“I know your type. Camilla and I write about them all the time. They’re called the villains.”
He tapped his hands on the steering wheel. “You’re a lot like Carrie. She was very spirited. I loved her; I’m not some demon. I cared about her.”
I snorted.
His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, and there was a terrible moment of déjà vu: his eyes, angry as they were now, looking into mine before the giant impact, before the loss of control, before my world spun away while Camilla screamed my name . . .
“Why did you kill Jane?” I whispered.
“She wanted to dig it all up again. I have a career, a family. I couldn’t have her maligning me with accusations from the past.”
“It’s not maligning if it’s true.” I suddenly remembered the hospital, the man in scrubs. “Why did you come to the hospital? My hospital room?”
He shrugged. “You saw me, huh? You said something, but I wasn’t sure if you were talking in your sleep. I wanted to find out your condition. And to see if you recognized me. But some nurse was coming, so I couldn’t.”
“What if I had recognized you?”
He shrugged again.
In a tiny burst of heat, I said, “You still won’t take responsibility. And look at you now: a man with a prisoner in your backseat. Look at your horrible life.”
A part of my brain said it was a bad idea to anger him, to rile his violent tendencies, but it didn’t matter. My fear was emerging as fury, and I was flinging everything I could at him while we sat in our surreal tableau—he immobile in the front seat, I in the back. I didn’t even consider running because I knew that my cast would slow me down and that despite his age he would catch me. Yet I saw no sign of a weapon . . . did he still have the gun which had killed Jane?
He turned toward me. “My life is just fine. You’re the one who made this happen. Always digging into people’s lives, disrupting them. You ruined that Greek tycoon—he had everything until he met you.”
My mouth hung open. What was wrong with this man? “That tycoon held his wife prisoner and then kidnapped his own daughter. He eluded police and protected his sister when she committed murder. But wait, that probably all sounds okay to you, right?”
He threw his door open with a sudden violent movement that made me scream. He leaped out and flung open the door to the backseat. “Get out,” he said. “We’re going for a walk.”
“No.” My eyes darted around the parking lot, looking for any other vehicle. Why were beautiful places like this so often deserted?
His eyes lingered on my cast. “Get out, or I will come in and get you, and I won’t be gentle.”
My mind raced. I thought of Camilla’s character, Prudy Penrette, who realized that her cousin had attempted to kill her and would come back again to kill her while she lay helpless in bed. When he crept into her room one night, she was awake and waiting for him, and she used the only weapon she had . . .
“Okay,” I said, and I edged toward the door. “Move away from the door so I can get out. It’s harder with my cast.”
He inched back and I swung my feet out of the car, stepping on the hard ground and straightening up to look into his face. I flexed the fingers of my one good hand. “Just one thing,” I said.
“What?”
His face looked old, but I still saw the youthful defiance of a boy who felt he could claim everything as his own. He squinted slightly; he was facing the sun and I was facing away from it, and I prayed that would be an advantage.
“This,” I said. I lunged forward, my right hand stiffened into a defensive claw, and thrust two fingers into his eyes. I jabbed hard, knowing I had only one chance. I felt moisture and a strange slick resistance, and he screamed in anger and pain.
Then I was running back the way we had come, my feet transformed to wings by adrenaline and terror. I heard nothing behind me at first, but gradually I heard rumblings—the noises of what could have been an angry bear. I moved off the long, wooded driveway and hurled myself into the trees, where I could potentially find a hiding place. Oh, for a phone, a phone, a phone . . . What must Sam have thought when he came back in from feeding Eager and chasing Geronimo? He probably hadn’t been out there for more than a minute or two. He would have seen the door open, my purse on the floor, signs of a struggle. He would feel guilty. I didn’t want him to have any more grief in his life. I thought of him as my feet hit the ground: poor Sam, poor Sam, poor Sam.
18
I read the suspense novel you recommended. The last chapter was excruciating; how was it that I felt so much fear for someone entirely fictional?
—From the correspondence of James Graham and Camilla Easton, 1971
THEY WOULD BE looking for me, of course. But how would they know where to look? Doug and Cliff were probably out scouring the roads, scanning for any sign . . . but did they know who they were searching for? What if no one even knew I was with Travis? Would Sam remember what I had said about my purse, about the receptionist? Surely they would be able to trace that to him. Surely Camilla would tell them what we had been discussing just before I went downstairs?
I found a tight copse of trees and wedged my way into it, breathing hard, trying not to groan as the sharp branches cut my skin. I could barely see out, so I doubted he would see in. I knelt down and tried to silence my gasping breaths. I could hear him lurching down the path, saying, “Where are you?” in a low, ominous way.
He was coming closer; sweat ran down my face, and I realized for the first time how hot it was. My right hand started shaking, a tremor I couldn’t control, and the branches around me rustled slightly. Would he notice it? If so, might he think it was caused by a passing breeze?
There is no breeze, my brain said, and I wished my left hand were free so that I could clasp my right one and hold it still. I was nearly weeping aloud when I heard footsteps on the path—new footsteps. Then a voice that said, “Travis.” It was Adam.
I heard a sudden swirl of gravel and dirt—Travis had spun around. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing. Where’s the girl, Travis?”
“What? What girl? What are you talking about?” Travis was a terrible actor. He may as well have admitted his guilt.
Then he sighed. “I don’t have any girl. I’m taking a hike. It’s a beautiful day. The question is, why are you here? Why would you even think to look for me here?”
Adam seemed to move closer. “A long time ago you said something about Emerson Woods. You were joking, supposedly. You said if you ever had a captive you would take them here. I never forgot it because I found it disturbing. And now here we are.”
“You’re obsessing over something I said as a kid? Get over yourself, Adam.”
Silence.
Travis went for a lighthearted tone. “Well, feel free to join me. I’m hoping to get in a mile or two.”
Adam made a sound, a snort of disbelief. “They know what you did. You attacked a woman right in front of a security camera. The police are after you. I wouldn’t be surprised if they killed you on sight.” His voice shook slightly.
Travis tried a different tack. “Adam, you have to help me. This is all a big misunderstanding. In the name of friendship, I’m asking you—”
“What? In the name of what? Carrie was your friend. Jane was your friend!” His outrage was audible. “Do you know, I think James knew it was you. Or at least he suspected. He broke away from everyone, but it was you that he avoided most of all. He never burdened me with that knowledge, though. Fool that I was, I went on being your friend. Shared meals with you, worked with you, never knowing what kind of man you were.”
Travis’s voice changed again. “Yeah, I know, I’m a monster. I already heard this speech.”
A pause, and then Adam’s voice, near tears. “You’re out of breath, and sweating, and Lena is nowhere in sight. I
am afraid to ask this question: what did you do with that girl, Travis? If you killed her, I will kill you.”
A gasping sound. “Whoa, Adam, put the gun down. Let’s not get crazy now. I don’t know where she is. She ran away.”
I sat frozen in my bushes. If I made a sound, it might distract Adam and give Travis an advantage. I didn’t dare risk it.
Adam’s voice again. “I don’t believe you.” The sound of a pistol being cocked. “I don’t believe you, and I don’t trust you. Camilla never did, either. I should have listened to her long ago. She told me there was something wrong about you, not long after she arrived.”
Travis’s voice, sneering despite his predicament. “We all know you were in love with Camilla. Did James know, I wonder? Did your wife know?”
“Don’t speak about Camilla, or Judy. You’re not worth the little finger of either of those fine women. I never knew what it was to hate someone, Travis, but I hate you.”
Travis sounded panicked. “Put down that gun. I know you can’t use it. You’re not the type. You and James—you were always weak.”
The cool fury in Adam’s tone made me afraid. “If by ‘weak’ you mean we felt compassion for other human beings, then yes, Travis, we were weak. And I am disgusted I never saw before that you don’t possess this particular weakness. Put your hands behind your head. Do it!”
A rushing, scrabbling sound, and then a sharp percussion, ringing in my ears. Adam had fired the gun. I gasped, but the sound was drowned out by what sounded like the scuffling of the two men. I stood up in place and saw that Travis had lunged forward and knocked Adam back, and they were fighting over the weapon.
I don’t remember leaving the safety of the scraping bushes, nor do I remember walking toward the men. I know that I feared Adam would lose the struggle; Travis had an advantageous position, kneeling over him and grasping Adam’s wrist.
Again, the drug in my blood seemed to have a cloaking, dulling effect. I knew I had to help, but I felt little else, including fear. I moved forward, and Adam spied me over Travis’s shoulder. His eyes widened. Later he told me that I looked like the madwoman from Rochester’s attic—frantic hair; bloody, scratched skin; and wide, dark eyes.
I lifted my right foot and swung it back, then kicked Travis Pace so hard in the flesh of his side that he lost his grip on Adam and tipped over, howling in pain. Adam was saying something, thanking me, but I moved toward Travis again. He had rolled over and was moaning, asking me for help, and I lifted my foot again.
“Lena—” Adam said, but then stopped. Perhaps he realized the irony of trying to prevent me from causing pain to the man he had just threatened to kill.
I kicked Travis, hard, in the groin. “That’s for Carrie,” I said as he howled again. “And I have another one ready for Jane if you move again. And another for your poor sister. You took away her best friend, you loathsome monster!”
Adam kicked the gun down the path and glanced at Travis, curled into a fetal position, before he walked to me and folded me in his arms, and only then did feeling seem to return to my body.
“You’re all right, Lena. I’m so glad you’re all right!”
“And I’m glad you found me. How did you know?”
“Just a minute. Let me make a phone call.” He dialed the phone and called Doug, then Camilla. I heard him say, “I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s over now; she’s safe.” Vaguely I thought I heard Camilla crying.
“Will someone tell Sam?” I asked, still clinging to Adam.
“He was with Camilla. They—needed each other. I suppose they love you best.”
I pulled back to look into his eyes. “But they’re not the only ones who love me. And I love you, Adam. Thank you for being a good man.”
Travis rustled on the ground and I glanced at him. He held up a hand and looked at Adam. “Don’t let her near me again!” he said.
* * *
• • •
SEVERAL POLICE CARS were parked in the forest preserve lot, their lights flashing. Travis Pace had been read his rights and sat handcuffed in one of those cars. Doug and Cliff both left their duties briefly to give me bear hugs. “Stop trying to get attention,” Doug said. He was aiming for a lighthearted tone, but it was belied by the tears that he quickly dashed away with one hand.
Cliff kissed my head. “Sam’s been in agony, as you can imagine. I’m surprised he and Camilla aren’t here yet. Hey, let’s take a look at those scratches!”
He jogged to his car, then returned with a first aid kit and started putting ointment on my wounds. “Is the arm okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, that feels better. I probably look like a wild animal.”
“You are the best sight I’ve ever seen in my life,” Cliff said. “Doug cried like a baby when Adam called. He couldn’t believe Pace scooped you up right on Sam’s doorstep. Do you know we had showed up at Pace’s house to arrest him?”
“What?”
“Yeah. Marge Bick had been calling the station, saying she remembered something. She told Rusty that Travis had told her once that he liked Carrie. On top of that one of our techs ended up finding a fingerprint on the car in the barn. It belonged to Pace’s sister, who was in our system because of a vandalism arrest, back when she was in high school. She told us she had lent the car to her brother, Travis, and he told her he had brought it in for some mechanical work. We headed straight to his place, only to find him gone. Then Sam called.”
I processed this for a moment. “Travis was desperate. That’s the only thing that would make him think he could get away with what he did. I’m so grateful that Adam had the idea to check Emerson Woods. All because Travis had said something creepy a long time ago, and Adam never forgot it. Hey, why are they examining him? Is he okay?”
A technician was looking into Adam’s eyes with a penlight.
Cliff patted my shoulder. “He had a fall when Pace attacked him. Landed on his head, but he said he hit his tailbone first, so his head didn’t bear the full force of the impact. He doesn’t look like a guy with a concussion.”
“Still,” I said. “He should go to the hospital. Get it checked—”
A car tore into the parking lot and drove right up to the place where Cliff and I stood. Camilla emerged first, looking frail. She held out her hands to me and I took them. “Oh, Lena,” she said. “We really must draw the line between fiction and reality.” She began to cry.
I embraced her with my good arm. “Camilla, thanks to fiction, I was able to get away from him. Prudy Penrette to the rescue!”
She snuffled in my ear, and Adam broke away from his attendant to walk toward Camilla and, in a knightly gesture, offer her a handkerchief. I pulled away from her slightly and patted her cheek, then leaned in to look at her in the sun. “Camilla, what color are your eyes?”
“They’re violet,” Adam said. “Dark violet, like Elizabeth Taylor’s.”
“I always thought they were brown. They’re quite remarkable,” I said. “I’ve never seen them in the sunshine like this, without your glasses.”
Camilla sniffed and shrugged, but I studied Adam’s face as he smiled down at her. What must it have been like for him, forty years ago, to fall in love with a woman who had come to America to marry his best friend?
I had been vaguely aware of Sam parking the car and coming to join us; he stood now at my shoulder. I turned and leaned into his embrace, then looked up into his face, which seemed to have aged a hundred years. My heart welled in my chest.
“Did you find Geronimo? Is he all right?”
He closed his eyes. “Yes, he’s fine. God, Lena—”
“Don’t feel bad,” I said. “You were feeding Eager. That makes you good. A horrible man attacked me; that makes him bad. Don’t confuse those two.”
He nodded. “But I am bad. If I had found him, Lena, I would have killed him.” His ey
es were on the car that held Travis Pace.
“No, you wouldn’t. Adam felt the same way, and he couldn’t do it.”
“What’s that?” Doug asked, with a surprised look at Adam.
Adam pointed toward the trail. “The gun is back there. I was going to tell you.” Doug signaled to Chip Johnson, who ran back toward the path.
Travis shouted something from inside the car about a phone call and a lawyer. His voice made me stiffen, and the tremor returned to my right hand.
Sam’s arms tightened around me. “You’re shaking again. This is all too much.”
“It might be,” I agreed.
Sam spoke to Doug and the others over my head. “Are you finished with her for the time being?”
Doug must have nodded, or gestured, because Sam pulled me gently toward the car. “Come on.”
“Gladly.”
I turned to see whether Camilla was all right, but Adam was studying her violet eyes up close, and she was speaking earnestly to him.
Sam tucked me into the passenger seat and started the car again. “Camilla can go with Adam. I’m getting you out of this place.”
“Good. Farewell, Emerson Woods. I shall not return.”
“I don’t mean the forest preserve,” Sam said. “I mean Blue Lake.”
I swiveled my head in surprise; Sam’s profile was hard and determined. He looked like a man carved from stone.
19
Life is ugly sometimes; there are things that have made me question the compassion of God. But then, in the midst of a rotten reality, something beautiful can emerge. You are the beautiful thing in my life. And you have given me back my hope.
—From the correspondence of James Graham and Camilla Easton, 1971
TWO WEEKS LATER I lay on a lounge chair, contemplating the blue sky above a turquoise ocean while gulls flew lazily above me. Tabitha, my father’s wife, fussed around me as though I were a child. “Here’s your piña colada, hon. I went light on the rum, the way you like it.”
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