by Rachel Caine
I grab a plastic trash bag from the bathroom and shove it all in, then check the rest of the room. He hasn’t bothered with anything else that I can tell.
I head straight for my truck, toss the bag in the bed, and call the office. Dave, thankfully, was lying; he’d paid cash for the room. Just another of his little mind games. I’m much more worried about the shit he’s left me with; I can’t just dump it. So I drive outside K-ville to a lonely road, build a small fire, and start tossing the filth on top of it once it’s burning briskly. I break the DVDs. I rip apart the videotapes. I tear the magazines. Destroying it feels better.
As it all burns, I take out my phone to do a quick search. Dave taunted me about having plenty of clues to put together. So I start doing that. Malus Navis refers to a navigational beacon. So that’s why he said our stalker probably lives on the coast. Though which coast, and in which state . . . who knows. But Dave’s suggestion is sound: I need to look closely at MalusNavis’s public posts and see what they can tell me. Maybe they can give me some directional hints, after all.
I take a deep breath and slip back into the emotional torture that is the Lost Angels site.
It doesn’t take me long to see it. MalusNavis’s language is spare, measured, but in a way it’s as inexorable as an avalanche. He never seems to have much emotion about what he’s doing, but he does have an enormous interest in the concept of an eye for an eye. I find him posting on several different boards—Tammy Maguire is one, but he’s also interested in other names. I write them down. Not all the people he’s been interested in are female; most are names I don’t recognize. Some barely rate a mention, even on a board obsessed with crime.
But he’s there, gliding from board to board. Hunting.
I write down avenging angel and stare at that for a few seconds. It makes me go quiet inside, because if this person is that, I’ve been him. I know him. I know how it feels to have an inner truth that takes over your whole world . . . even when that all-consuming conviction isn’t true. You’ll compromise your ethics and your morals, cheat, lie, steal, hurt, kill . . . all in the name of justice.
It took coming face-to-face with Gwen Proctor and her kids to break that iron illusion for me, to see that what I was doing was harming me as much as I meant to harm her.
MalusNavis sounds like a man on a mission. I just don’t know what kind of mission. Maybe he, like Dr. Dave, knows where the line is, and stops at harassment. I remember the drenching horror of that phone call asking me about Gwen’s death notice: that could have been our guy. It’s cruel, not illegal, just amoral. Like many of the things that come streaming through the internet aimed at Gwen and the kids. Like the flyers I created.
But it makes me wonder, because Dr. Dave, a sociopath, seemed to think MalusNavis is worse than him. And here in the dark, burning up the horrifying stash of incriminating evidence he meant me to be caught with . . . that’s really something.
I make sure it’s all burned, twisted, distorted, unrecognizable for the filth it was, and douse the fire with dirt. I bury the ashes, and feel horribly like I’m a criminal burying a body.
I text Gwen while I wait for the smoke to clear. All okay. Coming home.
The call comes almost immediately after that. I expect it to be Gwen, but it isn’t. I don’t recognize the number, and I nearly let it go, but then some instinct tells me I’d better not. Not this late.
“Hello?” I make it a one-word challenge. Subtext: this had better be urgent.
“Sam? Mr. Cade? It’s Tyler. From the airfield.” He’s agitated. I can hear his breathing rattling the speaker.
“Not the time, Tyler.”
“Okay,” he says. He sounds subdued, within the limited inflections he seems to possess. “I just wanted you to know it isn’t your fault.”
I pause in the act of opening my truck door. “Excuse me?” A million things race through my head, and all of them are bad. Most of them infuriate me.
“You’re the only person who really tried,” Tyler says. “To understand what was happening to me. And I appreciate that. I just don’t want you to think this is because of you.”
“What are you talking about, Tyler?”
“I’m on the Gay Street Bridge,” he says, as if it explains everything. And after a second, it does. I feel my heartbeat speed up, my mouth go dry.
“Tyler, what are you going to do?” The Gay Street Bridge is just outside downtown, over the Tennessee River. A low, green-painted steel railing. A long drop down to the river.
“I can’t do it anymore,” he says. “I really can’t. It will be better for everybody.”
I yank my truck door open and climb in. Start the engine. I put the phone on speaker and drop it on the seat. “Tyler, I’m coming to you, okay? Let’s sit and talk awhile. Can we do that?” I know that thin edge he’s on. I stood there many times in the past few years, before Gwen stretched out a hand to me and pulled me back to the world. Lots of times nothing seemed worth it, nothing seemed real enough. It’s a very bad place, when you hear the dead whispering to you that things will be easier if you join them.
A fall off that bridge might not kill him, but he’d drown. This time of night, traffic on the bridge is low, and it would be the work of a few seconds to step over the rail and into the dark.
Tyler isn’t answering me. I speed up. “Tyler? Still there, man?”
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m just tired, Sam. I’m just real tired.”
“I know you are. I know how it feels. But I’m coming, and you won’t be alone. Okay? Promise me you’ll wait for me. Please. You don’t know me real well, but you know I’ve been where you are right now. I can show you a way back. Okay?”
He thinks about it for an agonizing, silent few seconds. I glance at my speed. Well over the legal limit.
Then he says, “I’ll wait.”
“It’s going to take me about ten minutes. Stay on the phone with me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
He starts talking. I’m listening, but mostly I just want him to stay engaged. He talks about finding a photo online of his family, about how it took him back to one particular Christmas just before his sister was taken away. I understand that. Memories are a drug, and sometimes they have a rush to them that brings a horrible, hollow emptiness after. I still remember the last video call with my sister while I was deployed. I’d had to cut it short. I still replay it in my mind and think about what else she might have said, what else I could have done to keep her in my world just a little bit longer.
Tyler is doing the same thing, but he’s got nothing to hold on to. His sister’s killer was never caught, and that never-ending suspense and despair makes people lose faith, lose love, lose hope. My mystery was solved.
His may never be.
Five minutes away. I keep an eye out for patrol cars. If I dared, I’d try to make a call to the cops and send them to the bridge, but the trust I’ve established with Tyler is as fragile as a smoke ring; if he thinks I’m going to betray it, he’ll be gone before they can stop him.
And what if this is something else? A little voice in the back of my head, a cold one, has doubts. You don’t know this kid. What if he’s luring you?
If he is, I’m armed, and I’m not going down easy. Tyler doesn’t strike me as someone who’d be physically aggressive, but if he is, I’m ready for that.
“Sam?” His voice is faint now. Tired. “I just want to go now. Thank you for trying.”
“No, Tyler, don’t do that. Come on, man, stay with me. I’m three minutes away. You can wait three minutes, right?” I’m hurtling there like a comet. I can see the lights of downtown. The bridge isn’t far. I blow through a deserted red light and keep moving.
“I don’t want to wait.”
“But you called me for a reason,” I say. “You wanted me to know. And I do want to know. You’ve got more to tell me. I know that.”
I keep talking, not even sure what I’m saying anymore; I see the green superstructure of the bridg
e up ahead; it’s built under the bridge, not over. The lights illuminate the roadway, and I can’t see any cars stopped in the narrow breakdown lane on either side. It’s only a two-lane bridge, and no traffic at all.
I slow down, afraid I’ll miss him; even so, I spot him at the last second. He’s wearing dark pants, a dark hoodie, and he nearly blends into the night.
He’s standing on the concrete ledge, legs pressed against the green steel. It’s an easy, effortless step over.
I hit the brakes and fight the wheel to steer the truck into the narrow space of the breakdown lane, and I bail out fast, phone clutched in my hand. My instinct is to run at him, but my next impulse is to stop, slow down, approach carefully. So I walk, though it seems to take forever.
Tyler is staring out at the river, not at the lights of downtown. And as Nietzsche said, the abyss is looking into him. He knows I’m here, but he doesn’t break that stare.
“Tyler?” I see the phone is in his hand, still active. I shut off the call and hold up both hands. “I’m going to put my phone in my pocket, okay?”
“Okay.” He sounds fine. That’s the worst part. “You didn’t need to come.”
“I know.” I lean against the railing. I’m ten feet away, trying to figure out how to get closer without triggering a deadly reaction. I put my phone in my jacket pocket, and as I do, I hit the emergency dial function for 911. I wait for a few seconds, and hope that it’s connected before I say, “Why did you pick the Gay Street Bridge to jump from?” God, please let the operator pick that up.
“It’s quiet,” he says. “I like this bridge. And it’s high.”
It is. There’s a strong, cool wind blowing. The stars are out, the moon behind a rising cloud bank. It’d be beautiful if I were standing here with Gwen. It’s ominous now.
“You want to explain to me why you decided to do this now? Tonight?”
“I told you. The pictures.”
“But there had to be something else. You’ve seen those pictures before.”
He turns his head toward me. He’s wearing his Florida Gators baseball cap, still, with the hoodie drawn over it. He puts his hands in his pockets. The blank expression is no different than it was at the airfield, and that chills me deep. “It’s her birthday,” he says. “My sister’s, I mean. She’d be twenty-one today. I would have bought her a drink. Made sure she got home safe after.”
That guts me. I can feel the crumbling edge of that emotional cliff.
Tyler looks back at the river.
“Tell me about her,” I say. “Did you two get along?”
“Not always. She was kind of a bitch the day—the day it happened.” I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. I see him waver forward a little, and I tense up. I can be fast if I need to; I might be able to get to him and grab his hoodie before he’s out of reach. But stopping a falling body his size is tough, and I’ll probably rip a ligament, maybe dislocate my arm.
That isn’t a deterrent. Just a factor. I carefully, hopefully unnoticeably, edge closer. “Did she know you loved her?”
“What?”
“Did she know you loved her, Tyler?”
I get his stare back again. “Why?”
“Because it matters. It mattered to me. The last thing I told my sister was that I loved her, and that helped. But she would have known it anyway, I hope.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know if she thought that. I bought her a Christmas present, a nice one. She never got to open it.”
I can hear a siren in the distance. No no no . . . if they run lights and sirens, they could send him off the edge fast. I move forward a little more. He doesn’t react. “I’d really like to talk to you about my sister. I could use that help, too, talking to somebody who understands. Do you want to get down and go grab a coffee, maybe? Come on, Tyler. Let’s talk it out. You can do this anytime. But I’m here, right now. And I care.”
He seems to sigh, and for a terrible red second I think I’ve lost him.
Then he says, “Yeah. Okay.”
And he jumps down off the ledge.
I’m not really prepared for that, and the relief that fills me makes my voice a little unsteady. “Thank you, Tyler,” I say. “Come on with me. Let’s go find someplace quiet, okay?”
He says, “Did you call the cops?”
I don’t blink. “No. Maybe someone else did, though. Someone could have seen you up here.”
He nods and walks over to my truck. While his back is turned, I hang up the call. I open the door for him and get him inside just as the Knoxville patrol car glides to a stop nose-in toward us. The strobes stay on, but the siren stops. Two officers get out. I hold up my hands and walk toward them. “Sam Cade,” I tell them. “I’m the one who called. He’s down, and I’m going to take him for coffee and then try to get him some help. We’re okay. Thanks for coming.”
One of the officers breaks off to talk to Tyler. The other moves me up against the railing a little farther off. It doesn’t take long. They’re just relieved not to have to be talking someone out of an irrevocable decision.
When I get back in the truck, Tyler seems okay. Quiet. He’s staring down at his hands. “Thanks for coming, Sam,” he says. “You didn’t have to. That means a lot.”
I don’t know how to answer that, so I just nod and start the engine. There’s a twenty-four-hour diner not far away; I’ve hit it several times, and it’s usually quiet. He doesn’t talk on the drive there. We pull up and walk in, take a seat in a yellow leatherette booth, and get coffee pours. Tyler orders a waffle, which surprises me a little.
Now that my heartbeat’s slowing down, I realize that I’m already late coming home. I text Gwen stopping on the way, home soon, will call. I put it on silent, not even vibrate. The responsibility of Tyler is pretty big in my mind right now. I don’t want him to think I’m not completely invested in this conversation.
“I’ve been thinking about whether or not she knew I loved her,” Tyler says. “That’s a good question. I guess she didn’t, Sam. I never was good at showing things like that, even before—” He points toward his head. “Big brother, little sister, I got annoyed at her a lot. I wish that wasn’t true, but it is. Did your sister—”
“We didn’t grow up together,” I tell him. “We were separated in foster care when we were both really young. We reconnected while I was overseas. Mostly, we just talked on video calls and the phone. She probably annoyed me before we lost our folks, but I don’t really remember that part so well.”
That gets his attention. He pauses with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “Your parents died?”
“How about yours? Are they still—”
“No. They’re both gone too.”
We sit there, two orphans, both hurt in different ways. I don’t know that I like the mirror that I’m looking into. But I understand the black, wounded desperation he feels, and that’s enough to make a bond.
I tell him about my sister. I do it slowly, a little haltingly, because I’m afraid it’s going to unleash all the nastiness I’ve buried so deep. But it doesn’t, beyond a couple of uncomfortable twinges. That’s a wonder. I talk about how it felt to come back, to deal with the loss, to fall in with Miranda Tidewell—the mother of another of Melvin’s victims—and go down that unhealthy, entirely destructive spiral.
I talk about Gwen, and how she’s pulled me back out of it, or at least been a signpost on the way. He takes it in silently, eating his waffle with mechanical efficiency and no real sign of pleasure. My coffee sits untouched even after his is empty.
When I finally stop talking, he meets and holds my gaze for long enough it feels uncomfortable. “Thank you,” he says. “I needed to know that.”
I lean forward and rest my elbows on the table. “Point is, Tyler, there is going to be a way up and through this. I found one, and believe me, I was in a very, very dark place. I believe you want to find a way out too. So if you want to keep meeting and talking about it—”
; “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he says, which sets me back a little. “I mean . . . you’re right, Sam. I should get help. Real help. Like you have.”
“I’d like to help you do that,” I tell him. “How about I call a counseling crisis center and you talk to them? They’re going to have better advice than I do.”
He shakes his head. “I already know where to go,” he says. “There’s a doctor I know who can help me. I just . . . didn’t want to go there, that’s all. But I guess I have to, really.”
“Can I drive you there?”
He blinks, like he didn’t think I’d offer. “That would be nice.”
I pay the check, since he’s done. I walk him out to the truck, and he gives me quiet directions. We pull up in the parking lot of a small hospital; the sign says it serves behavioral health urgent care. That’s exactly what he needs.
“Sam?” He unlocks his seatbelt and turns toward me. “You’ve been real kind to me. Thank you. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Do you trust Gina? I mean, Gwen?”
I don’t know why he’s asking, and it makes me wary again. “Yes.”
“All the time?”
I want to lie, but I know this is some kind of a test for him. “I didn’t always, but now? Yes. I trust her.”
“Do you think she really is innocent?”
“Tyler, I don’t want to talk about Gwen, she really isn’t what we’re about here. This is about you, me, the people we’ve lost. Okay?”
“I know. But . . . I need to understand. Why do you believe her? When other people don’t?”
“I choose to. I think she’s a good person.”
He nods, as if that settles something, and he opens the truck door. Before he closes it, he says, “I wish I could believe that too. About myself, I mean. Maybe someday.”
Then he slams the door, and I watch him walk inside. I wait a little bit, but he doesn’t come back, and I finally put my truck in gear.
I pull my cell from my pocket and realize that in my focus on Tyler, I’ve missed text messages and alerts.
An alert from our security system.