Bitter Truth

by CJ Lyons

  “Okay, so maybe the problem isn’t your job. I still feel like you’re pushing me away, avoiding talking about what’s going on.”

  She stood, her back still to him, jerking her shirt over her head, quickly changing into the tee and shorts she slept in. “And exactly what do you think is going on?”

  “I don’t know.” He finished changing, threw his dirty clothes at his suitcase and missed but didn’t bother picking them up off the floor—a definite warning that he was even more upset than she’d realized. “Maybe you can tell me. Starting with why, when I called home to check our messages, there was a call from the surgeon’s office wanting to talk to you about pre-authorization for your operation.”

  Shit. She’d almost forgotten about the surgeon—or more truthfully, she’d successfully avoided thinking about the surgeon and his plans for her leg. Nick came up behind her and placed his palms on her shoulders. “Lucy. What operation? What’s going on?”

  Her shoulders heaved as she blew her breath out, his hands slipping away from her body. She walked past him and stretched out on top of the bed covers, reaching for the special moisturizer she used on her scars every night. “They want to amputate. The say my bones are old, so it’s better to do it now than wait, that they’ve done everything they can for the pain.”

  “Lord knows you’ve done all you can. Your progress and your dedication to your rehab have been incredible. If this is the best way to alleviate your pain and increase function—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She rubbed the cream a bit too vigorously, unleashing an electrical shock of pain when she pressed against one of the screws in her tibia. “That’s what the doctor said, too. Although, by the way, I’m not even sure he’s old enough to shave.”

  Nick eased under the covers, encroaching onto her side of the bed. “You don’t like giving up. Not on anybody—or anything.”

  Sometimes she hated how sensible he could be. Being forced out of the FBI after working so hard to return was bad enough, but now all that was for nothing? They were right back where they’d started eight months ago when the dog had mauled her. That awful first night they’d almost amputated—she’d been unconscious, in shock—but Nick had persuaded the surgeons to try to save her leg. She almost felt guiltier about wasting the chance he’d given her than the thought of losing her leg.

  Nick understood without her saying a word. Sometimes she hated how easily he could read her, but most of the time it was one of her favorite things about him. “You’re not a failure, Lucy.”

  They sat in silence for a moment until Lucy finally finished her attack on her ankle, put the cream away, and slid under the sheets already warm from his body heat.

  “If you don’t want to talk to me, I get it. Have you talked to Dr. Cranston?” Cranston was her trauma counselor—past tense.

  Lucy looked away. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

  He slumped back, rattling the headboard against the wall. “People come to you for help all the time. Why is it so hard for you to ask for help when you need it? Are you worried it’s a sign of weakness? Or that people will take advantage? Not respect you?” He paused, searching her face. “Or that no one will come if you ask?”

  She flinched.

  “Lucy.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. “Do you really think if the situation was reversed, if you were the one who needed help, that no one would come? All those people at your party last night—they love you. Any one of them would drop everything if you called and needed them.”

  She shrugged, her face moving against his shoulder.

  “Is it the thought of the amputation, then? I know plenty of guys at the VA who’d love to have had a say before they woke up to find a limb missing. And with the new prosthetics—“

  She pulled back to her side of the bed, arranging her pillows as an excuse not to answer. The light was behind her, sending her shadow out across the space between them, casting Nick in darkness.

  “With a prosthetic and rehab, you’d be pretty much back to full capability,” he continued. Then he paused, thinking. “But that would give you no excuse when people ask you why you left the FBI.”

  Her pension wasn’t technically medical disability; rather, it came from a line of duty injury fund that the new director had discretion over. One more thing for Lucy to feel guilty about: taking money for a full pension when she hadn’t put in her full thirty years. Not that the powers that be had given her any choice in the matter, which of course also rankled. Every time she opened the check from them, she felt so…useless. Powerless. Basically just less. Less than who she once had been. Who she wanted to be.

  And now they wanted to cut away part of her body.

  Nick moved abruptly, his head knocking against the wall. “Or, wait—you don’t want to try to go back, do you? Fight them, try to get your old job back at the FBI?”

  “My old job no longer exists, remember?” she said bitterly. “There’s nothing left for me there.”

  He ignored the warning in her voice. “Maybe. But all this stuff that’s happened—it’s eating you up. And it didn’t just happen to you. It happened to us.”

  “Us?” Two thousand miles away from home in a strange place, on a strange bed, surrounded by strangers, and he chose now to fix everything wrong with them? With her?

  “I just want you to know. You’re not alone in all this.”

  Ahh…that explained his sudden insistence. If they couldn’t find Bill, if he was dead, then Deena was alone to struggle through the pain. Lucy thought about that. She understood what Nick was saying, but she didn’t like it. Not at all. If bad things were going to happen, she wanted them to happen only to her—never to him or Megan. She wanted to be in it alone.

  But that wasn’t Nick. A man of faith—in both science and religion—he believed in healing, thought there was always an answer if they just worked through things together.

  “Do you believe in karma?” she asked, looking past him at their shadows on the wall. Her shadow dwarfed his, her one shoulder hunched like Quasimodo or some other nightmare monster. She drew back, out of range of the lamplight.

  “No. But you do.” He called it her magical thinking. That somewhere deep inside she believed that if she could fight and face down the evil around them, then Nick and Megan wouldn’t have to; they’d be safe.

  “Bill was on the Denver force thirty years.”

  “I know.”

  “Never fired his weapon off the range. Not once. Didn’t have to. Neither have most of the agents I worked with at the FBI.”

  “Lucy—”

  “How many people have I killed? How many others are dead because of me? Innocent victims, and I couldn’t save them. Not even my own mother. Ever think that maybe I’m not protecting you guys at all? Maybe there’s something in me that attracts violence. Ever think of that?”

  “No.”

  “I do. All the time.”

  “Those people you killed, you did it because you had to, not because you wanted to. And the victims you’ve lost—you did everything possible. No one could have done better.”

  She wasn’t so certain about that. “They were people. Now they’re dead. Does it matter why?”

  “Yes. It does.” He gripped her hand and raised it to his lips. “And what about all the people you’ve saved?”

  She shook her head, denying his words. That kind of hubris was like catnip to Fate, too tempting to ignore, so she refused to think about that side of the equation. She was no hero.

  The shadow they cast together, his head still bowed over her hand, the angle of the light distorting her profile above his, it wasn’t pretty or romantic. It was hideous—a nightmare goblin ready to eat up innocent, unsuspecting children. A warning as visceral as any fairytale demon.

  As real as the ghosts that haunted Lucy every day.

  “You forget. I know your greatest fear.” His voice dropped into a whisper, but his words were what shook her.

  “Can we not
talk about this now?” She purposefully let her frustration bleed into her tone.

  Once again he ignored her warning. “More magical thinking. Say it aloud and it might come true. You know that’s not how the universe works.”

  “It’s how my mind works.”

  “I know. But I can see you, caught in this cycle, this churning. And refusing to talk about it is only making things worse.”

  He had a point. It definitely wasn’t making things better—just like her sessions with the trauma counselor hadn’t—but neither was this conversation.

  “It’s me. And Megan.” He jutted his chin in defiance.

  She fought a flinch. And for the first time ever, dared to say the words. “Losing either of you—I couldn’t survive that.”

  “People do.”

  “I’m not as strong as you think I am.” She shifted her leg, and her ankle protested with a shriek of pain. Nick sensed it and curled into her body, sharing his warmth, a gesture that used to be as welcoming as coming home, his touch a sanctuary that the cruel humanity she faced on a daily basis could never breach.

  At least that’s what she believed and trusted in. Nick was where she’d placed her faith. Once upon a time.

  Lucy turned away from his invitation and reached for the light, casting them into darkness and banishing the shadows.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, Lucy left a note for Nick while he was taking his shower, grabbed her pack, maps, and phone, and then took Bill’s truck down the hill and into town. The sun had barely nudged a thin crescent over the mountains to the east, but she felt wide awake and anxious to get going. The thought of joining the search volunteers at breakfast in the main lodge made her teeth ache—and she was still unsettled by her not-quite-argument-definitely-not-therapy-session with Nick last night. It drove her nuts when he tried to psych their relationship and he damn well knew it, which meant he must be pretty upset to have started down that road at all.

  That didn’t mean it helped. Didn’t mean she wanted to continue the conversation, dissecting everything wrong with her psyche. And sure as hell didn’t mean she was in any mood to watch him ride off with the search team while she stayed behind.

  She grabbed a quick protein and fat laden breakfast at the café in town and drove out of town along the Magruder Corridor to the turnoff for the Holmstead ranch—the last place Bill was seen—and parked. She climbed up to the truck’s dusty hood and scrutinized her map as she sipped her coffee. She circled the search territory, then marked the cell tower in Elk City and drew a ring at around twenty miles, a reasonable estimate of how far a tower’s reception could carry, and then another ring at forty miles, the outermost limit. A large swath of green dotted by amoeboid white blobs covered the intersection, a Venn diagram drawn by Salvador Dali.

  A hell of a lot of ground to cover. But if Bill were inside the search radius—and wanted to be found—and if he could move at all or call out, he would have been found by now. That was where the SAR teams had gone wrong, she was certain. Because if Bill wanted to be found, why would he have spent almost twenty-four hours away from home without contacting anyone? And why send that cryptic text when he finally did make contact? To Judith, of all people.

  No, he either did not want to be found or was in a position where he didn’t want civilians looking for him. Which meant the searchers were looking in the wrong place. But what was the right direction?

  Her phone rang. “Hi, Megan. How’s it going?”

  “Grandma said to call to ask if it’s okay if we go camping. It means I won’t be able to call again until Monday.”

  “Do you want to go?” When she was a little girl, Megan had loved camping—the more primitive the better, to the point where she preferred to sleep outside without a tent if the weather was nice. But then she turned into a pre-teen and a teenager, and now it was a struggle just to get her to go on a day hike if it meant leaving her cell phone behind.

  “Yeah. Dad sent me pictures of where you guys are, and it looks cool. Grandpa said there are places like that near here, so he’s taking me to his favorite spot where he took Dad when Dad was a kid.”

  “Are you going to be in a tent? You know that means sleeping on the ground, right? And no electricity?”

  “Grandma and Grandpa are coming,” she said, implying that if two old people could do it, so could she. “Please, is it okay?”

  Lucy had to admit she had grown accustomed to having Megan tethered to the safety line that was her cell phone. But she also hated that Megan might miss out on the world beyond a six-inch screen. “Yes, it’s fine. But text or call as soon as you get back. And listen to your grandparents. Take it easy on them, okay? No complaining, even if you don’t like it.”

  “Mom—” She drew it out to two syllables of teen angst.

  “Love you. Have fun.”

  “Thanks, bye.”

  Her team back at Beacon Falls were three hours ahead in their work day, so she took advantage of the cell reception and called them. Wash would be on his second cup of coffee at least, so at his peak energy level.

  “Hey boss,” he answered. “How’s the wild, wild west? Your friend okay?”

  “I don’t think so.” She filled him in on what had happened. “Can you check the cell tower, see if there’s some way to narrow the direction or distance?”

  “How accurate’s your timeline? That text might not have been sent when it said it was.”

  “But it was time stamped—”

  He snorted. “Have I taught you nothing? Anything can be spoofed. Easy as pie to schedule something for when you want it sent or who it appears to have been sent from, especially a text.”

  Her phone dinged with a text from Megan, but when she glanced at it, it read: See what I mean? Not sent by Megan or her phone. Followed by a goofy set of emojis.

  “Okay, you made your point. So if I can’t rely on the text or the time frame, what can I work with? How about the three calls he made to me?”

  “Yeah, let me dig in to those.” Since her phone was a work phone, he already had access to its records. “Can you forward me the info the police there got from your friend’s phone? Or better yet, get me permission to talk with the cell company? Whoever owns that tower.”

  “The state police handled it, but Deena gave us permission to access Bill’s account data. I’ll forward you the email with all the contact info and her authorization. Remind them this is a critical missing person case involving a law enforcement officer; they shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get it one way or another. So where you’re calling me now, how far is that from the tower?”

  “Not sure. I only have one bar, though.” She glanced at the map. “About twenty-eight miles. But I’m also getting a few bars on my Wi-Fi—does that make a difference?”

  “Yes, if his phone was set up to piggyback Wi-Fi and cellular. Probably was—anything to boost a signal out there, right? Where is the Wi-Fi coming from?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but there’s a ranch a few miles from here. They have a guest lodge, and their website said they have Wi-Fi.”

  “Probably satellite. Maybe with extenders or repeaters? Let me play with this and get back to you.” He sounded distracted, as if she’d given him a puzzle box to unlock. “How do people talk to each other out there? I just pulled up the map, and you’re like in the middle of nowhere.”

  “The most remote area of the lower forty-eight. The locals take that as a point of pride.”

  “Yeah, but police covering all that, not to mention the search parties—”

  “Radios. They all have radios. Even Bill’s home has a base station. Deena said he took calls from there. And I’ve seen a few folks with sat phones.” Like what Judith and those geologic engineers who’d hitched a ride with them yesterday carried.

  “I got your email with those old cases,” Wash continued. “Nothing interesting yet, but I’ll keep looking.”

  “Thanks. Ma
ybe do background checks on anyone that pops out at you?” She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of a vehicle approaching. “Gotta go. Text me if you find anything.”

  “So you’re staying in one place where I can actually reach you?”

  “No, but I’ll be checking in with Deena.” She gave him Deena’s landline number. “You can call her if it’s urgent.”

  “What about Nick?”

  “He’s out searching.”

  A forest service truck pulled up beside her, Gleason at the wheel. The road was barely wide enough to accommodate both trucks even though she’d parked at the far edge.

  “Bye, thanks.” She hung up.

  Gleason slid out from behind the wheel over to the passenger window and rolled it down. “You lost?”

  “No, I was headed over to the Holmstead ranch. I wanted to see if they remembered anything, but then I was afraid maybe it was too early.”

  He glanced at the sun cresting over the mountains. “Not for Amy and Gus. They’ll have been up for hours—got livestock to tend to. I’m headed that way myself. A bear trap needs fresh bait. Want a ride? I can introduce you. Gus gets a bit ornery around strangers.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” She grabbed her map and pack and hopped into his truck. “Shouldn’t you be out coordinating the search?”

  “The District Ranger came in from Darby, and is taking over. And someone’s got to take care of business.”

  Lucy wondered if the District Ranger was there because a sheriff missing for two days was bound to attract media attention or because he thought Gleason hadn’t done a good job with the search. “Why do you have a bear trap on private land? Wouldn’t you want to keep the bears away from their livestock?”

  “Exactly. The Holmstead spread includes a lot more than just grazing land. Most of it is just as much wilderness as the Forest Service land. And it’s not like bears or wolves can read a map—they simply head to where the water and food is.”

  “Wolves?”

  “Yes ma’am. They’re smarter than your average bear, too.” She smiled at his cartoon reference, then realized he was serious—and probably too young to even know who Yogi Bear was. Which made her feel even older.