by David Bell
“Are you driving?”
“My daughter’s missing. Maybe dead,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “You understand. Another one? Please?”
Bill couldn’t argue with that logic, so he tipped the bottle, realizing he might have replaced Paige’s mostly easy company with that of a grief-stricken, confused mother.
After she’d drained the second shot, Bill found himself struggling for something to say. He asked, “Did the police have anything else helpful to say about the case? Do they know anything?”
Taylor shook her head with a sour look on her face. “Nothing. They’re looking for Doug, my ex, because of what I told them about his record. The fact that he beat up another woman pretty bad and knew Emily.”
Bill stared into the amber liquid in the bottle, wishing that some answer would magically materialize there, something he could hang on to and understand. “I don’t want the police to forget about those boys from Summer’s school.”
“Please,” Taylor said. She dug in her sweatshirt pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Do you mind?”
“Yes.”
She gave Bill a withering look but put the cigarettes down. “I guess I shouldn’t. I haven’t smoked since college.” She stared at the pack for a long moment. “Do you really think kids could be that vicious?”
“They messed with that other girl when she passed out.”
“I didn’t say they’re not creeps,” Taylor said. “But from a creep to a killer is a long walk. I know that girl, Haley, was bundled up, like someone cared for her.”
“Maybe someone wanted to protect her.” But Bill’s voice sounded unconvincing. He wasn’t sure how much he believed what he was saying. “Did Doug ever hurt Emily?”
“Not that I know of. She went to live with him for a while when she fell out with me. I guess she thought he’d be looser with the rules.” Something crossed her face, an almost wistful look. “He always had a soft touch with women.”
Bill’s stomach turned as she spoke, and he pushed the open bottle of whiskey farther away from him. “I guess we’re all just waiting for answers right now. It’s no fun.”
“I’ve been waiting longer than you,” she said with a trace of bitterness.
“But you won’t hand over the dental records. Why?”
Taylor sipped her drink and remained quiet.
Bill didn’t want to argue with her or get into a grieving contest, so he tried to steer the conversation toward something concrete. “Did you want something from me, Taylor? Or did you just want to talk?”
Taylor was nodding her head. “I do want something from you. I want to go to the spot where they found those girls, out there in that park. And I want you to go with me.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
They pulled into the gravel lot near the small pond that sat in the center of Dunlap Park. To their left were picnic shelters and a playground. To their right were trails for hikers and bikers. One old man stood on the far side of the pond, bundled against the cool air, his fishing line and orange bobber gently moving in the light breeze. Bill didn’t think the guy stood much chance of catching anything, given the cool, overcast conditions. But maybe he just wanted to kill some time out in nature.
Bill locked the car and looked around. He knew the girls were found on a trail, and as far as he knew, there was only one of those nearby, a nearly three-mile loop that ran through the park, along the river bottom, and then back up to the parking lot where they stood.
Taylor zipped her sweatshirt up and lifted the hood, covering most of her face. “Do you know how far it is?” she asked.
“No, I think we just have to walk. I haven’t been out here either.”
But he had wanted to come. He’d thought about it, known he would someday. Taylor just gave him the extra push to do it right then.
They started on their way, following the gravel path. During that short time when Bill believed—really believed—that Summer was dead, he’d felt the same desire as Taylor. He wanted to see the place where her body was found. He couldn’t say exactly why, but he felt the spot must carry some significance to it, even if she’d actually died somewhere else.
He knew where Julia died. He walked over that spot every day in his own kitchen, a constant reminder.
He and Taylor walked mostly in silence, the only sound in the afternoon the crunch of their shoes over the gravel, the occasional cry of a bird. Taylor stumbled once, her sneaker catching on a rock. Bill reached out to steady her and felt the thinness of her arm.
“Thank you,” she said as they continued walking. A few minutes later, she said, “The police tell me people have been coming out here. You know, leaving notes and candles and things.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Bill said, although he didn’t know why a stranger would want to come to the site where someone they didn’t know had died or been hurt. But then—wasn’t he doing the same thing with Taylor? He didn’t know Emily, but he felt compelled to go along with her mother on this visit. When she suggested the trip and Bill visualized that sad, depressed woman walking through the park alone, the fumes of nicotine and booze wafting off her in the late-winter breeze, he felt something stab at his heart. She deserved some companionship, and he seemed to be the closest to understanding what she was going through.
The trees on either side of the path were bare. They jerked in the breeze and appeared to be clamoring for attention. The edges of the path were muddy from the winter rain and snowmelt. It looked like nothing would ever grow or bloom again.
When they came around a bend, Taylor pointed. “Look.”
Ahead Bill saw a cluster of objects. Bouquets of flowers, a few stuffed animals, some votive candles, and pieces of paper with handwritten notes. Hundreds of items dedicated to the memories of the three girls whose lives had intersected at that place.
When they reached the spot, Taylor lowered her hood and lifted her hand to her mouth, her face dissolving into tears. She then clutched herself around her midsection, as if she’d taken a vicious blow, and went down on one knee, her hair blowing around and obscuring her face.
Bill remained standing. He looked at all the items, and from more than one, he saw Summer’s face staring back at him. Her most recent school portrait, one in which her smile appeared so wholesome, she looked like the all-American girl. Some of the words jumped out at him from the notes: We love you. . . . We miss you. . . . Our thoughts and prayers . . . Bring her home. . . .
Bill felt the intensity of the violation all over again. Someone had taken his daughter. Someone had caused this to happen. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t caused by bad luck. Someone had entered the sphere of his life and made something unimaginably horrific happen. Someone had taken the most important person in his life. Again.
Bill stared at the items for a long moment, the wind whipping his jacket around his body. He bent down, putting his weight on one knee, feeling the moisture from the ground through his pant leg. He placed his arm around Taylor’s back, the mingled scent of cigarettes and booze stronger up close.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is this too much? Would you like to go?”
“Even if it’s not her, I feel like she’s lost. Like she’s not mine anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
It took a moment for Taylor to gather herself. She sniffled and wiped at her eyes before she spoke. “Isn’t this beautiful?” she said, gesturing toward the makeshift shrine.
“It is.” Bill wouldn’t have chosen that word, but if it made Taylor feel better . . .
“Nobody here even knows Emily, but they put these things out for her. Isn’t that just amazing?”
“I think people always care when a young person dies. It seems even more cruel, doesn’t it?”
Taylor brushed her hair aside and over at Bill. She nodded. “Yes, it does. And if I’ve lost her when I
wasn’t on the best terms with her . . . If I could just have one more conversation with her . . .”
“I understand,” Bill said. “I really do.”
They sat side by side like that for a few more minutes, and then Bill stood up and said, “It’s getting cold. Would you like to go now?”
Taylor nodded slowly. “Just a moment.”
“You can come back whenever you want.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I wanted to tell you something, kind of a follow-up to what we talked about the first night I came to your house.”
Bill looked down at the crown of Taylor’s head. Her face was turned away, obscured from Bill’s vision. “What?”
“I’m not really sure about Doug, about his involvement.”
“What do you mean?” Bill asked.
“Without the dental records, we’re not even sure it is Emily. And if it’s not Emily, then why would Doug be involved?”
“Where is this coming from?” Bill asked. He reached down and held his hand out to Taylor. He helped her to her feet, but she wore a distracted look on her face. She stared past Bill toward a spot behind him. Somewhere in the trees. In that direction, Bill heard a twig snap.
He turned his head.
Something moved there, a human figure, about thirty feet away. It took slow steps, moving softly through the woods, its red jacket a dead giveaway on the gray day.
Bill let go of Taylor. Waited. He remembered the stories, the perverts in the park. The cruising and the drugs. Or was it just a hiker? A nature lover?
One of the homeless who set up camp in the woods?
Bill took a step toward the person. “Who’s there?” he asked. Then louder. “Who’s there? This is private.”
The figure came closer, resolving through the trees. Bill saw it was a man.
He heard Taylor breathing beside him. And then she gasped, a sudden, sharp intake of breath.
She shouted one word: “Doug!”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Bill ran after the man.
They weren’t on a path, so they both ducked and dodged around tree trunks and low-hanging branches. Some of them whipped against Bill’s face and arms, stinging as he went past. Bill kept his eyes on the red jacket, growing winded as he ran.
Bill’s foot caught on a root, and the world turned upside down as he went sprawling. The impact knocked the breath out of him. He coughed as he pushed himself up, fearing that he’d lost the man.
Doug Hammond.
Bill saw him still ahead. And Doug appeared to be slowing too. He held his hand to his side, and he seemed to be limping. Bill forced himself to go on, to continue to push and pull air from his lungs. Every breath stung like a needle. But he gained on the man, the red jacket growing closer.
They emerged from the woods onto a flat area of land near the river. Doug made a lunge to his left, but his feet slipped in a patch of mud. For a moment he wheeled his arms around, trying to maintain his balance, but eventually he fell to the ground, face-first, his body making a small splash as it hit.
Bill saw his chance. He accelerated and dove when he came close enough, landing on Doug Hammond, the force of his body weight driving the air out of the man’s lungs.
But Bill was nearly spent. His arms felt weak, his breath nearly gone. Doug squirmed beneath him, and Bill tried, like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, to bring the man under control. Desperation drove Bill to fight more intensely, even though his hand ached from when he’d punched the glass. Doug’s body thrashed, and then his elbows flew as he swung his arms back. One caught Bill on the jaw, sending him backward and causing him to loosen his grip.
Doug seized the moment. He jerked free from Bill, slithering along the muddy ground like a snake. He kicked back with his foot, again making contact with Bill’s jaw. Bill felt the grit from the bottom of the man’s shoe, felt it scrape along his face.
In desperation, Bill lunged forward. He grabbed Doug around one shin, trying to yank him to the ground like a linebacker tackling a ball carrier. Doug thrashed and kicked his leg, each movement knocking against Bill’s face and loosening his grip. Bill held on, but one last kick shook Doug free from Bill’s arms and sent Bill tumbling back into the mud.
Doug started to run up a little rise ahead of them, looking back only once.
Bill scrambled to his feet. His entire body ached. And he had no energy, no wind left. Doug moved farther and farther away, and Bill fell to his knees in the river bottom, watching the man go.
“Where is she?” Bill called, his voice shrill. “Where is she?”
His voice sounded hollow and solitary in the empty woods.
Bill knelt there, his legs rubbery. Then he slumped back down to the ground, sitting in the mud. He didn’t care. His clothes were a mess and his jaw ached. He felt a trickle of blood run from the corner of his mouth where one of Doug’s kicks had connected with particular force.
When his breathing returned to normal—although his lungs and chest still ached—he felt around on his pants. He found his cell phone and brought it out with shaky hands. He could barely hold it steady, his arms were so weak, and when he went to dial the police, he saw there was no service.
“Shit,” he said. He almost threw the phone toward the river but thought better of it. His mouth was parched. He hadn’t exerted himself like that since . . . he couldn’t remember when. A childhood race? A game of tag? The time in college a ferocious-looking dog chased him down an alley, and for just a moment he truly feared for his life?
He’d had the man in his grip. He’d held him.
And let him get away.
Where is she?
Bill silently cursed himself even more harshly than he’d cursed the phone. He pushed himself to his feet, his fingers sinking into the muddy ground. When he was standing, he wiped his hands against his ruined pants and started back in the direction he came from, toward the memorial and Taylor Kress.
He hoped he could find his way back absent any path.
He took his time. He couldn’t do anything else.
As he walked, he stared at the trees, the gray sky and low clouds above. At some other point in his life, he would have moved through the woods filled with a sense of wonder and beauty. He would have strolled with Julia, or Summer when she was little, and everything they saw would have been worth commenting on. A stick, a log, a bird, or a butterfly.
But in the woods that day, Bill felt the death of hope. He’d come so close to having the man, and yet he’d wiggled free. Despair settled over him as heavy as the clouds above. At the base of his brain, a voice, one he’d managed to silence at every step of the way, now grew louder and louder, its tone insistent.
We may never know what happened. We may never really know.
Bill knew the stories of other families with a missing person. The parents who died never learning the fate of their child.
How had he come to be one of them? How had the world spun in such a way as to land on him?
No, he told himself. Shut up. They’ll find her, he said back to the voice. They’ll know. Whatever it takes, they’ll know.
The words felt a little forced, a little uncertain, but it was the best he could do.
When he guessed he was about halfway back, he saw something off among the trees. It looked like a tent, but after staring for a few moments, he saw it was a sheet anchored with thin rope to several nearby trees. The cobbled-together structure must have housed one of the park’s homeless population, and Bill eased closer, his shoes crunching over the leaves and twigs scattered on the ground.
When he came close enough to be heard, Bill said, “Hello?” When no response came, he called again, his voice louder and firmer, “Hello?”
Bill moved even closer, lightly walking to what seemed to be the front of the improvised tent, an opening that faced the direction of the memorial to the girls. Bill bent d
own, ducking his head and looking inside. He saw crumpled blankets, some scattered magazines, a thermos, and a foam cooler, the kind purchased in a convenience store for ninety-nine cents.
As Bill stared inside, he felt like an intruder. It might be an improvised space, but it was somebody’s home, and he didn’t need to be nosing into whatever they were doing in the woods.
And how did he know the person staying there wasn’t dangerous? Or desperate?
Bill turned away and continued walking back. He quickly came in view of the memorial, expecting to see Taylor waiting, perhaps having called the police herself.
But she wasn’t in sight.
Bill made the slow, lonely trudge to the parking lot as the sun faded, looking back only once at the memorial and reminding himself as he’d reminded Taylor—he could always return anytime he wanted. As long as the memorial stayed there. Eventually it would go away, though, time and tide erasing it.
But as long as it was there, he could go back.
When he reached the car, he looked around again. No sign of Taylor.
Nothing. Not a note, not a hint.
The old fisherman was in the lot, packing his gear into the trunk of his car. Bill asked him if he’d seen a woman leaving and gave a brief description of Taylor.
The man shook his head. “I didn’t see anybody.”
Bill looked around one more time. The man studied Bill’s soiled clothes, his bloody face.
“You ever see homeless people out here? Or anything else?”
The old guy shook his head again. “I only come in the afternoons. And I keep my mind on fishing. The rest of it . . .” He made a dismissive wave. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Bill said, getting into the car. “I think I’m fine.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
As soon as he had service again, Bill called Hawkins from the car. It went to voice mail, and Bill called back three more times in a row before leaving a message. Bill was about to call 911 as he pulled into his driveway, but Hawkins called him right at that moment.
