by Lisa Regan
Josie gunned the engine and took the turn. “From the aerial view that looks like a damn big valley. My guess is he’s tossing whatever Devil’s Breath he’s got left into the abyss.”
The rental car barreled down the service road until Hudson’s Nissan came into view. Josie slammed on the brakes and then maneuvered her vehicle so that Hudson couldn’t drive away without asking her to move it—or crashing into it. Once the gearshift was in park, Josie and Gretchen hopped out and ran toward the bridge abutment. Josie said, “Now we should call for backup.”
Gretchen fell a few steps behind Josie as she called dispatch to request a patrol unit for assistance—or a unit from the state police, since they were likely outside Denton city limits. The service road terminated in a waist-high stone wall. Next to it was a small hill of stones leading up to the railroad tracks. Josie still didn’t see Hudson anywhere. Heart in her throat, she leaned over the wall and looked down. The effect was dizzying. The drop-off was significant, easily a football field, but beyond that, the sharp V of the valley below was inaccessible by any type of vehicle. A swollen creek ran through it. The Tamanend Creek, Josie remembered, a tributary of the larger Swatara Creek. She didn’t see any evidence that Hudson had either jumped or fallen into it.
Gretchen said, “I think I see him!”
Josie looked over to see Gretchen laboring up the small incline, trying to keep her balance on the stones. Josie scrambled up behind her. They reached the tracks, and Josie was relieved to find firmer footing on the ties and off the track ballast.
“There,” Gretchen said.
Turning in the direction of the valley, Josie saw Hudson in the middle of the bridge, the bright purples and pinks of the tote bag on his shoulder flashing in the sunlight. “Jesus,” Josie said. “What’s he doing? If he’s got something to dump, he could have thrown it over the wall.”
“Let’s go,” said Gretchen.
Josie went first, staying inside the rails and stepping only on the ties. The bridge ahead was an open spandrel arch bridge. Under other circumstances, it would have been breathtaking. The floor system sat atop steel spandrel columns which were supported by a wide arch rib. The bridge consisted of a single arch connecting two abutments, each one built into the side of a mountain. Hudson Tinning stood in the middle of it. As Josie and Gretchen drew closer, Josie saw that the deck expanded a few feet on either side of the railroad tracks, ballast rocks bleeding into two narrow concrete walkways which were hemmed in by steel parapets. Hudson stood to their right, his waist pressed against the top of the parapet. The tote hung from his shoulder. One hand held it open while the other hand riffled inside. He began to pull out what looked like Saran-wrapped brownies and toss them into the void below.
“Hudson!” Josie shouted, breaking into a jog. “Stop.”
Momentarily, he froze, his pale blue eyes widening, panic turning his face ashen. For a split second, Josie thought he might cooperate. Then he turned away from her, slung the tote bag over one shoulder, put both hands on the parapet railing, and climbed over the top of it.
Josie sprinted toward him. Behind her, she heard Gretchen huffing, feet smacking the railroad ties in an effort to catch up. “Hudson, stop!” Josie said. “Please!”
Holding onto the railing, he carefully rearranged himself so that he was facing her, both his feet on the outer edge of the bridge. “Don’t come any closer,” he yelled. “I’ll jump!”
Forty-Two
Josie stopped and threw her hands up in surrender. She was only four or five feet from him, but not close enough to try to catch him if he let go of the railing. “Hudson, please. Come back onto this side of the railing, would you?”
He shook his head. With his palms wrapped around the railing, he levered himself back and forth, his upper body extending out into the air, the tote bag swinging back and forth violently. A small plastic bag, maybe two inches by two inches, fluttered out of the bag’s opening and into the valley below. From where Josie stood, it looked like it had white powder in it.
Gretchen drew up behind Josie, and Josie could hear her tapping the screen of her cell phone. Trying to get more help, Josie thought, but without alerting Hudson. Staying in place, Josie kept her hands in the air. “Hudson, look at me. Look at me.”
He stopped moving and met her eyes.
“I’m only here to talk, okay? That’s it. I just don’t want you to get hurt. Why don’t you come back over to this side of the railing?”
“No.”
“I won’t come any closer, I promise. I’ll stay right here.”
He lifted his chin to indicate Gretchen. “What about her?”
Josie turned to see Gretchen throw up both of her hands. She must have put her phone into her pocket. She said, “I’m not moving either. We’ll do this your way, Hudson. Obviously, you’re pretty upset. We don’t want to upset you further. Like Detective Quinn said, all we want to do is talk. We can do that from right here, but it sure would make us feel a lot better if you were on this side of the railing.”
He considered this for a moment. Then he looked over his shoulder, into the chasm. Turning back to them, he squeezed his eyes shut. His knuckles were white. “No, no, no. I have to do this.”
Josie said, “Have to do what, Hudson? Jump? Because you don’t have to jump. We can work this out.”
His eyes snapped open. Angry lines creased his face. “Don’t give me that cop bullshit. I watch TV. I know what happens. You tell me everything will be okay, I tell you everything I know. I go back to the station with you, or whatever, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting in jail. No. No way. That’s not going to help. The only thing that will stop this is if I jump.”
Gretchen said, “No, Hudson, the only thing that will stop this is you. You can stop it. Right now. But you’re right. You will go to jail. We can’t help that. Nysa is dead. Clay Walsh is barely hanging on and even if he survives, he’ll be disabled for the rest of his life from his injuries. That can’t go unpunished, Hudson, but you can stop anyone else from getting hurt.”
A tear slid down his cheek. He looked from Gretchen to Josie, then to the sky, shaking his head. “You don’t think I’ve tried to stop it? You don’t think I’ve always tried to stop it? I didn’t even know—” He broke off and Josie’s heart stuttered as he took one hand off the railing to wipe his eye. She couldn’t breathe until he gripped the railing once more. “I loved Nysa,” he continued. “I know she didn’t love me. I know she was never going to be into me, but I loved her. I would never hurt her. I would never hurt anyone. I’m not like that. I’m not like them. But this happened because of me. Things have… happened because of me. If I’m not here anymore, no one else gets hurt.”
“You’re not like who, Hudson?” Gretchen asked.
The kaleidoscope at the back of Josie’s mind shifted, bringing the flash from earlier into better focus. Drake’s poisoner profile came back to her. They’re sneaky, lack empathy.
But Hudson didn’t lack empathy. Josie had thought that he was faking it—his concern over how the Somers family was taking Nysa’s death, and his assertion that he hadn’t agreed with the videos that Doug Merlos had made—but maybe he wasn’t a really good actor. Maybe he truly felt empathy.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” he yelled. “Talking about it won’t help. Things have gone too far.”
Gretchen responded, “Okay, Hudson, okay. Let’s just take a minute, all right? Take a deep breath.”
They’re emotionally stunted. Almost childlike in the way they think… extremely immature.
But Hudson was none of those things. Certainly, he had lied about several items, but when confronted about his lies, he had been very mature in his response. When they’d questioned him about how it felt for him to lose his big scholarship and for Nysa to get it, his response had been that Nysa deserved it. While he hadn’t wanted people to know what he’d done to lose the scholarship, clearly in his own mind he took responsibility for it. That wasn’t the mark of som
eone who was emotionally stunted or immature.
Josie locked eyes with him and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s just calm down for a second. We didn’t come here to upset you, Hudson. Like we told you, we only came to talk, but we can take a break.” She took in several exaggerated deep breaths and after three, she saw him mirroring her unconsciously. “That’s good,” she told him.
What’s more likely is they were spoiled. Extremely, extremely spoiled… entitled.
There was no doubt Hudson was spoiled. She remembered that Christine Trostle had said that his mother had “thrown a shitfit” when she found out he wasn’t going to be included in the WYEP piece. Pace had called him a Momma’s boy, and then there were the texts from his mother about having spoken with his professors on his behalf. But Josie couldn’t see the sense of entitlement that might form as a result of his mother being so overbearing. Hudson took no pleasure in her machinations. He had even responded to her text message about smoothing the way with his professors by asking her not to talk to them. When Josie had brought up the WYEP piece in their initial interview, he’d said he hadn’t even wanted to be in it. He wasn’t the one who was entitled.
Josie said, “Hudson, the ‘them’ that you’re not like. Do you mean your parents?”
He levered himself back and forth again. “My dad’s dead,” he blurted.
“Right,” Josie said quickly. “But your mom’s not.”
He said nothing.
Josie used one hand to motion toward the tote bag on his shoulder. “Your share of the Devil’s Breath is in that bag, isn’t it?”
His voice went higher. “My share? I never had a share! This was all Doug. I went along with it when it was just him and me testing it out ’cause, I don’t know, we were dumb college kids. I never wanted it. I was never going to use it.”
Gretchen said, “When we talked to you at the station today, you said, ‘Doug flushed his down the toilet.’ If you didn’t each have a share of it, why did you say that?”
His knees began to tremble. Josie tried to stay focused on talking to him instead of the image of him toppling into the valley below. When he didn’t answer, she said, “It wasn’t your share, was it, Hudson? It was your mother’s.”
Again, he squeezed his eyes closed. Still, tears slid down his cheeks.
Josie continued, “Your mother was the one who cleared things up with the Dean—who is Doug’s dad—when the fallout from the Robyn Arber video happened. You were going to be kicked out of school completely. Your mom negotiated with the Dean and got you a much lighter punishment. She would have been very involved in the entire thing. She’s very involved in every aspect of your life, isn’t she, Hudson?”
He opened his eyes, took one of his hands off the rail again to swipe at his tears. “She only does it because she loves me. You have to understand. Her and my grandmother, they—well, when my mom was a little girl, her dad did things to her, you know?”
Gretchen said, “Your grandfather sexually abused your mother?”
He bobbed his head in agreement. “Yeah. My mom didn’t tell me till I was older. He did it for years and my grandmother knew but instead of trying to stop him, she overcompensated by giving my mom everything, you know? Everything and anything she wanted.”
Josie said, “She spoiled her.”
“Well yeah, I guess. Until my grandfather died—this was before I was born—and my grandmother used the life insurance policy to live from. My mom told me that she had to stay close to me no matter what to make sure no one ever hurt me the way that her dad hurt her. So she’s always been, like, you know, there. I want her to stop but I feel guilty. I know she loves me and now with my dad gone, I’m all she’s got.”
“Hudson, I’m glad you’re telling us these things,” Gretchen tried. “But could you come to this side of the railing? Please? We can keep talking just like this. We stay here, you stay there.”
“No,” he said, pushing his upper body violently back and forth.
“Okay,” Josie said. “Fine, fine. Stay on that side but just keep still. How’s that?”
The rocking slowed. Josie counted off a few seconds and tried to restart the conversation. “Your mother was there when you and Doug had to clean out your room to vacate campus, wasn’t she?”
He nodded. “She came and took over, did most of the cleaning and packing. Doug was flushing the Devil’s Breath, and she told him to stop. She said that she’d take it and dispose of it—that it was a job for a responsible adult, not a boy. He didn’t care.”
“But she didn’t dispose of it, did she?” said Gretchen.
He glanced over his shoulder at the bag which dangled over the valley beneath him. “I thought she did. But then on Monday, you told me Nysa died and you showed me that sticker, and I got really scared. I saw Nysa on Sunday night getting into a car with that shithead, Pace. I was upset. I called my mom. I just wanted to, I don’t know, vent. I wanted someone to tell me that I wasn’t a total loser because Nysa chose him over me, even after she said she broke up with him. My mom said not to worry about it, that Nysa wasn’t worthy of me, and didn’t deserve me, and that she’d get what was coming to her.”
Josie said, “Did you see your mom later that night? After you talked to her on the phone? After your roommate went to bed?”
“No. I went to sleep after that. I never would have thought that Nysa and my mom—or that my mom would—but, well, people tend to—” He stopped. Again, he glanced behind him, this time with more courage, it seemed. Either he was mentally committing to the jump, or he was just becoming inured to the danger he was in. Josie couldn’t say the same. Her heartbeat was all over the place.
“People tend to what?” Josie coaxed.
“My grandfather died of an accidental overdose,” he blurted out.
“Overdose of what?” Gretchen asked.
“His heart medication, I think.”
“You think your mom had something to do with that?” Josie asked, trying to keep his focus on her and not the drop.
“Or my grandmother. She’s dead now, but what I’m saying is that people tend to die around her and around my mom, too.”
Josie said, “What people, Hudson?”
His voice was very small when he said, “Like my dad. He died in his sleep. He had a bad cold, a little bit of pneumonia, but it didn’t seem like enough to kill him. Then I found out he had been having an affair with a lady where he worked.”
“You think your mom did something to him?” Gretchen asked.
“I don’t know. She’s always been weird and sneaky, you know? Like putting stuff in food if people don’t treat her right, or if they say something she doesn’t like.”
“What kind of stuff?” Josie asked.
“Like spit or laxatives or dirt.”
From just behind her, Josie heard Gretchen whisper, “Jesus.”
Hudson said, “Right before my dad died, I saw her doing something with his antibiotics. I thought maybe she was switching them with something else, but I couldn’t be sure. When I asked her about it, she told me I was crazy. But I don’t think I am crazy.”
“Who else has died around your mother, Hudson?” Josie asked.
“There was a driving instructor. Her license had expired because my dad used to drive her everywhere and so she decided to take driving lessons because it had been so long, she didn’t feel comfortable driving on her own. But he made fun of the way she held the wheel or something. He said she looked like she was clutching her purse on a subway or something like that. Next thing I know, he’s dead. Drove himself into a tree. She said he was drunk, but now I don’t know. If she had the stuff Doug made—which she would have had by then—she could have made him drive into a tree.”
The words were a punch to Josie’s solar plexus. She had to work hard to get her own words out. “I took that call,” she said. “Right before the floods. He had a six-year-old daughter. It was classified as a DUI until two months later when his tox screens came back nega
tive. His wife asked for another autopsy, but it didn’t turn anything up. The medical examiner said he could have had some kind of mini-stroke that wouldn’t show up on exam.” She was going to ask Hudson if he remembered the man’s name, but Josie couldn’t recall any other driving instructors in Denton who had driven themselves into trees in recent years.
“Yeah, and my grandmother. She passed right after my dad. Anaphylactic shock. She was allergic to cats except she didn’t have a cat. But my mom volunteers for this shelter.”
“Precious Paws,” said Gretchen.
“Yeah. My mom was always careful about cleaning herself off before she went over there, but what if she didn’t? She always resented my grandmother for what my grandfather did.”
Josie said, “Your mom baked for the Precious Paws fundraiser this week, didn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
In her mind, Josie called up the list of bakers Mettner had given her. There wasn’t a Tinning on there. Josie would have seized on that immediately. Mrs. Somers had said that Hudson’s mother’s name was Mary. There had only been a Mary Lyddy on the list. “Does your mother use her married name still?” she asked him.
“No. She uses her maiden name. Lyddy. Mary Kate Lyddy.”
Josie said, “Hudson, you’ve told us a lot of really helpful things, and I don’t believe that you did anything wrong. You don’t need to jump. Please come back onto this side.”
He ignored her, plunging on with his story. “Then there was this teacher where my mom works. Over the summer. My mom hated her because she always criticized everything my mom did with the kids. One day she had a stroke right in summer camp and died.”
A rushing started in Josie’s ears. With perfect clarity, she envisioned little Bronwyn Walsh’s face as she suggested that her grandfather had had a “stork” like one of her teachers had had over the summer. “A stroke,” Michelle had corrected. Josie hadn’t even considered whether scopolamine could cause a stroke. But it worked on the central nervous system. Or maybe that teacher had been misdiagnosed on autopsy. But none of that mattered right that second. Josie took a step closer to Hudson. He pushed his arms out straight, as if to put some distance between them. Josie froze again. “Hudson,” she said, her voice husky. “Does your mom work at Tiny Tykes?”