the feathered edge of an arrow that peeks out from under my collarbone. The stake has lodged itself through and through.

  “I have no intention of ending this any way other than how Klosenova wished. All our traveling”—Eldridge looks around us for any movement—“but he never really left this place.”

  The searing pain in my left shoulder throbs. For a second, I think I may pass out. My entire body breaks out in a sheen of sweat and the muscles of my legs could give out at any second. I’m panting, my breath is shallow, my vision darkens around the edges. Suddenly there is the voice: Think of Rowan. Think of Marci. They both need me now as much as they ever have. I struggle with my mind to quiet the pain. “You traveled with him.”

  “All over.” Eldridge inches closer. His expression is stone-still, his voice deliberately calm and controlled. “Klosenova killed my mother in seven different photographs for her sins before finally taking her life.”

  A wave of pain ignites my shoulder when I try to move my arm and my words stumble on its attack. Where the hell are Davis and the team? “Your mother was a lesbian.”

  Eldridge winces at the word lesbian. “It’s so easy for women,” he says. “You should know—out there flaunting your love of other women.”

  Eldridge slips his gloved hand into the breast of his coat and pulls out long silver scissors. He opens the blades wide, then slices them back together.

  “My father, that’s what Klosenova was to me. For both of us,” he says, “it wasn’t just about the photographs but the exposure of sin—that instant flash of recognition that highlights the nasty truth for all to see. It was his way to publicly display punishment for breaking God’s word.”

  The scissor blades swipe open and snap closed again. In the glint of the metal’s shine, I understand. Kaitlin’s not number six. It’s me. And he’s going to cut my hair short to match the model. He couldn’t kill Rowan until he had me. Kaitlin’s meant to be the final act—she’s the replica of Klosenova’s murdered wife Alada. Kaitlin may have denounced homosexuality and joined One True Path, but it’s her sexual history with women that has attracted Eldridge. Still, I’m the one Picasso’s been waiting for—everything hinges on my death. He needs me to begin the final slaughter. And he needs me alive for his ritual. This gives me the upper hand; I hold the power.

  Eldridge grabs for my wrists and the harsh movement rocks my shoulder into screaming pain. I surprise him by falling forward into him, my cheek landing flat against the snow-topped ice. Time slows to a trickle—I see everything: Ainsley’s pistol from the corner of my eye, Kaitlin curling into a tight fetal position on the quarry’s bank, and Ainsley, who rolls onto his side within a pool of his own blood with his eyes open. Our gazes lock while Eldridge works behind my back, pulling zip ties from his pockets, a fumble of a feat with his thickly gloved hands and my refusal to comply. He’s never dealt with a conscious victim, I realize, only ones who are roofied. This gives me another edge.

  I watch as the area around Ainsley’s eyes softens and he mouths words to me that I can’t make out. I question him with a look back. What are you trying to say? Instantly Ainsley pushes himself up with nothing other than sheer will and begins to crawl toward Eldridge. A scream erupts from him.

  I understand the words Ainsley has mouthed to me: Go for the pistol.

  Eldridge throws my hands down before my wrists are completely bound. He raises the crossbow from his shoulder and shoots Ainsley directly through the heart. By the time Eldridge turns back to me, I’ve gotten the pistol and I’m up on my feet with the weapon pointed square at his chest.

  “It’s time, Lucinda.” Eldridge grips the bow in his right hand. “You must take your place before God. It’s all ready.”

  I don’t doubt that Eldridge has the location laid out perfectly, the headstone and branches modeled just right. But it isn’t going to be me posing dead for him against that headstone. “It’s over, Eldridge. Hear the sirens?” Their wails scream through the cold morning from every direction.

  “You got away from me once, but not again. This is my one true path.”

  “There is no one true path! Can’t you see that? There is no one right way of being.”

  His eyes widen as if this somehow will help to fight off the words I’ve just spoken. He screws up his face and scoffs. “Drop the pistol,” he growls, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice. My refusal to comply with the zip ties has shaken his confidence—everything has to be just right and I’m not making it easy for him. After all, everything relies on me to create the perfect scene for photograph number six. His OCD won’t allow him to kill out of order. Another surge of confidence rockets through me.

  “I couldn’t figure out how you got close enough to those girls to drug them. I have to hand it to you, Eldridge. Kaitlin was the perfect lure. A beautiful, nonthreatening girl with an artistic flair to maneuver inside the lesbian community. We would all be putty in her hands. Let me guess: she kept coming around the funeral home to see Nick. So when your oldest daughter began looking up to Kaitlin as a role model, that was the final blow.”

  Eldridge’s eyes flame at the mention of his daughter, the one on the edge of womanhood. He couldn’t stand to see his daughter idolize what his own mother had been. The fear that Eldridge held deep inside regarding his daughter’s sexuality must have been something fierce.

  I don’t want to kill Chad Eldridge—I really don’t. It would have been a far greater punishment for him to sit in a jail cell for the rest of his life, obsessing over where he and the crime scenes went wrong. But when he raises the bow with the arrow and cocks it at me, I fire directly at his heart. He explodes backward with the force of the bullet, dead before his back even hits the ground.

  Grabbing the bow, I gain control of all the weapons and drop to my knees at Ainsley’s side. For what it’s worth, he looks peaceful, a slight smile on his lips, as though he always knew we’d take Picasso down together. In the breaking dawn, I hold Ainsley’s bear claw of a hand in mine. After several seconds, I kiss his warm cheek good-bye.

  Inside Ainsley’s pocket are his Jeep keys on that Swiss Army knife keychain filled with pictures of his great-niece. Voices filter through the west end of the ravine. Eldridge was brilliant to use the crossbow; fired shots w
ould only ricochet noise throughout the entire quarry and announce his location. My gun blast was the noise that led the cavalry to us. Uniformed silhouettes charge toward me and scatter about to deal with Ainsley, Eldridge, and Kaitlin. In the chaos, I scramble up the ravine bank to the lot where Ainsley said he parked, my thoughts only of Rowan.

  *

  The funny thing about hope is that it can be found in the smallest circumstance that pushes us on for its next intoxicating dose. My hope comes in a series of events this early morning under the dawn light. First, I find Ainsley’s Jeep parked exactly where he said he left it, not far from the river’s bank. I couldn’t have mistaken the vehicle for anyone else’s—two bumper stickers call out to me as clear as Ainsley’s voice: Back up! These colors don’t run and Proud Republican on board! I’ve never been so happy to see those right-wing slogans in all my life. When the engine rumbles, I jam my right boot down on the accelerator. The back end of the Jeep fishtails until the tires finally grip the dirt road beneath the snow.

  My real hope, though, comes that morning in the sky. I drive up, up, up the bank toward Willow’s Ridge and the hospital, for Rowan. It is within the spread of clouds and morning’s pink glow that I catch sight of something I never thought I’d see: a glimpse of God. My version of God, anyway, that presence who has never left my side. There within those swirls of golden colors and feathery textures of morning sky is Marci Ann Tucker, still sixteen, those sea-navy eyes smiling down on me. Suddenly something inside me folds open like a lotus flower that finally releases its bloom to whatever nature holds. Gratitude takes hold of me, that breathtaking realization that I am not alone.