by David Bell
“If it’s really her there,” Hughes said, “I hope we don’t miss her.”
“If it’s her, I hope she’s not alone. I’d like to talk to that dope Fields who’s been chasing her around.”
“You think he’s involved?”
“I don’t know what to think about him. But he’s hitched his wagon to her for some reason.”
Kimberly’s phone rang again. It was Brandon. “He’s trying again.”
“Go ahead. Maybe we caught a tower.”
She answered. “What’s up, Brandon?” Kimberly asked. “This call may drop.”
Kimberly thought she heard a baby squealing in the background. He was calling from home, working late hours. She hated to think of it, hated to think of the case cutting into everybody’s time with family.
“I just heard from one of Giles’s former employees, someone I called yesterday. A woman named Megan Bright. She worked for Giles for about eighteen months and then quit. She’s in Memphis now.”
“Yeah, yeah. What did she have to say?” Kimberly asked.
“Apparently, those two women Hatfield told us about weren’t the only ones to have run-ins with Giles Caldwell.”
Kimberly sat up straighter in her seat. She clenched her hand around the phone, squeezing it so hard it almost popped out of her grip. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. This woman felt the same kind of threat from Giles. But this time he actually put his hands on her.”
53
Simon fumbled with the paper, moving so quickly I thought he was going to drop it in the dirt. But he held on, casting each layer of paper aside as he pulled it off. His eyes opened wide, a look of glee shining out of his face like a spotlight.
Finally, he held the ring in his giant hands, muttering to himself. He looked like a man who had no idea anyone else was nearby.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” he said over and over, his voice low, the sound prayerlike.
I managed to slip past him while he was distracted. I looked down the midway. There was nothing between me and my car. If I simply ran—and I again assumed I could outrun Simon—I’d be out of the park and back to my car in a matter of minutes. I could drive off and call the police for help.
But I’d be leaving Morgan in Simon’s hands. And I suspected the ring wasn’t going to distract him for long.
I looked at the ground. An object caught the faint light from the moon and stars. A beer bottle.
“Okay, okay,” Simon said.
I sensed movement behind me. I turned and saw Simon step closer to Morgan.
“What about the rest?” he asked.
“What rest?” Morgan asked.
“My brother,” he said. “Where is he? I want the body. I want to bury him next to our mother. That’s what they’d both want. Just tell me where he is. In the woods somewhere back home? In a ditch? Did you grind him up in a wood chipper? Or are you going to stand here and try to convince me that he’s alive?”
“How can you talk about your own brother that way?” Morgan asked.
Simon lunged for her, reaching out and grabbing her arm and shouting one word in her face.
“Where?”
Morgan tried to pull away, tried to free her arm from his grasp, but couldn’t.
“Where?”
I picked up the bottle.
I turned and, with one motion, brought it down on the back of Simon’s head.
I’d never hit anyone with a bottle before. In the movies, the glass always shatters, and the guy on the receiving end of the blow is immediately knocked unconscious and slumps to the ground, incapacitated. But Simon must have had a stronger constitution than any of those movie characters because the bottle remained intact, flying out of my hand when it made contact with his head. Simon remained on his feet while letting go of Morgan.
He reached back and rubbed his head where I had struck him. Then he turned to face me. His initial movements were slow, but when he turned, he shifted into a higher gear. He came right at me, both hands out, clutching at my throat. His momentum carried him into me, and I fell backward, his body landing on top of mine and crushing the air out of my lungs.
His hands flailed. He gave up on trying to grab my throat and started swinging his fists, making as much contact with me as he did with the air. I bucked beneath him, trying to get away. But he was too heavy, so I started to fight back. I worked my right hand loose and swung at his head, making solid contact a few times and slowing down his onslaught.
Simon repositioned himself, shifting his weight to pin my right arm under his knee. He did, taking away my ability to punch at him. But he could still swing at me. And he did. Over and over.
He brought his right hand down against the side of my head once and then twice. I started to see the helplessness of my situation, that there was no way for me to escape. I was going to lie there, pinned like a bug, while a crazy man loomed over me, bashing me in the head until my brains started leaking out of my ears.
I squeezed my eyes closed, strangely detached as I contemplated what an odd place this was to die.
But then the punching stopped.
I thought for a moment Simon might be winding up for one big, final blow. But it never came. Instead I heard a thumping, like the sound of a baseball making good contact with a wooden bat. I opened my eyes.
Simon still loomed over me, but his arms went limp at his sides. His eyes fixed not on me but on some point in the dirt above my head.
And then he fell. Like a giant oak, he slowly tipped over and landed across my body.
That’s when I saw Morgan. She stood there, her silhouette outlined in the dark, holding the still-unbroken beer bottle.
For once she hadn’t run off. For once she’d stayed.
She’d even saved me.
54
Brandon’s call dropped. Again. He disappeared down the voice well.
“Shit. Brandon?”
“We’re coming up on it,” Hughes said.
“I lost the call.”
Hughes slowed the car as they came around a bend. Kimberly squinted into the night, her eyes trying to make out the entrance to the park through the gloom. Then she saw it. A small driveway, a gate. Two civilian cars plus a police cruiser.
“This is in the middle of nowhere,” Kimberly said.
“Pretty much everything out here is in the middle of nowhere. That’s why your call dropped.”
“Did you call for backup?”
“I let the county boys know we’d be out here. They must have sent someone. Slow night in the sticks, I’m sure.”
Hughes parked next to the cruiser. A uniformed officer stood by the two civilian cars, a flashlight in his hand. He swept the beam back and forth around the vehicles, looking for something . . . anything.
Kimberly tried not to dwell on the dropped call. Brandon had something to tell her, something about Giles Caldwell putting his hands on an employee. A female employee. But since they were at the amusement park, it was time to concentrate on the task at hand.
They climbed out of Hughes’s car. When they did, the uniformed officer came over, his flashlight pointing at the ground.
“What have you got?” Hughes asked.
“I found the first car at an entrance about a quarter mile away. Then I came over here and saw these two.” The officer reached into his breast pocket and brought out a small spiral notebook. He flipped to the proper page. “The one at the other entrance is a rental, and so is this one. This other vehicle here is registered to a Simon Caldwell. Laurel Falls, Kentucky.”
Hughes looked at Kimberly. “Your boy Fields is probably in one of the rentals.”
“Morgan Reynolds would be in the other one.”
Hughes turned to the officer. “Did you go in?”
“I haven’t yet. And I haven’t heard anything. It’s a big place. L
ots of spots to hide.”
The officer sounded a little uncertain about the task of searching Fantasy Farm in the dark. Kimberly understood. It felt like they were the only three people left on planet earth.
“You ever been in there, Officer?” Hughes asked the uniformed cop.
“Not since I was five.”
“Me either,” Hughes said. “Okay, you ready, Detective?”
“Sure am,” Kimberly said.
Hughes pointed to the officer. “Call county for a little more help. We might need it.”
The officer followed instructions, using his lapel mike to call. When he was finished, they all squeezed through the gate and started down the midway.
55
I pushed out from under Simon and to my feet.
As I did, Morgan reached out and took my arm, helping me. When I got up on two legs, I wobbled briefly as my equilibrium came back. My hands went to my face, probing. I worked my jaw from side to side, checking for blood. I didn’t see any on my hands, and all the moving parts seemed to be working. The longer I stood, the steadier I felt. The world remained still and untilted.
“Are you okay?” Morgan asked.
“I think so.”
“Thank God,” she said. “I thought he was going to kill you. And me.”
“How is he?” I asked.
I looked down at the ground. Simon lay there like a felled oak. He was on his side, his face in a clump of hay. He was still. Very, very still.
I bent down, kneeling next to Simon. I took his arm, running my hand down it until I was able to slip my fingers under the cuff of his jacket and shirt. I pressed against his wrist.
I waited. And waited.
Nothing.
So I moved up to his neck. I placed my fingers against his throat, the way I was taught in the first aid class I took in high school. I remembered how easy it was to find a pulse. On a living person.
I pressed harder against Simon’s skin, feeling his stubble against my fingertips.
“What is it?” Morgan asked.
“I don’t think he’s breathing.”
“No, you can’t say that.”
“Morgan, I think he’s dead.” I pressed even harder, but I still felt nothing. “Whatever’s going on, we have to call for help. We have to get an ambulance.”
“Our phones don’t work out here.”
I stood up. “Then one of us has to go back to the road and get in the car and drive until they do work. Go. You do it. I’ll wait here. Just go. Time is wasting. He might die. Or he might already be dead.”
But she refused to move. She just stood there in the dark, shaking her head.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Bullshit.” I dropped back down to my knees and pounded on Simon’s chest a couple of times. “He needs help. I don’t care if he is a piece of shit, we can’t just let him die. Go get the police.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“What do you mean you can’t? You must have a car, right? Get help.”
“I can’t.” She made a vague gesture in the direction of the barn. “I’ve done some things I can’t come back from, Joshua. Bad things.”
“You took a ring. Get the cops to help this man.”
“It’s not just the ring,” she said. Then, quickly, she took a step closer to me. “And I’m about to do another bad thing.”
I didn’t see the bottle. I only saw her arm make a sweeping motion toward my head. And then I felt it. The bottle. It made the same baseball-bat thwump.
Before I understood, I felt wobbly on my knees next to Simon, shaking my head.
I tried to get up. But then she swung again.
56
I tried to open my eyes.
They felt like they were glued shut. And weighed down by lead.
I opened my mouth to speak, my throat dry and cracked. I couldn’t produce a sound. My heart raced. But I couldn’t speak.
Someone spoke to me. Someone said my name. The words sounded distant and muffled, like they were coming from far away, down a long tunnel.
I had no idea what was going on.
Had hours passed? Days?
Someone said my name again. But I still couldn’t move. I made no noise.
The voice saying my name sounded closer.
It sounded like a woman’s. I tried to respond, thought I made a sound. But I couldn’t open my eyes.
Suddenly I felt colder.
Someone came and wrapped a blanket around my body.
I made a noise.
“Mor . . .”
When my eyes opened, everything was bright.
Too bright.
I closed them again. It felt painful to squeeze the lids shut. The action put pressure on my brain and made my head hurt.
It didn’t just hurt. It throbbed. Like a giant bass drum.
I felt nauseated, like I’d been traveling on rough seas.
A presence came close to me and said my name. “Mr. Fields?”
I groaned, keeping my eyes shut.
“Mr. Fields? Do you know where you are?”
“Hell.”
Undeterred, she asked again. “Do you know where you are? Do you know why you’re here?”
I chanced it, opening my eyes ever so slightly. The light came rushing in, but I fought it off. I saw a curtain attached to the ceiling. A woman wearing a colorful shirt, something so intense it hurt my eyes, leaned close to me. It wasn’t hard to figure out where I was.
“Hospital,” I said. “Emergency room.”
“That’s right,” she said, drawing her words out like I was a kindergartner. “And do you know why?”
I almost said, Head went boom, but she might not appreciate that. And, truth be told, the events leading up to my hospitalization were still hazy.
“Someone hit me,” I said.
“Yes, they did,” she said, encouraging me.
“Am I okay?” I asked.
“The X-ray was negative.”
“I had an X-ray?”
“On your head. You slept right through it,” she said. “The doctor will be by in a minute. We’re going to keep watching you closely.”
“How long . . . ?”
“You’ve been here since Wednesday evening,” she said. “It’s Thursday morning now. Very early Thursday.”
My eyes adjusted. I opened them more but didn’t like the starkness of the room and promptly shut them again.
“Do you want to rest some more?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You won’t be able to for long,” she said. “There’s someone who wants to see you.”
I didn’t know who she meant. Did she mean Morgan? Or someone else? I drifted back to sleep until the nurse came in again and told me I had to wake up. That’s when the detective came in. That’s when I started talking.
57
I lost track of time. I just poured the story out, welcoming the distraction from the throbbing in my head. It felt good to have someone to listen to everything that had happened. The detective mostly listened, interjecting with questions only when she had to.
I thought I’d reached a stopping point.
“What time is it?” I asked. “I don’t even know.”
“It’s getting near daylight,” she said.
She sat in the chair next to my bed. She looked patient, if a little tired. Dirt stained her flat shoes, and I imagined she’d been wandering around in the amusement park, kicking up dust, trying to make sense of everything that had happened out there.
“That’s quite a couple of days,” she said.
“More than I bargained for.”
“So . . . do you know where she went, Mr. Fields?” the detective asked.
She didn’t use a notebook to take down my words.
She didn’t hold a recorder.
I hoped she had a good memory. My mind still felt fuzzy.
“You mean after she hit me on the head with an empty bottle?” I asked. “Do I know where she went after that? No, I don’t. I have no idea.”
I looked over at the little table next to the bed. A water pitcher, its sides beaded with condensation, sat just out of reach. My lips were cracked and dry. I suddenly wanted water more than I’d ever wanted it before.
I scooted over a couple of inches and reached for the pitcher. My hand shook.
Detective Givens stood up. “Here. Let me.” She filled the plastic cup that sat next to the pitcher and handed it to me. “Can you get that? Do you need to sit up more?”
“I’m good.”
I guzzled the water. It was sweet relief. The cold swept through my body. When I’d emptied the contents of the cup, Detective Givens poured more, which I also swallowed with greed.
“Thank you,” I said. “That helps.”
Givens remained standing close by the side of the bed. I saw her hands were empty of jewelry. No wedding ring, just a functional digital watch.
“So you have no idea where she might go?” Givens asked. “She didn’t mention anything? No places she wanted to travel to?”
I strained my mind. “No. She apparently doesn’t like to tell me much.”
The detective nodded at my scraped-up knuckles. “A pretty good struggle out there, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I’m not a skilled fighter.” I tried to read her face. She kept it blank. My stomach turned over, and something cold seized my bowels. More details came back to me. I remembered kneeling over the man, pumping his chest. “Is he okay? Simon? He wasn’t . . . I wasn’t sure he was okay.”
The detective studied me. She knew what she was doing. She wanted to make me wait. I wanted to shout Just tell me! But I didn’t. My head still thumped. I couldn’t yell even though I wanted to.
“Mr. Caldwell took a pretty good knock on the head,” she said, her face still revealing little.