Right Behind You

by Lisa Gardner

  Then, as simple as that, it’s time. Ready as I’m ever going to be for the stupidest plan in the history of mankind.

  Luka is watching me. Has always been watching me. My dog.

  He will come with me because there’s no way I can leave him without him raising the alarm. Which makes him the bravest, bestest, most loyal dog in the entire world. And me . . .

  My throat is too thick again. I don’t hug him. I can’t. I’ll break down. I love him. I love him more than I’ve ever loved anything, anyone. But right now, my entire family is at risk.

  Logic says it’s better to reduce that number. And if Luka and I get away, then at least Rainie and Quincy are no longer targets. Field is down to two.

  Luka and I will find Telly. I don’t know why I think this is so important, but I do. Telly’s not just my big brother, who once saved my life, who once shattered my arm—he’s the one who’s been looking for me.

  And while I understand why my profiling parents want to get me out of town, the truth is, that doesn’t work for me. Because, then what? Telly is finally gunned down and I’m allowed to come home? After how many people are dead? After how many unanswered questions pile up in my head? I can’t do it.

  I need to see him.

  I need to just know. Did my brother become my father? Will it be my turn next?

  One last family reunion.

  I’m going to lose something. I don’t know what yet. I just know it’s gonna hurt.

  —

  MY BEDROOM WINDOW faces the front of the property. Thanks to Quincy’s security concerns, there isn’t a single ornamental bush along the front of our house. They’re not just pretty plants, you know, but also potential sources of cover for an evil-minded intruder. So our perimeter landscaping consists of low piles of ferns and wildflowers. At night, the alarm system activates for any raised window or opened door. Not to mention the motion-sensitive floodlights that blaze on, capturing any kidnappers attempting to break in, or perhaps a stupid teenage girl attempting to sneak out.

  But at three P.M. on a hot August afternoon, the floodlights hardly matter as I gently raise my window sash.

  “Rustig,” I command Luka, Dutch for quiet.

  He’s already on alert, ears forward, tail straight back. Retired police dog, back on the job.

  I have to move my bedside lamp to make room for us to crawl out the window. This is the tricky part, and I can feel myself shaking again, my face literally dripping with sweat. At any moment, Rainie and Quincy could wrap up their conversation. Or decide they have questions for me regarding our travel destination. Or have had enough of that “infernal racket” I call music (Quincy’s words, not mine).

  I’ll never get away with this. They’ll catch me half out the window. Or climbing on my bike. Or even fifteen minutes after that, because how can a thirteen-year-old girl and her dog really get away from two trained members of law enforcement?

  This is stupid. I am stupid.

  Lamp is on the floor. I reach for Luka first, giving him a boost. His claws scrabble for purchase on the bedside table. No way we aren’t leaving tons of evidence behind, not that it matters. Luka jumps through the window on his own.

  I drop the backpack next, crushing a fern. Yep, plenty of signs of our escape. Then it’s my turn to climb through. I’m not graceful like Luka. I’m just me. All pointy elbows and knobby knees, and my eyes are watering so hard I can’t even see.

  Then I’m down. From this side, I can’t reach the lamp to replace it on the bedside table. Does it matter? Will Quincy and Rainie really need more than two seconds to realize what their impulsive daughter has done?

  Quincy will thin his lips. Rainie . . .

  I can’t think about her reaction at all.

  Just move.

  Backpack on. Jogging lightly, Luka tight at my heels.

  Then I’m at the side of the garage, mounting my bike. The woods behind the house are filled with well-traveled deer paths. Luka and I follow them all the time. Even with me on my bike, Luka never has a problem keeping up.

  Now I head left, a straight line away from the house, as heading down the gravel drive will be too exposed. Instead, we’ll cut through the woods, coming out a little farther down. Left at the road, coasting down to the main street, and then . . .

  Open road, woods, it won’t matter. The moment they discover I’m gone, Rainie and Quincy will start the hunt. After that, it’s only a matter of time before they find me.

  I have an hour at best. Thirty minutes at worst.

  To pursue a homicidal brother I barely remember.

  “Rennen,” I tell Luka.

  We do.

  —

  WHEN WE BREAK FREE OF THE WOODS, I turn left onto the small side road and coast downhill. According to my parents, Telly was last seen fifteen miles to the north. By now, given that he stole a four-wheeler, I’d guess he’s anywhere but there.

  Which leaves me with what?

  I could look up his foster parents’ house, but he killed those people, meaning he’s hardly going to return. What about our parents’ home? I have no idea where we lived. I was just a little kid. I kind of recall the interior—how the kitchen, my bedroom looked. But an actual address? Beats me. Plus, why would Telly head there? Not like our parents are around anymore, because, oh yes, he killed them, too.

  What am I doing?

  I wasn’t lying to Rainie. I haven’t had any contact with my brother. I don’t know his phone number, no 1-800-Big-Brother to magically reach out and say, hey, we need to talk. Plus, I already turned off my cell—otherwise that’s the first thing my parents will use to track me.

  I try to take a deep breath, pedaling smooth and easy so Luka can keep up, and think like my profiling parents for a moment. I don’t have much time. But when they’re working cases, it’s always the same. Have to move fast. Have to find the fugitive. They talk about this stuff enough over dinner. So what would they do first?

  Visit known addresses. Quincy and Rainie would start by looking at known locations for the fugitive. Except I’ve already reviewed that list, and it doesn’t help me.

  Next: identify friends and family. Good question. I don’t know any of Telly’s friends, and except for me, he’s murdered most of his family.

  I arrive at the T intersection where the side street intersects the larger road heading toward town. Luka pauses beside me, tongue lolling. I take a moment to look him over. So far, my dog appears happy with this unexpected exercise session. Soon, I will have to take a break, give us both water, but for now . . .

  In the absence of a master plan, we turn toward town. Just a girl and her dog, biking through the miserable August heat.

  I try to recall details from my childhood, something that might help me find my brother. In my mind, it was always just Telly and me. Telly who fed me breakfast and got me dressed and walked me to the bus stop for school. And took me to the library afterward.

  I held his hand. I remember that. My hand firmly in my big brother’s grip.

  And for a moment, I falter, my ten-speed bobbling uncertainly.

  Why didn’t I ever call or see him afterward? Because he hurt me? Smashed my arm? I was scared. I screamed. I cried. And afterward?

  The family services lady was in my hospital room. I was very upset. Telly hates me, I told her. I know at the time, the pain fresh in my shoulder, that’s how it felt.

  And . . .

  And.

  That’s the kicker, of course. The thing we’ve never talked about.

  My brother probably does hate me. And I wouldn’t blame him one bit. Which is why, when I arrived at that first foster family and Telly wasn’t there . . .

  I accepted it as my punishment. My brother had cut ties with me. It never occurred to me that he might view it the other way around, that I had rejected him.

  My eyes are w
atering. Even with my face covered in sweat, I recognize the salt of tears.

  I thin my lips, keep pedaling.

  Workplace. Fugitives sometimes return to their employers, often to steal resources they know are there. But if Telly has a job, nobody’s told me.

  Which leaves favorite places. Say a neighborhood bar or local park. Personally, Luka and I have a favorite tree in the woods behind my house. The tree is thick and old, the bark covered with so many kinds of moss it looks like a living rug. Sometimes we sit at the base for hours, just finding new patterns in the moss, while breathing in the moist, loamy air. Afterward, I always feel better.

  I know a favorite place for Telly. He always loved libraries. Him and me after school. A female librarian. I remember her faintly. Not even so much the details of her face as the tang of apple juice on my tongue.

  The Bakersville library is only five miles from here. It’s a reasonable bike ride for Luka and me. It’s also where Telly spotted me and took those pictures last week, meaning he’s been there before and knows I frequent it, too. Not a bad meeting spot, then, for two long-lost siblings.

  Except it’s also in the middle of downtown. Traffic lights have cameras, I know this, let alone most of the state’s police officers are now on patrol. No way I could make it all the way to the library without being seen, especially with Luka by my side.

  How would Telly know to find me there? He has no idea I’m on the run now, too. He’s doing his thing, I’m doing my thing, and in an area with this much vast open space . . .

  I’m on the move, but I don’t have any way of finding my target. Or letting him find me. Meaning I really didn’t think or plan ahead.

  Mostly I’ve just gotten Rainie and Quincy very mad at me.

  I should go back. Do it now. I could claim I just needed to stretch my legs. The intensity of the situation got to me. Will they believe me? Of course not. But if I return on my own, how can they argue?

  Except I can’t do it. I should. I’m being stupid and reckless and impulsive. All the bad behaviors I’m supposed to be working on.

  But maybe that’s the point. I am all those things. And so is Telly. Which is why I have to find him. Because deep down inside, it’s not Telly the killer I seek. It’s Telly my brother. The only family I have left.

  If I could just talk to him . . .

  I could change his mind? Get him to repent? Save him?

  I really am stupid.

  Then it comes to me. When Rainie and Quincy realize I’m gone, they’ll issue a BOLO. Maybe even an AMBER Alert, except I’m not sure you can use those for a suspected runaway. But either way, they’ll contact official channels even as they start searching for me themselves. After all, the county is now crawling with cops. Might as well take advantage of every available eye.

  And Telly? If I were him, on the run, on the hunt, something, I would have a radio. Tuned in to the same frequency as emergency services. Meaning when the BOLO is issued, he’ll hear it, too. The report that his sister is officially in the wind.

  At which point, I won’t have to locate Telly after all.

  Assuming I keep out of sight long enough, my brother, the state’s most wanted killer, will find me.

  Chapter 21

  SHE’S GONE.” Rainie stood in the doorway, staring at Quincy, who was still hunched over his computer.

  “Luka?”

  She gave him a look. There was no way Sharlah would go anywhere without her dog and they both knew it. Quincy pushed away from the computer, moving on autopilot, and not just because he was former FBI, but also because this wasn’t the first time Sharlah had disappeared on them.

  Rainie took the house, Quincy the yard.

  They met at opposite sides of her open bedroom window.

  “She moved the lamp, opened the window from the inside.” Rainie announced.

  Quincy nodded; Rainie could tell it was what he’d expected. No way anyone could break into their home and abduct their daughter without Luka’s sounding the alarm. Or Sharlah, for that matter, putting up one helluva fight.

  That the threat might come from her long-lost brother unsettled her, though. Could it have been Telly, standing right where Quincy was now, tapping lightly on the glass? Luka would have started to growl, but if Sharlah gave the command for quiet, the dog would have listened to her. And followed her through the window, on her brother’s heels, if that’s what Sharlah chose to do.

  Rainie could tell from the look on Quincy’s face he worried the same.

  “The ferns are trampled,” he reported. “Though from how many footprints, I can’t tell.”

  He backed up a step, but the ferns transitioned to the gravel drive, which was even more difficult to read.

  “Her backpack’s gone,” Rainie called, leaving the window to resume examining Sharlah’s bedroom.

  “The envelope taped beneath the desk drawer?”

  She checked. “Cash is missing as well.”

  Yes, they still searched their daughter’s room, invaded her privacy when she wasn’t around. In the beginning, it had been unsettling for Rainie—getting a long-awaited foster daughter, then treating her like a criminal. But Sharlah had come to them with that kind of history. And the family counselor had been adamant on the subject. Trust was something Sharlah needed to earn. They would be naïve to approach her any other way.

  While it had been a good nine months since they’d caught Sharlah in an outright lie, Rainie knew she was still a child prone to secrets. Frankly, all three of them were like that.

  “Other supplies?” Quincy was asking Rainie now.

  “Looking. How about her bike?”

  Rainie spent five more minutes searching Sharlah’s bedroom, then walking through the kitchen. She jogged down the porch steps just as Quincy exited the garage.

  “She took her bike,” he confirmed.

  Rainie added, “And protein bars and snacks from the pantry.”

  They each took a steadying breath.

  “She went after him, didn’t she?” Rainie said it first, putting their fear into words.

  “If we had a homicidal older sibling on the warpath, it’s what we would do.”

  “How did we end up with an adopted daughter so much like ourselves?”

  Quincy gave her a look. “Punishment for something, I’m sure.”

  Rainie faltered. She wanted to feel strong, in control. And yet nothing had prepared her for the utter powerlessness that came sometimes with being a parent. To love a child so much and yet not be able to protect her from her own mistakes.

  “She thinks she’s saving us,” Rainie murmured. “If her brother comes here . . . she doesn’t want us to get hurt.”

  “We’ll trace her phone.”

  “She’s not stupid; she’ll have it turned off. And the battery removed.”

  “Also means she can’t contact him.”

  “I don’t know that she can. I don’t believe she lied to me, Quincy. I don’t think Sharlah’s spoken to, maybe not even thought of, her brother in years.”

  “And yet here we are.”

  “Here we are,” Rainie agreed.

  “Even if she hasn’t been thinking of him,” Quincy said after another moment, “clearly he’s been thinking of her. Hence the photos. Maybe she doesn’t have to find him.”

  “If he’s watching, he’ll find her. Quincy, what does he want?”

  “I have no idea. It may not matter anymore. The boy is acting out his rage. His relationship with his sister . . . It’s just one more failure in his life.”

  Rainie didn’t say anything. She wanted to argue that it was Telly’s fault that he’d broken Sharlah’s arm that night. Sharlah had been just a little girl. What had Telly expected after that? Greetings with open arms?

  Except being a trained member of law enforcement, Rainie also knew her opinion didn’t
matter. It would all come down to what Telly believed. The man with the gun.

  “I’ll contact Sheriff Atkins,” Rainie said now. “Ask her to issue a BOLO. A thirteen-year-old girl on a bike with her German shepherd? They won’t get far.”

  “Speaking of which, I’ll get the car.”

  —

  RAINIE WANTED TO SPLIT UP to cover more ground; Quincy wouldn’t hear of it. To track a child while driving a car, let alone possibly coming upon a spree killer all alone? Basic safety principles still applied. Besides, they knew more than they thought: If Sharlah was looking for Telly, then she’d head toward his last known location, to the north.

  Quincy drove. Rainie sat beside him, eyes glued to the window.

  “If she rode straight down our driveway, we would’ve heard her,” Rainie said as Quincy headed down the property.

  “Probably started out on the trails in the backyard.”

  “Easier on Luka’s feet. Asphalt is going to be hot.”

  “And she knows we’ll come looking, meaning she won’t spend too much time on major thoroughfares.” Quincy took a left at the end of their driveway, headed down the hill toward town.

  “Should we have talked to her more?” Rainie asked now, searching the horizon for their child. “Maybe if we’d involved her more in the case . . .”

  “What, shown her crime scene photos?” Quincy retorted dryly. Because that’s what they’d been doing. Analyzing photos of the Duvalls’ scene, the EZ Gas murders, and the ambush of the tracking team. Looking for comparisons, some kind of hint to pass on to Shelly Atkins to help her anticipate what Telly Ray Nash might do next.

  “I know.” Rainie sighed heavily. “I know.”

  They drove in silence, Quincy going slowly enough that two cars came up from behind and crossed the double yellow center line to pass. They both had their cells with them. If Sharlah changed her mind and decided to call, or Sheriff Atkins received any hits from the BOLO . . .

  At the bottom of the hill Quincy came to the T intersection. They looked both ways, then again; operating on the principle that Sharlah was headed toward her brother’s last known location, they headed north.