by Kyla Stone
“We’re investigating several angles,” Jackson said.
He shut the laptop and folded his hands on the desk. In his early forties, he had a bland, amiable face. “I’m here to help in any way I can. How are the kids? I’ve been thinking about Cody. That poor kid.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Devon asked. “We understand he had a fight with another student?”
Boone leaned forward. “Cody has a temper, it’s true. It doesn’t come out often, but when he’s pushed, it’s rather frightening how angry he gets, and how quickly.”
“Can you tell us what happened?” Jackson asked.
“Chad Wellington was picking on Cody. Stealing his notebook, ripping up his drawings, calling him a pussy, that sort of thing. I know we’re supposed to reserve judgment, but that kid is a real prick.”
Devon jotted down notes.
“Last month, this kid starts going after his sister as well. Saying she smelled. That her clothes were dirty, her hair. That she was dirty. Wolf Girl, I think Chad called her.”
“I bet Shiloh took the term Wolf Girl as a compliment,” Jackson said.
“I don’t really know her.”
“Did it bother Cody?” Devon prompted.
“It made him mad as hell,” Boone said. “They had a few verbal altercations. Chad pushed him once. Then one day, after school, I had the students in the gym working on one of the robotics challenges for an upcoming competition. Chad excused himself to go to the bathroom. Cody followed him. He had a piece of metal in his backpack, probably from the salvage yard. He took it to Chad’s knee. Chad played soccer. Not anymore. He might always walk with a limp.”
Jackson nodded, remembering. “That was Moreno’s case. Cody was a suspect, but there was no definitive I.D. No evidence. And the victim wouldn’t talk.”
“Chad refused to name Cody,” he said. “He wouldn’t even tell his parents who did it. But I know it was him.”
Devon wrote in her notebook, her braids spilling over her shoulder. “Did he ever say anything about his grandfather? Did they get along? Any fights?”
“He doesn’t like his grandfather, I can tell. He doesn’t like to be home very much. He hates working in the salvage yard. I think that’s why he joined the robotics club. Not because he likes being here, but he hates being there more.” Boone shrugged. “He goes out on his boat on school nights, so he comes to the club tired a lot.”
“What boat?” Jackson asked. “Cody didn’t have a boat.”
“He calls it the Little Neptune. That’s all I know.” The man pursed his lips. “I don’t think he did this, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
Devon kept her expression neutral. “We’re just asking questions.”
“No one wants to pin this on a fourteen-year-old kid,” Jackson said. “Least of all, us.”
“I sure hope not. No one in this community wants to think there’s a killer among us. I hope you solve this case quickly.” Boone rose and stuck out his hand. His palm was soft when Jackson shook it. “Anything else I can do to help, just let me know. Enjoy the northern lights tonight. I hear they’re going to be quite spectacular.”
Devon thanked the principal. Two minutes later, they were out in the sunshine, headed for the patrol truck.
Devon chewed on her thumbnail and gave Jackson a sidelong glance.
“Spit it out,” Jackson said. “I know you have something to say.”
“I know you don’t want it to be Cody,” Devon said, her voice soft. “But the evidence is pointing in his direction. He’s strong enough to wield that crowbar. He has a history of violence. He didn’t get along with his grandfather. And if he was dealing drugs for James Sawyer…”
Jackson sighed, a tightness in his chest like a clenched fist. He didn’t want it to be Cody. He truly didn’t.
Devon said, “We have to follow the evidence. No matter where it takes us. Some TV detective hack told me that not so long ago.”
Jackson said, “I know.”
22
SHILOH EASTON
DAY FOUR
There were strangers at Shiloh’s house.
Shiloh had forgotten cash. The SpaghettiOs and strawberry Pop Tarts she’d packed wouldn’t last forever. And she was down to her last jerrycan of gasoline for the four-wheeler.
That was a problem.
Her grandfather kept a stash of silver junk coins and a stack of cash in a shoebox underneath a loose floorboard in front of his dresser. He hadn’t known that she’d seen him, creeping down the hallway to watch him count his coins, the way they glinted in the light of the Coleman lantern.
She just needed a way to get it.
She had holed up in a cave between Christmas and Munising, a couple miles from the shores of Superior and three miles as the crow flew from Eli’s campsite.
It was a cave she’d discovered years ago with Cody. They’d set up a fort when they were kids. The walls gave her a sense of security and protection, plus it kept the rain out.
The lack of a water source was a major pain, but an ATV trail ran a quarter of a mile behind the cave and connected to all the major arteries that would take her where she needed to go. It was easy to get in and out. A good place to hide.
The aurora had returned last night, even stronger than before. It felt like living on an alien planet. It was so bright at night that she didn’t need a flashlight even in the dark, everything bathed in eerie shades of rust orange and blood red.
Where the northern lights usually appeared for a few minutes to a few hours, these had lasted all night. They were beautiful and terrible at the same time.
Shiloh stood on the ridge of the western edge of her grandfather’s property. The white farmhouse perched on the hill a hundred yards to her right. Two hundred yards down the slope to the east lay the salvage yard.
Just in case, she’d approached via the ATV trail her grandfather had blazed two decades ago rather than the main driveway. She’d parked it a hundred yards back, off the trail behind a screen of jack pines. It was a good thing, too.
She watched the cops, deputies, and technicians in papery uniforms walk around, snapping pictures, dusting for prints, and collecting evidence in little envelopes. Yellow crime scene tape circled a section of the salvage yard.
An uneasy feeling seeped into the pit of her stomach. No way would she get inside the house now. Not tonight, maybe not tomorrow either.
As she watched, a figure broke away from the group. The figure ducked outside the crime scene tape and shaded his eyes as he scanned the property.
He turned in a slow circle, studying the house on the hill, the woods, the slope, and the crest of the ridgeline where Shiloh stood.
Head up, shoulders hunched against the wind, he headed toward her.
Shiloh shrank back. She took cover behind two beech trees. It didn’t matter. Somehow, he’d already seen her.
The figure drew closer. He crossed the weedy parking lot and jogged between the law enforcement vehicles. She knew that confident gait, the windswept hair, the five-o’clock beard scuffing the square jaw.
A part of her wanted to run, but she didn’t. Not yet. She braced herself, every muscle taut, ready to bolt like a fawn.
Jackson Cross halted at the bottom of the steep incline. Thorny underbrush tangled with wild raspberry and thimbleberry brambles climbed the side of the hill.
She was forty feet above him. If he came after her, she could run.
As if he could sense her thoughts, he called out, “Don’t run.”
Her feet flexed in her sneakers. Her crossbow was lashed to the four-wheeler, but she had her knife at her hip. She wasn’t scared.
“Shiloh, please. I need to talk to you.”
Jackson raised both hands in the air, palms out, like a sign of surrender. “I won’t chase you. I know I can’t catch you.”
She snorted. At least he knew it.
He paused, as if thinking through his angles, his options. “Are you hungry? I’ve got a Snickers b
ar in the truck.”
Her mouth watered. Her stomach growled. She wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what he was doing. Snickers were her favorite.
Since she could remember, Jackson had been a fixture in her life. He’d show up at home or school, always with candy. He’d ask her questions about school, about her grandfather’s drinking. Whether she was studying hard and doing her chores.
On Christmas and birthdays, he brought her books. Anne of Green Gables and To Kill a Mockingbird and other ones, travel books on Indonesia, Portugal, and Crete. The topographical map of Munising.
Shiloh raised her middle finger and flicked him off.
Jackson shielded his eyes and smiled.
He was like that. Didn’t matter what she said or did, how rude she was. He kept coming back.
She had no idea why he cared. He did stuff for Cody, too, buying him fishing gear, taking them both fly fishing, but it was Shiloh he worried about.
Once, when her grandfather was drunk, he’d told her that Jackson had been in love with her mother. And that he hadn’t known how to fall out of love, all these years later.
Her memories were snippets. Dappled sunshine and a laughing voice. Being carried through a storm, rain on her face. A soft song and warm hands cradling her as she drifted off to sleep. Running through the woods, chasing a fluttering dress and dark streaming hair.
She had just turned five when her mother had been murdered in the next room, when Eli Pope was convicted and sentenced to life in prison.
She didn’t remember much from that day. She’d fallen into a hole in time, her memories a blank emptiness, like with her grandfather. A limb body. Hair spread across the pillow. Blood on her mother’s face that she’d tried to wipe away. And then, nothing.
“Shiloh,” Jackson said again, louder.
She blinked, returning to the present.
“Let’s sit down and have a conversation. With Twizzlers, hot chocolate. Chocolate sprinkle donuts from Miner’s Pasties and Ice Cream.”
Damn him. He knew she had a wicked sweet tooth.
Her gaze flicked to the officers down at the junkyard. They weren’t paying attention to Jackson or to her. Shiloh folded her arms over her chest and shook her head. She had a mission. And she didn’t trust Jackson as far as she could throw him.
“You’re going to send me to social services.”
“I won’t.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Jackson half-turned and glanced behind him. He ran a hand through his hair, then scrubbed his jaw. He turned back around. “There’s a lot going on right now. Maybe you don’t know about the power outages. The cell towers are down again. It’s got people antsy, worked up.”
“I know about the aurora.”
“We don’t know what’s going to happen. It could get worse.”
“I’m fine.”
He stared up at her, squinting. His jaw worked, like he was trying to spit something out, but it kept getting stuck in his teeth. “There’s also a convict that was released from prison. He’s—”
“I know about Eli Pope.”
Jackson pursed his lips. “He’s dangerous and violent, Shiloh. Especially to you. Stay far, far away from him.”
She glared at him. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of Eli Pope. Sure, he was dangerous. She sensed that right off. He intrigued her. He knew stuff that she wanted to know. Survival stuff. And things about her mother, her grandfather, her own past.
“Stay far away from him, Shiloh. I mean it.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“Look, I don’t like the thought of you out here. Not like this, not now. It’s not safe.”
“Not my problem.”
Jackson sighed. His shoulders bowed like he carried an incredible burden. “I have to do my job. I’m sorry, but I do. You’re a minor. You’re alone out here with no parents, no guardian.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’ve never doubted that. But that doesn’t change the law. I have to bring you in, Shiloh. You and Cody both.”
Shiloh knew plenty about social services. How they dragged certain kids away, never to be seen again. Or maybe they did return, but they were completely different people.
“No thanks. No way.”
“Shiloh, please.” He was begging now. He looked scared. And desperate.
Fear started to creep in. Adults weren’t supposed to look scared. They weren’t supposed to be desperate. Apprehension flared through her, every nerve on edge.
“I know what happened with your grandfather. I know he was killed, and that you were there.”
The numb darkness descended. She was back there, crouched in the passenger footwell of the half-crushed car, springs from the torn seat poking her spine, shards of glass in her hair, snagged in her shirt, stuck to her skin.
And then, nothing.
Her memories were blank. Wiped clean. Only the thudding fear, the terror in the back of her throat, twisting her guts to water. Algiers, Algeria. Luanda, Angola. Port-Noa, Benin.Trembling, she mouthed the comforting words, the familiar litany the only thing that could bring her back from the edge, that could force the panic to recede like a red tide. Gaborone, Botswana. Ouaga, Davidou, Burkina Faso.
“Cody is missing,” Jackson said.
She willed herself to focus on the lists in her head until her breathing steadied and the panic receded. She needed to focus on Cody, finding Cody.
“He ran away like you did,” Jackson said. “Is he with you? Do you know where he is?”
Cody had not run away. Her brother was lost, taken, stolen. Buried down deep in a hole and calling for her.
“We can find him, Shiloh. We can help him.”
The cops could do more than she could. Find important stuff on computers. Bash in doors and arrest people. Rescue her brother from the monster who’d spirited him away.
The temptation needled her. How easy it would be. To give in, to give up. To let someone else do this monumental, impossible, terrifying thing.
“Cody might be in trouble.”
She saw it again in her mind’s eye—Cody buried alive, drowning in dirt.
Her breath caught in her throat. Jackson was one of the good guys; she’d never feared him a single moment of her life. What if she could trust him? What if he could help her and Cody?
“I can’t do any of that if you don’t come down here and talk to me. If you don’t tell me where he is.”
Indecision clutched her. Doubt and mistrust warred with hope and faith.
“There are people looking for him.” Jackson waved his arm to take in the suits behind him, as if he weren’t one of them. “They’re searching for him right now. They have the resources to find him, Shiloh. It’s better if he comes to us willingly.”
Shiloh stiffened. “You think he did this.”
“If you know he didn’t, you need to tell us, Shiloh. We have to go on the evidence. You’re a witness. You can tell us what happened. If that clears your brother, then that’s how you can help him.”
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. It was difficult to swallow. “He didn’t do anything.”
“Shiloh—”
“No!” She shook her head, emphatic. Anger bubbled up fast and furious. “Don’t tell me what to do, Jackson Cross. You aren’t my father. You’ve got no claim on me.”
He looked pained. “I’m trying to help you. You and Cody both.”
“We don’t need your help. Leave Cody alone!”
“It’ll be okay,” Jackson said as if he were trying to convince himself as much as her. “It’s going to be okay.”
Another lie. Her heart juddered against her ribs. She’d known he would betray her. He was an adult like all the rest. An imposter. He pretended to care but none of them did.
“Come down, Shiloh. Please. I know you’re cold and hungry. I’ll make sure you’re safe. I promise.”
Bitterness sprouted deep in her belly. Wetness stung her eyes. She blinked it back fiercely. They weren’t trying to help Cody. They were going to lock him up. They’d lock her up, too, if she gave them the chance.
“You’re a liar.”
“Shiloh, no. Let me explain—”
Shiloh took a step back. She pushed through scraggly brambles until she stood on the trail, frustrated, discouraged, and angry.
Jackson started up the side of the hill. He was coming after her.
“Go to hell, Jackson Cross.”
And she turned and was gone.
23
LENA EASTON
DAY FOUR
Lena tapped the brakes. Cars, trucks, and semis crowded the highway ahead of her. Chewing her bottom lip, she glanced at the gas gauge. Still half a tank.
In the back seat, Bear raised his head and whined.
She sighed. “You have to pee, don’t you?”
Apprehension flickered through her. She wanted to drive without stopping. Every stop carried risk and increased danger. Every hour, every day that passed brought them closer to anarchy.
On the radio, newscasters discussed damaged cell towers and overloaded networks. Sprint, Verizon, and T-Mobile carriers put out statements that technicians had been dispatched across the country to repair the damage. They did not mention how long the repairs would take.
This afternoon, her GPS had stopped working altogether. Good thing she had the road atlas.
Taking the highways was a calculated risk. In a crisis, the best bet was to avoid other people, but using backroads meant more miles, more time, more stops, more gas.
She absolutely could not afford to run out of fuel.
They’d taken I-75 through Ocala and Gainesville, then across the border into Georgia. In two days, they’d gone almost five hundred miles, from Tampa to just outside of Atlanta.
Traffic had slowed them down. Today, there were far more vehicles on the road than yesterday. Many vehicles towed trailers. Plenty of RVs were on the road. Most cars were stuffed with boxes, crates, and suitcases, much like her own.
