by Jen Blood
“I never asked anyone to keep me safe.”
“Right, I forgot. We should just let you go get yourself killed, then.”
“You should just let me do what I do, and stop freaking out about it. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to call a cab so I can get a car before it’s too late.”
I turned my back on him and started dialing. Ten seconds later, Diggs was in front of me with his eyes blazing.
“You’re driving me nuts—you know that, right?” he asked.
“I’m not all that crazy about you right now, either,” I said. “What happened to the man who’d do anything to get a story? Since when do you listen to the freaking Feds when they tell you to take a powder?”
He threw his hands in the air and walked away. He was talking to himself; more people were staring. I wished he’d just go already—I was more than happy to take off on my own. Hell, by that time I was looking forward to it. Instead, he came back around and took me by the arm.
“Get in the car.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re going to Black Falls, you’re not going alone. Get in.”
I looked at him suspiciously. “This isn’t a trick, right? You don’t have a bottle of chloroform and some shackles in that magic bag of yours?”
“Please.” He was quieter now. A little desperate. Very tired. “Just get in the Jeep.”
I got in the Jeep.
Just as we were heading out of Quebec City bound for Maine, I called Rosie for the third time that day to check on Einstein, and let her know we were on our way back. She told me for the third time that day that everything was fine, and we planned to rendezvous at her place as soon as Diggs and I hit town—even though that likely wouldn’t be before midnight. Rosie assured me she’d still be there with bells on, just waiting for Diggs to show his pretty face.
The sun was already low on the horizon by the time we were out of Quebec City for good, and well and truly on our way back to Maine. Diggs wasn’t speaking to me. I didn’t blame him, necessarily, but it didn’t make the trip any more pleasant. He was going through some kind of U2 retrospective phase; he’d programmed their entire playlist for the trek, from Boy all the way to No Line on the Horizon, including their live albums and a couple of bootlegs, which meant we basically had enough, music to carry us through all of New England and the better part of the eastern seaboard.
We were deep in Bono’s early ‘80s bouffant days before Diggs finally spoke again. He nodded toward the backseat. “Grab my bag, would you? I got something for you.”
“What is it?”
“Just grab it, Solomon. Jesus.”
I did as I was told, hauling the backpack into the front seat with me. “What am I looking for?”
“A manila folder—it should be in the front pocket.”
It wasn’t in the front pocket, or the second front pocket. “What, exactly, do you need all this shit for?” I asked. I dumped the contents onto my lap. “Survival knife, tape recorder, extra tape recorder, waterproof pens, waterproof matches, waterproof camera, waterproof bandages… Was there a flood warning I missed?”
“You can never be over-prepared—especially when I’m traveling with you. Check the back pocket, then.”
I did. “Eureka.” I opened the folder and started thumbing through about a dozen black-and-white, very dated photos of crowds in bars. “What am I looking for?”
He leaned toward me slightly, going back and forth between watching the road and checking the folder. I would have been alarmed with anyone else, but I’d been driving with Diggs since I was fifteen. Almost eighteen years, and we had yet to crash and burn. Going through the stack again, he stopped me at the third photo.
“Take a look at that one, would you? It was for a story they were doing on underage Americans coming across the border to get wasted. You might need the magnifying glass.”
Which he, of course, had. I took a good long look. It wasn’t until I reached the lower left corner that I realized why the photo was significant. I looked at the date stamp at the bottom: Sept. 26, 1970. The day before Jeff and Erin Lincoln’s boat was found on Eagle Lake.
“Where is this?” I asked.
“A bar in Quebec City,” he said.
I studied the blurred faces in the photo. There was no doubt—I’d been looking at old pictures of the same two boys ad nauseam for the past week. Hank Gendreau and Will Rainier, this time with another boy whose face was blocked from the camera. All three had beers in their hands, Will and Hank each grinning broadly.
“So, Hank and Will’s alibi holds up then,” I said, making no effort to hide my disappointment. “They really were in Quebec City.”
“Take a closer look,” he said.
I did, while he sped along at a racer’s clip and the sun set on the horizon. He had to give me another couple of clues before I finally figured out what he was talking about.
Around Hank Gendreau’s waist, plain as day once I actually looked for it, was a belt. Wide and leather, with a gaudy buckle whose insignia I couldn’t quite make out. I didn’t need to, though; I’d seen that belt before.
It was the same one found around Erin Lincoln’s neck just outside Eagle Lake two weeks later.
◊◊◊◊◊
“This blows their whole story to pieces,” I said. We’d gone nearly one hundred miles over the course of an hour and a half. The tension had lightened between us since our fight, but I knew we’d hardly reached a resolution. Juarez had called twice since we left; I hadn’t taken either call. In the meantime, I was still focused on Hank Gendreau and his snazzy incriminating belt.
“This is it. Hank Gendreau did it,” I said. “Will Rainier must have helped. I bet they worked together all those years.”
“Maybe,” Diggs said. He didn’t sound convinced.
“What? You don’t think so?”
“All the reasons Hank’s given for why we should believe he’s innocent actually do make sense—why would he ask for DNA testing? Why would he consent to psych test after psych test? Why would he get in touch with you?”
Rather than biting his head off, I took a few seconds to think about his questions. “Okay… So, maybe he didn’t do it. Maybe it really was Rainier.”
“But then why would Hank blame your dad? Why go to all the trouble of getting you involved, unless he genuinely believed your father was to blame for killing Ashley?”
I’d been wondering the same thing, though I was loathe to admit it. Diggs turned off the highway onto Route 289. We were making good time, thanks to surprisingly light traffic for a Sunday night in August and what I suspected was Diggs’ conviction that the sooner he could get us back to Black Falls, the sooner he could just wash his hands of me entirely.
We’d been neck and neck with a family in a station wagon for close to an hour, two wild-eyed boys making faces every time we got close. Other than that, it was just a black pickup that we’d been playing leap frog with for hours, the windows tinted and one headlight broken out.
The Edge was just kicking into the first strains of his solo in One Tree Hill and we were still a good two hours from Black Falls the third time Juarez called. Diggs glanced at me. “You could at least let the guy know you’re okay.”
I shook my head. “I will, I just want to make sure we’re close enough to Black Falls that he can’t have me arrested and held in some Quebec prison indefinitely. You think he knows by now that we didn’t go back to Montreal?”
“Probably.”
I felt a twinge of guilt when I thought of how intent Juarez had been about keeping me safe. “He’ll be all right. Once we get there, I can talk to him.”
“Right,” he agreed. “Bat your eyelashes and tell him whatever it is he wants to hear, then turn around and do whatever you damned well please all over again. It’ll be great.”
“If I’d told him I wasn’t going to Montreal, he would have… I don’t know, handcuffed me or something. This way, he doesn’t have to be culpable for whatever might h
appen, and I get to follow the story,” I said. “Everybody wins.”
“Yeah. Until you get one of us killed.”
I let that one slide. “Let’s just drop it, talk about something else. How’s Andie these days?”
He glared at me. I smirked at him. The moon shone overhead and the world flew by as Bono sang about that age-old conundrum, living with or without. The Jeep hurtled onward.
We hit the border crossing into Maine at quarter past ten that night. The guards were preoccupied with the pickup with the broken headlight, and waved us through without much more than a quick glance inside the Jeep and a look at both our passports. By ten-thirty we were cleared and on our way, with another forty-five minutes or so before we’d get back into Black Falls. We were deep into Rattle and Hum by then, but at least the tension had dissipated.
“I can drive the rest of the way if you want,” I offered. “I do have a license, you know.”
Diggs shook his head. “We’re almost there—I’m good. Besides, when have I ever let you drive this baby unless I was literally too incapacitated to see straight? You just lie back and rest that pretty head. You’ll need your wits about you when you have to face the Fed this time.”
“He’ll be fine.” I leaned back in the seat and yawned. “Don’t forget we have to stop for Einstein before we go back to the motel.”
“Got it.”
I was just drifting off when Diggs swore under his breath and the Jeep shimmied on the road. I opened my eyes.
“Problem?”
“Just the idiot behind us,” he said.
The family in the station wagon was long gone, but apparently the pickup had just made it past the border and was bent on making up for lost time. He had his high beams on, riding our bumper despite the fact that there wasn’t another soul on the road in any direction. A dull edge of fear cut through that bulletproof fantasy Diggs had been bitching about for so long now.
“Is that the same guy we’ve been traveling with since Quebec?” I asked.
Judging by the tension in Diggs’ jaw, he’d noticed, too. “Call Juarez.”
For once, I didn’t argue. The truck behind us had eased off a little by the time Juarez picked up, but he was still traveling too close, his headlights blinding in the rearview mirror.
“Where the hell are you?” Juarez asked as soon as he picked up the phone.
“On our way back,” I said. The connection between us was bad, and the truck on our ass was picking up speed again. I cut to the chase. “We’re about half an hour outside Black Falls,” I said. “There’s a truck—”
“Solomon!” Diggs yelled. He put his arm in front of me to keep me from hitting the dash as the jackass behind us suddenly stomped on the gas. Metal hit metal with a bone-jarring crunch and we shot forward, swerving dangerously close to the curb.
“Erin? Tell me where you are.” Jack’s voice faded in and out, but there was no mistaking his urgency.
I looked at Diggs. “Where are we?”
“Smugglers Road,” he shouted. Both hands were tight on the steering wheel. The truck had backed off again, giving us some space. Playing with us.
“Smugglers Road,” I said to Juarez. I had to repeat it twice, then lost the connection before I was sure he’d heard me.
Just after the call got dropped, the pickup shot out ahead of us again. It roared past and then continued on the wrong side of the road with its red taillights blazing in the darkness until, eventually, it faded into the horizon.
“What the fuck was that?” Diggs asked. “Call Juarez again.”
I checked my phone. “There’s no reception out here. I’ll have to wait. Where the hell is Smugglers Road?”
“It’s a short cut,” he said reluctantly. “Rosie told me about it yesterday; I just added it to the map then.”
“How far do we have to go before we get back to civilization?”
“Just another ten miles or so and we’re back on the road that’ll bring us into Black Falls.”
I dug the map out of the glove compartment. When the turnoff was in sight, Diggs started to slow down. He was getting ready to make the turn when I realized we were headed straight for a truck parked in the middle of the road, its headlights off. I screamed just as the truck’s high beams came on and it barreled toward us, engine roaring. Diggs had no alternative but to swerve and either stop entirely or continue along Smugglers Road. I clung to the edge of my seat as he chose to swerve, narrowly missing the truck, and adjusted his course. We continued along Smugglers Road, the roar of the pickup close on our tailpipe as it followed behind.
While Diggs looked for some way to get us out of the path of the lunatic behind us, I kept checking my phone for reception. There was none.
“I think he’s been waiting to make his move until we were out of cell range,” Diggs said after I checked my phone for the sixth time.
“Do you know where we are?” I asked.
He shook his head grimly. “Still on that same logging road... Rosie said they used to use it to bring contraband in and out of Canada. After that main turnoff, I don’t have a clue where it leads next, though.”
“How far are we from the main road?” I made a concerted effort not to panic.
“About half an hour—maybe thirty miles by now.”
I thought of the bodies that had been discovered; all we’d learned about how the victims had died... The hell they’d gone through beforehand. “Do you think it’s J.?”
“I don’t want to think about that right now. Can you check out that topo map again?”
I did, bouncing almost out of my seat when he hit a pothole the size of a moon crater. I sat back and braced myself with my feet against the dash while I lit the map with my phone. Diggs reached over and tapped my knee with one hand, then quickly returned it to the wheel.
“Feet down,” he said briefly. “If we crash, you’ll break your legs.”
Of course.
I put my feet down, and did my best to keep myself in the seat aided only by my seatbelt and sheer willpower while I checked the map.
“What the hell am I looking for?” I asked hopelessly.
“The logging roads. They’re in red on there—I turned onto Smugglers Road off the main stretch. I want to see if there’s another road coming up that might bring us back to a highway.”
I leaned in and focused my light on a network of thin red lines taking up the entire upper left quadrant of the state. Traveling on a rocky road at a high speed in the dark, for the record? An excellent way to test your map-reading skills.
“Shit! Solomon,” Diggs warned. I looked behind us as he stepped on the gas. The truck was closing in fast.
“Can’t you just pull into a side road before he knows you’re doing it and trick him into passing?” I asked.
“What side road?” he asked. “Tell me where there’s a side road and I’ll gladly turn into it.”
“Well, don’t get pissed at me,” I said. “I’m doing the best I can here.”
“I don’t think it matters, anyway,” he said from between clenched teeth. “I think he knows this place backward and forward—the few side roads I have seen, he speeds up just before we hit them so there’s no way I can make the turn.”
“He’s herding us,” I said. Sure enough, another logging road sped by. The second it was behind us, our pursuer dropped back. “God knows where he’s taking us.” I clutched the dashboard as I looked over my shoulder again. “We have to get the upper hand here. Or at least get some semblance of control.”
He nodded. “Well, I’m open to suggestions.” He flexed his fingers on the wheel and glanced at me again. “I want you to get everything we’ll need, okay?”
“Everything we’ll need for what?”
He didn’t answer me. “The first aid kit and my pack are in the back there. That map. Both our phones. Make sure we can grab them as soon as we hit. Any food you’ve got stowed away. My sleeping bag.”
The truck sped up behind us again. I unfas
tened my seatbelt and angled myself into the backseat, grabbing everything he’d told me to—plus Erin Lincoln’s journal and my flash drive, of course—and then Diggs warned me to get back in my seat. The truck’s engine cycled a tone higher behind us. I’d just managed to get myself buckled in again when the pickup hit once more, its front end smashing against Diggs’ back bumper. The Jeep swerved off course. Diggs recovered at the last minute and got us back on the road.
“You have everything?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “First aid kit, pack, map, phones, sleeping bag. What about water?”
“Just one bottle—we’re close enough to the river here, we’ll just head there first and follow it back to civilization.”
The truck hit again, harder this time. I flew forward, my forehead bouncing off the dash.
“Goddammit,” Diggs shouted over his shoulder, followed by a long string of language more colorful than I’d heard from him in years. He took a breath, his hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”
I touched my head gingerly. “Yeah—It’ll leave a mark, but I’m fine.”
“Check the phone again.”
I did. “No bars.”
The road was getting more narrow, pocked with holes, trees encroaching on both sides. Up ahead, I could see a steep incline lit by the glare of our headlights and a full moon overhead. Diggs looked around, his fingers flexing around the steering wheel again. His shoulders were rigid.
“What are you thinking?”
“If we can get out of here now—”
Before he could finish, the truck struck again. This time after the impact, the driver didn’t back off. Instead, he kept our bumpers locked and started pushing the Jeep up the hill. Diggs tried stomping on the brakes; threw the emergency brake; shifted it in reverse as gears screamed and the truck behind us just roared with that much more fury. It barely slowed down. The road leveled out at the crest of the hill, but on the left was a steep wooded ravine—I grabbed Diggs’ arm when I realized what was happening.
“I know,” he said. I’d never seen him look more terrified. He tried to jerk the wheel to the side, but it didn’t make any difference—we were headed in one direction, and one direction only.
