River Bodies (Northampton County Book 1)

by Karen Katchur

  The birds stopped fluttering and chirping in the branches above. The air hummed with silence. John listened.

  Not far in the distance, he heard movement, the sound low to the ground, the whipping and crackling of brush and low-lying branches, the sound of an animal moving fast through the woods.

  His heart thrummed.

  Next, there came the sound of pounding feet striking the ground, the long strides of someone who was running. The stomping was getting closer and closer and closer still.

  And then. And then he heard her breathing.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Becca was running through the woods, following the same path she’d taken before, the same path she’d always taken when she’d been a child playing in the woods behind her house. Romy raced ahead. Becca tried to keep up. She was breathing hard. Her sneakered feet thumped the ground, alerting anyone and everyone she was there.

  “If you’re going to play in the woods, it’s not enough to wear bright-colored clothing so the hunters can see you,” her father had said. “You need to make a lot of noise to scare away the bears.”

  “What about the wolves?” a nine-year-old Becca had asked.

  “It’s the same for wolves,” he’d said. “They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

  She hadn’t been convinced he’d been right when she’d been a young girl, but she believed what he’d said was true, given her knowledge of animals today. She wished she would’ve told him this when she’d had the chance. This was the start of many things she wished she’d said to him. It hadn’t been easy to find the words to talk with him, but it had been one of the few good memories she’d had of him, these little lessons he’d taught her at a tender age. Of course, it hadn’t been until a full year later that she’d stepped into John’s barn and her relationship with her father had forever changed.

  She raced through the trees, kicking up dirt in her wake, grief and regret like weights around her ankles, threatening to drag her down. Branches whipped by. Red and yellow and orange leaves swirled together in a flash. Her fists pumped at her sides. She was close to the barn. She smelled the fire pit where John burned leaves. Her steps faltered, and her pace slowed. She checked the gun was still secured in her waistband. Romy stopped and circled back, egging her on. She picked up her pace again and ran alongside the stream with a sense she was trying to outrun the last twenty years. But it was too late. Her father was gone. And she was left with the knowledge of what he’d done to protect her. She was left with the awful truth of what she’d seen.

  She raced on, ignoring the woods around her. She should’ve been listening, looking for signs of danger. But the image of her father lying in bed, his eyes dull and empty, kept flashing across her mind, and all she could do was run.

  “This way,” she called to Romy and veered away from the stream, heading to the small open field and the river. She had to be sure it was the same spot she’d seen John, and only then would she be certain of what she had to do next.

  Romy darted across the field, a black-and-brown rocket cutting through the golden grass of autumn. Becca followed behind, using the path made by the dog, passing the tree where the yellow crime scene tape dangled in the breeze. A cramp pinched her side. She was winded, not used to sprinting for such a long distance. She approached the riverbank at a much faster pace than she’d anticipated, having to reach behind her, drag her hand along the ground to keep from falling as she skidded down. She came to a stop at the bottom near the water’s edge. She bent over, both hands on top of her thighs, trying to catch her breath. The rapids soared. The noise filled her ears. Romy was drinking from the river where the water had slowed and pooled between two large rocks.

  Becca stayed bent over, raising her head slightly to gaze across the river, spying the path she used to run on the Jersey side. There was no way around it. This was the exact spot John had stood the morning before the body had turned up in the river. She remembered it clearly. He’d been wearing a glove, a purple nitrile glove. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Hunters wore gloves as a safety precaution against disease whenever they’d field dress an animal. And maybe he’d worn the gloves for that reason, but now she knew better. He’d worn the gloves so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints behind.

  She had to tell Parker everything. She couldn’t live with what she knew. It was the right thing to do. I’m sorry, John. She wanted there to be another way, but there wasn’t.

  After a few minutes, her breathing returned to normal and she stood upright, looking in Romy’s direction. The dog’s ears were alert, her fur in hackles along her spine. Far below the noise of the rapids came a primal sound deep within the dog’s throat. Her lips curled, exposing her sharp white canines as she stared at a spot directly over Becca’s shoulder.

  Fear spread throughout Becca’s limbs. She reached for the Ruger, spun around. John was standing at the very top of the riverbank, the barrel of his rifle aimed at her chest. A part of her wasn’t surprised to see him. She’d expected him. She’d brought the gun for a reason. Another part, a bigger part, was scared as hell.

  Romy took several steps toward the bank, her lips high over her gums, showcasing every inch of her teeth. A low, menacing growl erupted from her throat.

  Becca’s first thought was for the safety of the animal. “Stay,” she hollered.

  Romy stopped, although her body language was clear. She would attack on command.

  John paid no attention to the dog. The barrel remained pointed at Becca’s chest, unwavering.

  Becca gripped the gun with both hands. She pulled in a sharp breath. Her arms shook, and the gun jumped around unsteadily. She wanted to send Romy away. None of this was the dog’s fault. “Please,” she croaked. “Don’t hurt my dog.”

  John didn’t move. His eye never left the scope.

  She wasn’t sure how long she stood aiming the gun at him; long enough for her arms to ache and her legs to stiffen.

  He continued pointing the rifle at her, unyielding. But he hadn’t pulled the trigger. And neither had she.

  She didn’t know what made her tell him, but the words came out anyway. “My father is dead,” she shouted over the rapids. “He died this morning.”

  For a moment she wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. Then he moved his head away from the scope, the butt of the rifle still against his shoulder, his finger still on the trigger.

  Romy growled.

  The Ruger was getting heavier, her wrists weaker from trying to hold it steady. She continued. “I know about the deal he made with Russell. I know about everything.” She tried to swallow, but she didn’t have any spit.

  He didn’t reply. He only stared.

  “I know why you’re doing this.” Her voice wavered.

  He lowered the rifle enough for her to see him clearly. He was covered in sweat, his skin pasty and pale. His face and neck were covered in hair and what was the start of the beard he often grew for the winter months.

  “I told Parker I saw you. But I have to tell him everything. Everything.” She was pleading, begging for him to understand why she had to turn him in, why she didn’t want to. “I can’t stay silent. I don’t want to keep any more secrets, not from myself and not from him.”

  Romy continued growling, the river a constant white noise.

  “Do what you have to do,” she said.

  He wiped his eyes.

  “Because if you let me walk away, I’m going to tell him what I know.” She steadied the gun in her shaky hands, her finger on the trigger.

  John swung to his left unexpectedly, raising his rifle in another direction.

  She jumped and pointed the gun in the same direction. There was a man standing at the top of the riverbank, an older man, who was also pointing a rifle at her chest. Who was he? Another Scion? He must be. He was wearing the same leather cut. What was he doing here? Why was he aiming his rifle at her?

  “Put the gun down, Hap,” John said. “This was my mistake. Let me fix it.”
<
br />   “It’s your father’s mistake,” the old man said. “He should’ve taken her out a long time ago. I didn’t agree with the way he’d handled it then. And you can’t handle it now.”

  “You’re wrong,” John said. “I can. I’m handling it.”

  The old man held steady, keeping his weapon pointed at Becca. “We’re a team, you and I,” he said to John. “I was with you both times. I’ve got just as much at stake here as you do.”

  Becca swung the gun back and forth between the men. Romy had moved and was now standing by her side. What was happening? She was beginning to understand that there was a lot more going on here than she knew. And whatever it was, it was bigger than what she’d seen.

  “You may be right,” John said. “That’s why you should put the gun down and walk away. Let me take care of this one alone.”

  The Scion kept his rifle pointed at Becca.

  “I’m faster than you, old man,” John said. “You’ll go down long before you ever pull the trigger.”

  “So that’s it? That’s how you want to do this?” the old man asked. “What about your loyalty to me and the club? You ain’t been right in the head ever since you lost Beth. Why don’t you just let me take care of this, and we’ll sit down later and figure it out.”

  There was a moment when no one spoke. Becca didn’t know where to aim her gun. She felt like a small animal trapped between two predators. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

  “Are we in agreement here, John?” the old man asked.

  “Don’t make me hurt you,” John said, his voice deep and hoarse, pleading. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “Is that your answer?” the old man asked. “You’re taking her side?”

  “It’s not about taking sides,” John said.

  “The hell it isn’t.”

  “Just put the gun down.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” the old man said, making a small movement of his head, a tiny shift of his shoulder, a signal he was eying up his shot.

  Gunfire rang out.

  Becca wasn’t sure if she pulled the trigger first or who did. The kick of the gun was harder than she expected, jerking her arms up and back. The old man’s body hit the ground with a thud before skidding down the embankment and stopping at the river’s edge.

  The rapids raged behind her. Romy snarled. But everything else had grown quiet. The birds had stopped singing. The squirrels had stopped chattering. The bugs had stopped buzzing. The silence was deafening, or maybe it was the blasting of guns that had muted all other noise in her head. She seemed to be processing the scene in slow motion. Was she shot? She was still standing. She didn’t feel any pain. The old man wasn’t moving. She didn’t know if she’d hit him, whether he’d gone down from one bullet or two.

  Romy barked. She sounded distant and far away. It was another minute or two before Becca’s head cleared. She looked up the riverbank at John. He had his rifle aimed at her again. She was shaking all over. She pulled in another sharp breath, wondering if it would be her last. But he lowered the rifle, the barrel pointing at the ground by his feet. He wasn’t going to shoot her. She knew this. She knew. She took a step toward him. He turned to walk away.

  “Wait,” she called. Her arms quaked at her sides, the gun in her hand heavy and warm.

  He paused and looked back at her, his rifle still aimed at the ground. He stared at her for a long moment.

  She couldn’t find the words. I’m sorry, but this doesn’t change anything. But she didn’t have to say it. He understood. A deep sadness emanated from him, and she wanted to reach out and touch him, have him hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay. But he turned away from her again, and this time when he walked away, she didn’t call him back.

  When she could see only the tops of his shoulders, the back of his head, she called out, “There’s good in you, John Jackson!”

  There’s just not enough good.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The sun was high in the sky by the time Becca reached Parker’s house and knocked on the front door. Romy panted by her side. They’d walked the couple of miles to Parker’s place, following the river downstream. A young couple had been kayaking in the direction of Dead Man’s Curve. Fishermen had dotted the shoreline, hoping for a catch. A red-tailed hawk had soared among the cumulus clouds in the blue sky above. She’d seen all of it and none of it. What had she done?

  She knocked again, louder this time. There was a good chance he wasn’t home. She had no way of knowing his work schedule. When he didn’t answer, Becca stumbled across his porch. A couple of jack-o’-lanterns glared at her through their angry eyes and menacing smiles. Typical Parker. What he needed was a happy-faced pumpkin. If she ever got through this day, maybe she would carve him one.

  She peered in the window. Be home, she thought. It was dark inside. She stepped back and tripped over the edge of the rocking chair, banging her shin. She smacked her palm on the wooden door again. Come on, Parker. Be home. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand. The adrenaline that had surged through her veins, accelerated her heart rate, contracted her muscles when she’d feared for her life, had all but evaporated. She understood the science behind the fight-or-flight syndrome, but she’d never experienced it until now. She was left with the shakes, slight confusion, and an unyielding state of exhaustion.

  She raised her hand to pound on the door one more time just as it opened.

  “Parker,” she said and collapsed in his arms.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked and carried her inside. Romy followed them into the living room. Parker put Becca down on the couch.

  “I’ll explain everything,” she said. “But first can Romy and I have a drink of water?” She covered her mouth as she spoke, tasting the bitter acid of stomach bile on her tongue, having forgotten that at one point she’d dropped to her knees, retched into the river. It had been around the same time the gun had slipped from her hand. She’d lost it somewhere on her way there.

  Parker returned with a bowl full of water for Romy and a large glass of water for Becca. When she’d finished drinking, he took the glass from her hand and set it on the coffee table. He waited quietly by her side, and for this she was grateful, because she needed time to collect her thoughts. He searched her face.

  Romy lay on the floor by the couch. She put her head on her paws, feeling the exhaustion of the morning as much as her human counterpart.

  “I need you to be a friend and not a cop,” Becca said. “You can do the cop thing later, when I’m finished.”

  “Okay,” he said, drawing out the o. “But I have to admit, you’re scaring me a little bit here.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” she said and touched her forehead where a headache was starting.

  “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should lie down.” Parker lifted her legs onto the couch. He put an extra pillow behind her head.

  “Promise me you’ll listen as a friend.”

  “I will. Please tell me what’s going on.” His face was open.

  She saw the old Parker in front of her, not the cop, and closed her eyes. She started from the beginning, telling him everything she remembered about that day in the barn, the dogs fighting, the blue hooded sweatshirt, the bloody knife in John’s hand. She told him about the deal her father had struck with Russell and how John had been following her, how she’d been scared.

  She’d been talking nonstop and had to pause to take a breath. There was more she had to tell him, but when she opened her eyes, Parker was wearing his cop face. He paced around the room, running his hand over the top of his head, messing his already messy hair. There was a healthy growth of stubble on his face and neck. His clothes looked slept in, the GONE FISHING T-shirt wrinkled and worn, the same T-shirt he’d been wearing when they’d shared a root beer in his kitchen, the same T-shirt she’d slipped over his head.

  She hadn’t noticed these things when she’d knocked on his door. But it was
a good look on him, rumpled and unkempt, and so different from Matt’s constantly polished appearance. It was the first time she’d thought of Matt in the last several hours. She didn’t have her cell phone with her, so she had no idea if he’d tried to contact her. It was just as well.

  Parker continued pacing, passing by the couch where she was lying, his long legs carrying him across the room in a couple of strides. Romy lifted her head and watched him with interest.

  On one of his passes, Becca said, “You promised you’d be a friend.”

  “I am being a friend, Becca,” he said, but there was an edge to his tone. “But you didn’t think this was something I needed to know sooner? You didn’t think to tell me all of this until now?”

  She pulled herself up on shaky arms. “I didn’t understand any of it myself until now.”

  “And your dad?” he asked. “He knew about this guy and what he was guilty of the entire time?”

  “He was protecting me.”

  “Do you know what kind of trouble your dad is in? Do you understand he broke the law?”

  “My dad died this morning,” she whispered.

  Parker stopped pacing. She felt his eyes on her. Neither one spoke for some time. Romy lowered her head back on top of her paws.

  “I’m sorry,” Parker said. “I didn’t know.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. If she did, the tears would start. She wasn’t ready to give in to them. She didn’t know if she ever would be. Instead, with some effort, she pulled out the folded sheet of paper from the small pocket in the front of her running pants. She handed it to Parker. “I started to put the pieces together when I found this in my dad’s lockbox.”

  He took the sheet of paper from her and looked it over. “Do you have any idea who gave him this statement?”

  “No,” she said. “I never got around to asking him. But whoever it was described the sweatshirt I saw in the barn. And whoever it was didn’t want to be identified.”