by Rick Hautala
“That’s weird,” Abby said. “How come you can hear me but not her?”
“Maybe different wavelengths or something,” Jim offered, but he had no idea what was or wasn’t possible in the Dead Lands. “Say something again.”
After another pause. Abby’s voice said softly, “She says she is sad you can’t hear her.”
“What? Then you’ll have to be our intermediary,” Jim said.
He was surprised how easily and natural it felt to be talking to Abby like this. The feeling that they had been friends a long time ago was impossible to ignore. When Jim remembered what had happened last night, he knew he had to tell Abby right away. He described the things he had seen shortly after she had left, and the dreadfully cold sensation he’d gotten when the shadow passed over—or through—him.
“That must have been Reverend Wheeler,” Abby said. “Obviously, I made it back to the cemetery safely, but I heard Hell Hounds chasing after me, so I knew he wasn’t far behind.”
“Please be more careful,” Jim said. “I think … I had this feeling that he, like, could read my mind when he passed through me. I’m sure he knows you were here.”
Abby was silent long enough for Jim to wonder if she had gone, but then he heard her sigh, and a cool breath washed over his face.
“I can’t worry about him right now because I—we, Megan and I, need your help.”
“Anything.”
“Megan explained how e-mail works, and even though I don’t understand it all, do you know how to use it?”
“Sure. Everyone does. Hell, even my mother has a Facebook page.”
“I want you to send an e-mail to someone … to Detective Gray at the Cape Elizabeth Police Department.”
Jim felt suddenly uncomfortable.
“He’s investigating Megan’s—what happened to Megan. He’s been dealing with her family, but he doesn’t know what really happened to her.”
Jim was flustered. No matter how much he wanted to help, and as much as he would do anything for Abby, he certainly didn’t want to start getting involved in a murder investigation.
“All you have to do is let him know that Megan’s other sneaker washed up at the bottom of the cliff where she … was pushed,” Abby said.
“I can’t just call up or send him an e-mail and say that! They’d talk to me and ask me how I know this stuff, and maybe I’d be a suspect or something.”
“Can you send an e-mail that he won’t know came from you?”
Almost automatically, Jim was about to say there was no way, but he knew about a site where he could get an anonymous e-mail account. He could open it just for as long as it took him to e-mail Detective Gray and then close it. He was confident it would be untraceable, even for a cop.
“Hold on,” he said, and he spun around in his chair and faced his computer. It took him a while to find the website, and shortly after that, he had set up a bogus account. Simple research got him Detective Gray’s e-mail address at the police station, and he was ready to go.
“All right,” he said, sitting back and cracking his knuckles, “what do I tell him?”
Before Abby could answer, Jim’s bedroom door creaked open, and his mother poked her head into the room.
“Who are you talking to, honey?” she asked, glancing around the dimly lit room as if expecting to see one of his friends there.
“Huh? Oh … No one. Just myself.”
His mother shot him a crooked smile as she shook her head.
“Well, I’m heading off to work. I pulled an evening shift because Valerie called in sick again. I won’t be home ‘till after midnight, so don’t wait up. There’s leftovers in the fridge for supper.”
“Sure thing,” Jim said, barely hearing her litany of instructions.
“Love you,” she said. Then she closed the door and was gone. From behind the closed door, she shouted, “And get outside while the weather’s still nice!”
“I will,” he shouted back, but his fingers were already poised over the keyboard. After a quick glance over his shoulder, he said, “All right. What do you want me to say?”
Abby
I don’t know much about Reverend Wheeler, at least not from when he was alive. He was married to my mother’s sister, Lily, but they moved from Virginia to Maine before I was born, so I only knew about him from what my mother told me.
Different people had different opinions.
My mother, for instance, never said a bad word about him, no matter what, but I could tell by the way she spoke about him that there was something she didn’t quite like or trust. She would never come right out and tell Lily she had made a mistake marrying him, but my mother never showed any interest in hearing news about him, either.
One summer, the only time Aunt Lily came back to Virginia to visit, the Reverend didn’t come with her. I remember her saying how he was ‘always about doing the Lord’s work’ and he couldn’t tear himself away from ‘tending his flock.’
My father, on the other hand, called the Reverend a ‘high-faluting hypocritical pompous ass.’ My father—especially when he’d been drinking—had a certain way with words. I’ve learned a lot about how people talk now, but I’d never heard a man who could use swear words in such unique combinations.
Of course, I never gave Reverend Wheeler much thought. As far as I was concerned, Maine was somewhere up near the North Pole, and my aunt and uncle who lived up there were Yankees. After my father died, though, my mother was upset, and she told me that, if anything happened to her, if there was an accident or whatever, I should take the locket with the lock of hair and the key with me to Maine.
Of course, it’s that locket—the one you have—that my uncle accused me of stealing. As much as I don’t like saying it, I believe he thought it was a key to some fortune my mother had put aside. I’m convinced he wanted to take whatever inheritance my mother had left me and use it himself. I’d read of such situations in novels, where one family member steals another’s inheritance and all the troubles that follow. Of course, once I was on my way to Maine with Reverend Wheeler, he demanded that I no longer read novels because they were “stewed,” as he put it, in sin.
So I have no idea what kind of man Reverend Wheeler really was when he was alive. I can’t imagine he was very pleasant to be around because I never heard anyone say a kind word about him and seem to mean it.
But I do know what kind of person—well, he’s not really a person anymore—what kind of a being he is now.
He’s pure evil.
Whatever happened to him, before or after he died, has twisted him so much he’s dangerous … to me, anyway.
I have no idea how to get away from him.
He doesn’t seem to ever give up, maybe not even when—or if—I pass on. All I know for sure is that he frightens me more than anything else I’ve encountered in the Dead Lands.
Chapter 13
A Friend Indeed
—1—
“WANT THE OTHER SNEAKER? MEET ME AT THE CLIFFS THIS AFTERNOON. BRING HELP.”
Detective Gray sat stunned at his desk and stared at the e-mail he’d received moments ago. The return address wasn’t anything he recognized—“friendinneed.”
“Friend in need ... Friend in need,” he muttered, and he stared at the screen until his eyes began to water.
He knew exactly what this was about. It had to do with the McGowan murder, but who had sent it? And why? And what was at the cliffs? How did whoever sent this message even know about the missing sneaker?
There was only one way to find out, of course, and that was to go there, but it specifically said “this afternoon.” It was only a little past ten o’clock. Plenty of time to see if Jesse, down in IT, could trace the e-mail account back and get the user’s name. If he knew who sent it, he might have a better idea what to expect this afternoon.
Could this be something Andrew Collins sent before he offed himself?
Was it possible to send an e-mail with some kind of delay?
Did Collins have an accomplice who had sent this as a tease, now that Collins was dead?
Or was Collins really innocent, and this was from the real killer—or maybe a witness who had been afraid to come forward until now.
There was no doubt Collins was dead. Gray had gone to the apartment when the landlord called in that he’d heard a single gunshot in the middle of the night. Collins was dead, all right, so it was highly unlikely he had set something up to taunt the police once he was gone.
Gray stood up from his desk and began pacing back and forth, his mind seething with questions, none of which had any clear answers.
Could this e-mail have come from one of Megan’s parents or her brother? Did one of them know something and was only willing to say it now?
“Damn it,” Gray said as he clenched his fist and punched his upper thigh hard enough to hurt.
“Hate to say ‘I told you so,’” he whispered, but down deep, he had known all along that this case wasn’t going to go away as easily as Collins popping himself.
There was nothing to do now but wait until afternoon. Maybe around two o’clock, he’d ask one of the patrolmen—probably Pete Murray; he was a solid, dependable guy—to come with him out to the cliffs.
Then they’d see what, if anything, was going down.
— 2 —
Bob Ryder was in a panic.
Somebody knew something, and he had no idea who it was or what, exactly, they knew, but it had everything to do with him.
The e-mail had arrived early this morning from an address he didn’t recognize. He had almost deleted it without checking, thinking it must be spam, but then he had opened it.
He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. It might have been better to ignore it. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Besides, this could just be some bizarre coincidence that had nothing to do with Megan. Someone could be “pranking” him for whatever reason. Or, worst-case scenario, someone had seen him out there on the cliff that day and was going to try to use it against him … maybe blackmail him.
But he’d received no demands for money. There was just a brief note from someone named friendinneed, telling him to get rid of the sneaker and that he might want to check out around the cliff ‘one last time.’”
Bob considered that the message was from his son, Mike. After all, his son had found the sneaker first, and Bob had taken it from him. It was stashed in his bedroom closet now, but what if the police knew about it? What if Mike had mentioned it to that detective, and now that detective intended to come over with a search warrant.
What if he found it?
How would Bob explain that?
If the cops were already on to him, maybe they were already watching him. If he threw the sneaker out with the trash on Monday morning, would they go through the garbage bag and find the sneaker?
How incriminating would that be?
It was, after all, his daughter’s sneaker. He could declare that they were getting rid of Megan’s things because of the painful reminders about what had happened, but was it too soon for that?
His wife was still an emotional wreck, and the big question anyone with any sense would ask would be: “Where is the other sneaker?”
Is that what the mysterious e-mailer meant by “check around the cliff?”
Why was he so nervous, having just one of the sneakers?
There was no way having it in his possession—even hiding it in his closet—was proof of anything … especially not that he had anything to do with Megan’s death.
But that e-mail was upsetting because it proved someone knew something.
Should he follow the advice and get rid of the sneaker?
How and where?
Or was this a setup?
Was whoever sent this trying to get him to make a mistake?
Maybe the worst thing he could do was to get rid of the sneaker.
If the police came around asking for it, would it be better to be able to produce it for them? He could claim he was saving it for sentimental reasons, because she was wearing it the day she died.
There was nothing wrong with that.
Was there?
He sat at his desk most of the day, trying to get his paperwork in order, but he found it impossible to concentrate because he was stewing about what he should or shouldn’t do. Finally, around one o’clock, he went upstairs and got the sneaker. Hiding it in his jacket pocket, he told Caroline he was going for a walk. He’d be back within the hour.
Caroline was in the living room, sitting on the couch with a magazine opened but unread on her lap. The TV was on, but the sound was almost all the way down, and she never glanced at the screen. She looked up at him with glassy eyes, her lower lip trembling as she nodded. She looked out of it, and he wondered if she’d even heard what he said, but what did it matter?
Bob left by the back door, forcing himself not to run down to the street. He kept glancing around as he started toward the cliffs, which were about a mile away. As he walked, he clutched the sneaker to his side like a football player, tucking the ball into the basket of his arms as he drove for the goal line.
At the park entrance, he scanned the area carefully, looking for any indication that someone was watching him. There were a few parked cars in the parking lot, and a couple was strolling toward the old fort. On the expanse of lawn, a group of teenagers were playing Ultimate Frisbee. When Bob passed one of the park’s trashcans, he hesitated and, after a quick look around, slipped the sneaker out of his pocket and stuffed it into the trashcan. He buried it as deep as he could under the smelly trash, disturbing a gaggle of flies in the process. They buzzed and swarmed before finally settling back down. Bob looked around again, relieved and confident now that no one had noticed him.
Is that enough? he wondered, suddenly panicking that someone—maybe a bum, rummaging through the trash for returnable bottles and cans—might find the sneaker and somehow recognize its significance.
Maybe this wasn’t enough. Maybe I should have burned the damned thing, or thrown it into the ocean.
He started walking away from the trashcan as fast as he could. As he headed toward the cliff, he kept casting furtive glances all around. As far as he could see, he was a nonentity to anyone in the vicinity.
“Good … good …” he whispered, allowing himself a half-smile as he walked briskly up the hill, heading toward the lighthouse and the trails that wound along the cliffs.
It’s over and done with, he kept telling himself.
He could relax. No matter what that jerk who’d sent that e-mail said or did now, there was no incriminating evidence. He could keep playing it off the way he had been, as the grieving stepfather.
He paused when he arrived at the head of the path leading down to the cliffs. An electric tingle zipped up his back, and his throat tightened.
Returning to the scene of the crime, he thought and couldn’t help but laugh.
He cast a furtive glance left and right and saw that—for the moment, at least—he was totally alone. The choking sensation in his throat intensified as he started along the hard-packed path. On both sides, the vegetation was a riot of reds, oranges, and yellows mixed with the seared brown leaves that had already fallen. Focusing on the view of the ocean up ahead, he followed the trail to the cliff’s edge.
Bob halted at the cliff edge and stared out across the churning waves while listening to the lonely cry of the gulls that circled overhead. The smell of salt spray was strong, and the wind tore at his face with icy hands. His heart filled with mixed emotions as the reality of what he had done hit him—hard. No amount of trying to convince himself that it had been necessary—that it was the only way out, at least that he could see—made him feel any better.
He couldn’t keep his emotions in check. They welled up inside him as if someone was standing there next to him, whispering into his ear, reminding him about the horrible deed he had done. Tears gathered in his eyes and flowed down his face.
When his focus shifte
d to the base of the cliff, he didn’t realize for a long time what he was staring at down at the foot of the cliff … something that didn’t look like a rock. Then a wave rolled over it, flipping it so it was right side up.
It was a sneaker!
A chill cut through Bob with the sting of a razor slice.
No … That’s … impossible!
He leaned forward, his eyes straining to see it clearly, to make sure this wasn’t an optical illusion. Finally, he had to admit that—as impossible as it was—he had found Megan’s other sneaker.
— 3 —
The wind off the water was cold. Abby knew that because of the way Detective Gray pulled his collar up tightly around his neck and hunkered down between two large rocks at the base of the cliff. Every now and then, a wave would crash, sending twisting ropes of foam high into the air and splashing Gray; but he stayed where he was, his gaze fixed on the sneaker on the rock at the water’s edge.
“What’s this gonna prove?” Megan asked Abby. She was standing a little way behind her, staring out over the ocean. The wind was blowing straight into her face, but her hair was unruffled.
“Probably nothing,” Abby said, “but I can’t help but feel as though …” She squinted and looked up at the edge of the bluff towering above them. It blotted out a part of the sky. “There’s something happening. Something important.”
“Bullshit,” Megan said.
Suddenly a scurrying motion on the bluff above drew Abby’s attention. She saw that Detective Gray noticed it, too. Seconds later, Megan’s stepfather broke into view. His face was pale as old bone as he stared down at the sneaker on the rock below.
“Well, now,” Detective Gray said softly as he shifted forward, ready to move when and if he had to.
“Megan,” Abby called out in a harsh whisper. When the girl finally turned and looked at her, she also saw her stepfather. The placid expression on her face instantly hardened, and pain filled her eyes.
Abby, Megan, and Detective Gray all watched as Megan’s stepfather started down the face of the cliff, working his way slowly along the line of least resistance. Loose shale broke off in his hands, and a few times his foot slipped and he almost fell, but after a bit of a struggle, he made it down to the rocks. They were wet from the spray and slippery with tangles of wet bladder weed.
