“Do you want to know how I knew who you were?”
Jules let go of his hand, backed her wheelchair up a ways. “That I was Blake Timble? Yes.” Her heart pounded, wondering if he was going to throw yet another fit.
“It was rather easy. I saw patterns.”
“Patterns?”
“I’ve read your blog every day for two years. Watched you on Facebook.” He smiled wryly. “Under an assumed name. I never let my publisher know that I knew my way around social media. Playing ignorant saved me a lot of time and hassle.”
Jules chuckled.
“So when I received the manuscript to read for endorsement, I saw the same turns of phrase, the same beats, the same rhythms. Do you understand? You have a particular fondness for three-syllable words that start with e. You tend to slip into the passive voice when you’re conveying an intellectual thought. Things like that.”
“Wow,” she said. “That’s observant.” She held her breath for a second. “But why did you hate it so much?”
He thought for a long moment. “I don’t hate it. Not as it seems I do. I guess my dislike arose because you believe in happy endings.” He shrugged. “Maybe because you wouldn’t go there.”
“Go where?”
“Deep enough.”
“I tangled with the hardest of subjects,” Jules said. “I explored the things that ripped my guts out.”
“But you let yourself die. You took the easy way out.” He searched her eyes. “She killed herself in a car with carbon monoxide. She slipped away quietly, softly.” He gestured gently with his hands. “Was that what you intended to do, Juliet? Slip away quietly?”
Jules held a finger under her eye, trying to catch a stray tear. “I don’t know. Maybe I had thought about it. I wanted to be with Jason. I didn’t want to be stuck here. But I also felt I hadn’t arrived at a place where I was certain heaven would be there for me. Jason always told me heaven wasn’t for good people. It was for repentant people.”
Patrick suddenly rose and stood at the fireplace for a moment, remembering something. Or someone. Then he turned to her. “There won’t be any meals today. I’m sorry.” He walked around her wheelchair and began pushing her toward her bedroom.
“Patrick, no. I don’t want to go back in there. Leave me out here. Please.”
“I need to be alone.”
“I won’t talk. I won’t do anything. Please don’t put me back in that bed. I need to be out here. Looking outside. Getting some fresh air.”
“I don’t feel like taking care of you right now,” he said, steering the wheelchair around the furniture.
“No! Don’t take me back there!”
But he kept pushing.
“What about that thing you needed to tell me?”
“First things first,” he said. “You started a fire, which means smoke came out of the chimney. People can see that, you know. People can find us.”
“What people?” Jules asked with urgency. “What people? In case you haven’t noticed, there’s been no knight in shining armor to rescue me.”
“They’ll find us. Eventually.”
He pushed into the room and stooped, lifting her out of the chair.
As he gently put her down on the bed, she grabbed his shirt. “Don’t leave me here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, batting her hand away. “I’m not well.”
“Yeah? Well, I feel great. So get me out of this bed.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, going to the door, pushing the wheelchair into the hallway. “Tomorrow we’ll talk. Right now I must watch to see if they’re coming.”
“Hey!” she screamed. “Don’t you walk out of here. Don’t!”
“I’m sorry, Juliet.”
“Let me tell you something,” she said, her voice in a highly emotional octave. “I don’t care that you don’t like my story! You think I didn’t go there? Well, you’re not the end all and be all, Patrick. Get it? I went where I needed to go. I bled all over every one of those pages! Spilled the blood of my soul! You didn’t get it because you didn’t allow yourself to get it. And that’s because you’re filled with jealousy. You’re buying into the idea that you’re a has-been, so you take your anger and frustration out on me. My book. It’s my story! My soul! And you don’t matter in it. You don’t matter at all.” Her chest heaved as the words fell out of her mouth, the last ones hanging in the air between them. He looked wounded. And Jules was glad.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “You’re right about everything.” Then he stepped into the doorway, preparing to shut it.
“Patrick!”
He ignored her.
She drew in a deep breath. “I was in your room!” It flew out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider whether it was a good idea. But she was desperate.
He turned, his expression frozen in shock. “What did you say?” She knew he would know once he saw the open door. And surely she had crinkled papers as she rolled over them and then scrambled to get out of the room. There would be evidence, and something told her that it was better to confess now.
“I was in there. I saw your room.” She clenched her jaw. “I saw everything. I saw you, didn’t I? That’s the real you in there. Not someone who has all the answers, but someone who is searching, someone who doesn’t even really know the question.”
For the first time, his guard completely dropped. He looked like a scared little boy, as if she’d seen right into his soul.
“Why did you have to do that?” he said, his nostrils flaring.
“Because you’re holding me hostage, against my will. That’s why. It’s only fair.” Her eye twitched but she kept staring him down.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Patrick turned and shut the door. Jules heard it lock.
AFTER REPAIRING the breaker that cut the electricity to his house, Chris stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, watching his chest rise and collapse with trepidation.
He’d been ordered by the captain to return to work, immediately. But instead he was risking everything on a gut feeling that Jules was with Patrick Reagan. And that there was somehow a connection to Jason’s murder in all of this. How Reagan was attached he didn’t know, but he did know that even before bringing the men who did this to justice, he had to rescue Jules. He owed it to Jason.
He buttoned his shirt and tucked his gun into the waistband of his jeans. He had another weapon wrapped at his ankle.
So much of this depended on whether the Lt. Colonel could pull off the distraction necessary for Chris to get out of town unnoticed. He estimated that he had a two- to three-hour drive to get to the cabin, the best that he could tell, and that was if the weather didn’t hinder him any. He didn’t know who was watching and how often.
The Lt. Colonel could give him a head start, which was what he needed. But as soon as they learned he’d visited Leona Patterson, they’d get a warrant and probably find evidence of where the cabin was.
And then they would come looking for him.
By then, he’d already be there, getting Jules. Hopefully not by force.
The documents that Leona sent contained the address, which was a PO box. But she’d also sent detailed instructions of how to get there, through small, off-the-map mountain roads that led to the White Mountains in New Hampshire.
Also in the packet was a copy of a letter that Ike had sent to Patrick. Apparently Ike had signed over the deed to the cabin early in their relationship, promising to keep it a secret and to never reveal its whereabouts. The letter was written with the love one has for a brother, and Chris assumed the deep affection Ike had for Patrick went both ways. It was like how Chris had felt about Jason. His affection for Jason—and Jules—was what was driving him up that mountain.
Chris checked his watch. The plan was for the Lt. Colonel to go to the police station in fifteen minutes during roll call and cause an uproar as only the Lt. Colonel could do. By the time they got the Lt. Colonel out of the way, they’d realize Chris did
n’t make lineup, but that would give him a forty-five-minute start, at least.
Chris grabbed his bag, which held some ammunition, a GPS device, and two knives. He prayed he was overreacting about the weaponry he was going to need. Literally. He’d sat on the end of his bed and prayed a real prayer to a God he was beginning to really believe in.
He checked his watch again.
It was time.
He turned out all the lights in his house, locked the back door, and headed out the front.
But as he opened the door, Chris saw him.
Greg Maecoat stood on his front porch, in uniform, legs spread in a stance that indicated he wasn’t going anywhere soon. Chris momentarily froze. Maecoat kept an even expression.
“Maecoat . . . what are you doing here?” Chris said, trying to seem calm and unaffected. He was certain he wasn’t pulling it off.
Maecoat looked slightly amused as he noticed Chris’s clothes. Then the bag in his hand. “Why aren’t you in uniform?” He made a deliberate motion of checking his watch. “It’s almost time for lineup. Aren’t you on your way in?”
“Why are you here, Greg?”
The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then Maecoat sighed. “Look, the captain sent me. To . . . check up on you.”
“Check up on me?”
“Said you’d been acting strangely. He was worried. Thought you might be in trouble.” He nodded toward the bag Chris was holding. “Was the captain right? You going somewhere?”
“I just have some things to take care of before work. I figured I had enough time to come home and change.”
Maecoat looked at his watch again. “You don’t.”
“You’re not my babysitter. If I’m late for lineup, so be it. It’s not on you.”
“Now it is because I was sent here.” Maecoat’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on, Chris?”
“It’s none of your business. Just stay out of it.” Chris glared hard at him, trying to figure out if Maecoat could be trusted at all or if he was one of them.
“I can’t,” Maecoat said, taking a step forward. “I’ve got orders.”
“Orders?”
“To make sure you get yourself to the station.”
Neither of them budged. Chris had to think fast; his window of time was closing.
How trustworthy was Maecoat? Could Chris tell him what was going on? Could he enlist his partner to help him get to Jules?
“Greg, come in. I need to talk to you.”
Chris stepped out of the way and Maecoat entered, looking around the dark living room. Chris turned on a light. “Have a seat.”
“I’m supposed to make sure you’re on time,” Maecoat said, eyeing him and not taking the seat that Chris offered.
“There’s a lot of stuff going on,” Chris said.
Maecoat immediately stiffened, put his hands on his belt, opened his stance again.
“What do you know, Maecoat?”
“What do I know? About what?”
Chris balked. If Maecoat didn’t know anything, then Chris was dragging him into something he shouldn’t. But if Maecoat was involved, Chris had a real problem on his hands.
“What’d you want to talk to me about?” Maecoat asked with a wary expression.
Addy always said Chris had an impulsive side. Sometimes that was helpful. Other times not.
With one swift punch, Maecoat was on the floor, spun around and facedown. Chris drilled a knee into his back as he reached for the handcuffs in his bag.
Maecoat fought back but was already disoriented from the punch, and Chris managed to get him cuffed.
“What are you doing?” Maecoat yelled, his cheek smashed into the floor. His gaze cut sideways, wide and darting, trying to look at Chris.
“I’m sorry, Greg. I’m really sorry.” Chris grabbed the second pair of handcuffs out of his bag, his knee now right at Maecoat’s neck. “Don’t struggle.”
What was he going to handcuff him to? He looked around. The pipe under the kitchen sink? Too far away. There was no way Maecoat wouldn’t struggle. He was starting to already.
The coffee table was only five feet away. It was very heavy wood—two people had to lift it. Chris grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him across the wood floor. He latched one cuff to the set already on Maecoat’s hands and the other to the leg of the table. Maecoat was still on his stomach. It was going to be difficult for him to get loose. Not impossible, but it would buy Chris some time.
“Captain said you were going crazy! I didn’t believe him!” Maecoat yelled. A trickle of blood was running out of his mouth and down his chin.
Chris knelt beside him. “Greg, listen to me. I had to do this. For your protection.”
“My protection? I need protection from you!”
“If you’re not involved in this, then this is where you need to be.”
“What are you talking about?”
Chris knew he couldn’t say anything more, for both of their protection. But he could maybe throw them off a bit.
“I’m going to New York. That’s where I think she is.” He wasn’t sure what the chances were that anybody would believe that lie, but he had to try.
“You’re crazy,” Maecoat said and spit on his shoe.
“They’ll find you soon enough,” Chris said, standing. His time was running out. “I’m sorry, Greg. I hope this makes sense to you someday.”
Chris ran out the front door.
Jules couldn’t find a comfortable position, and she couldn’t move very much because of her feet. She’d called out Patrick’s name for what seemed like hours, but he never responded.
Drifting in and out of sleep, she watched as the light faded from the window, her mind wandering to Jason and all the memories they had together. She imagined his fingers intertwined with hers. She imagined their feet in the ocean.
She’d open her eyes periodically and then be engulfed in the nightmare again. How long was Patrick going to leave her here? She wished she hadn’t so impulsively confessed to being in his room. Whatever trust she’d built up with him was gone.
There was no one to help her. Certainly not Jason. She’d relied on him so much. For everything. Protection. Love. Hope. Joy. But he had not relied solely on her for those things. She’d brought him much of that, but at the end of the day, she knew he trusted more in God than even her.
She stared at the ceiling, but this time past those ugly, red letters that seemed darker than night. She stared through them.
“God . . . ,” she whispered. “I need You.” She swiped at her tears, but it was useless. “I need You to help me like You always helped Jason. I need hope that I’m going to get out of this. I can’t do it by myself. I think he’s going to harm me or keep me here for . . .” Her words trailed off into the darkness.
It didn’t seem that she’d slept, but she woke to a sound and her eyes momentarily flew open. She sensed that time had passed as she listened for more sound, keeping her eyes closed, trying to press back into sleep so she wouldn’t have to face the confining darkness of the room.
But her mind remained awake, so she slowly opened her eyes again, hoping to see daylight beginning to peek through the shades.
Instead, a shadowy figure stood over her bed.
JULES JOLTED UP, causing pain to shoot through her feet and her hands.
“Shhhh,” he said. “It’s just me.”
“That’s the problem,” she said. She regretted it immediately, but she felt delirious with angst.
“I see.”
“I’m sorry,” she sighed, trying to read his expression through the darkness. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, you did.” Patrick reached over and turned on the bedside lamp, illuminating his face. “But it’s okay. You’re right.”
“I’m sorry I went into your room,” Jules said as he sat on the edge of the bed. “That was a terrible thing to do.”
“Forgiven,” he said with a faint smile.
She struggled to sit u
p and prop herself against the headboard. “I’m in bad shape, Patrick. I need a doctor. I need you to let me go.”
“I understand. But first, I have to tell you. All of it. It’s time for you to know.”
“About what this all has to do with Jason’s death?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Are you prepared?”
“I don’t know. But I need to hear it.”
He nodded. “All right. Then I will tell you. Two years ago, I began research for a novel I was writing about a small town and a serial killer. I’d written about law enforcement before, but I really wanted a good feel for the inner workings of a precinct the size of Wissberry’s. Through some connections, I gained full access to the police department. I was able to look through police records and interview some of the officers. This was a few days before Jason was shot. I remember the next day, after it happened, very well. I felt I had to leave, that I shouldn’t be there for the grief they needed to deal with.
“I returned a few weeks later to continue my research. Although I did conduct interviews with a couple of detectives and the captain, I mostly researched in the basement.
“One night as I was reading through some files, I stumbled upon Jason’s case. I read through it, read the whole report, that he was ambushed by unknown assailants while he was investigating a possible boat theft. What seemed odd to me was how little detail there was in the investigation. I’d been reading police records for weeks and each case contained a lot of details that the police had investigated. Yet Jason’s was bare bones. They never found the assailants. They had no good leads. End of story. I might’ve overlooked it, but for the fact that Jason was a cop. And cops don’t leave other cops’ deaths unresolved.
“So I got curious because that’s what writers do, right? We’re curious by nature?” he said, smiling.
Jules nodded. “Too curious sometimes.”
“Yes, well, that was me. I started listening and paying attention more. Nobody talked about Jason or his death, which didn’t particularly strike me as unusual, as I wouldn’t expect them to chat about it. I would expect them to keep the file open. Yet they closed it.”
Misery Loves Company Page 20