by Lisa Gardner
Luka, on the other hand, returned to his girl, gently nudging Sharlah’s hand until it was on top of his head. Sharlah’s fingers dug into the dog’s fur. It seemed to bring her strength.
“Telly had a rifle,” she answered clearly. “And his face.” Sharlah lifted the fingers of her free hand, touched her cheeks. “He’d painted it. Streaks. When I first saw him, in front of the tree, I barely knew he was there. He could’ve been a bush himself. Then he opened his eyes. And that’s what you saw: the whites of his eyes . . . glowing.” The girl’s voice drifted off. Rainie had no doubt what her daughter’s nightmares would be in the days, weeks, months ahead.
The tracker spoke up. “Other supplies? Did he have a pack? Food, water?”
“He had a navy blue backpack. Same size as mine. I offered him some, um, food.” Sharlah kept her body angled away from Quincy as she said this. “He said he was okay. Took some water though.”
“How much?”
“Um . . . one bottle.”
“Did you see any other guns?”
“No.”
“What about in his pack? Could he have been carrying more rifles?”
“Um . . .” Sharlah crinkled her forehead. “Rifles, no. But the pack was heavy. Like weighed down.” She glanced up. “I wondered if he’d filled it with food or ammo.”
“What about handguns?” Quincy asked his daughter. “Did you see anything tucked in the waistband of his pants?”
Another head shake.
Sheriff Atkins had straightened. She regarded the adults in the room. “Handguns would fit in his pack. But the two missing long guns . . .”
“Definitely not on him,” Cal muttered. “To be honest, doubt he’s carrying three smaller firearms either. Would make for a pretty heavy load, and that’s not including ammo. As long as he’s stashing the rifles, might as well stash one or two of the handguns as well.”
“He has another hidey-hole,” Shelly said.
“Real camp. Versus”—Cal indicated the photo array—“the fake one he arranged for us to find.”
“With a backpack filled with his personal journals and scrapbook,” Quincy mused out loud. He had a look on his face Rainie recognized, where the rest of the room was disappearing and only the evidence existed for him. “Why stock a dummy campsite with such personal possessions?” Quincy asked now.
“I have a bigger question.” Rainie took a deep breath. It was time. “I spent the afternoon studying the crime scene photos. I don’t know what happened at the Duvalls’ house this morning or with the tracking team this afternoon. But the shooting at the EZ Gas . . . Telly didn’t do it. And I can prove it.”
—
“FORENSIC FRECKLE ANALYSIS,” Rainie said. She slipped a folder out of her bag. Now, with everyone staring, including Sharlah, she removed a stack of images from the EZ Gas security camera and started spreading them out on a corner of the conference room table. “Quincy and I once worked a case where a murderer was identified through forensic freckle analysis. Basically, the odds of any other person having the exact same pattern of freckles as the ones seen in the photos the killer had taken of himself with his victims . . . Ever since then, I’ve had a tendency to look at freckles.”
Rainie tapped her photo array. The first photo was of a bare arm, protruding through the EZ Gas door, pointing a gun at the male victim. Next came a similarly awkward view, disembodied forearm now pointed at the cashier. Finally, the main image that had captured their attention first thing this morning: Telly Ray Nash, fully visible, staring straight at the camera, as he pulled the trigger.
“Not great resolution,” Rainie said, “given that the security footage records in grainy black-and-white. In each still frame, however, the shooter’s wrist and a good portion of his forearm are clearly visible. Look at them. Then you tell me.”
Quincy crossed to the photo array first, Sharlah almost immediately behind him. Father-daughter differences already seemed forgotten as they both peered down, studied the images intently.
“In the off-camera shots,” Quincy said, “the forearm is thicker. And there’s a blemish of some kind, maybe a large mole, two inches above the wrist.”
“Telly doesn’t have the dark spot,” Sharlah said excitedly. “His wrist is clear!”
Now Shelly Atkins and Roy Peterson jostled close. “I don’t get it,” the sheriff said at last. “Looking at this, Telly shot the security camera—”
“But he didn’t shoot the victims?” the tracker finished in confusion, peering over Shelly’s shoulder.
Rainie nodded. “When I spoke to the family counselor earlier today, she mentioned an incident at Telly’s previous foster home—his placement before the Duvalls. The foster mom accused Telly of stealing. Telly never denied the charges; he simply left. Later, however, the mom learned a different child had been the one taking things.”
Shelly stared at her. “You’re saying Telly shot up the security camera because he likes taking the blame for things?”
“I think he’s used to taking the blame for things.” Rainie glanced at her daughter. “Which is knowledge that would come in handy if you were a real killer looking for a patsy.”
“Someone is setting him up,” Quincy filled in. He cocked his head to the side. “You think for the Duvalls’ murders as well? A boy with Telly’s past . . . He does make for an excellent pawn.”
“But why would he take the blame?” Sharlah spoke up, frowning. “Why shoot the camera at the gas station? Why not just ask for help?”
“I have a theory,” Rainie said softly. She eyed her daughter again. “Those photos we found of you in the Duvalls’ garage. I don’t think those were pictures taken by Telly as a threat to you. I think they were taken by someone else and sent to Telly as a warning.”
“Telly cooperates,” Quincy said.
“Or Sharlah gets hurt.” Rainie placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Zero or hero. All these years later, I think Telly is still trying to save you.”
Chapter 33
QUINCY FOUND SHARLAH SITTING in the corridor outside the conference room. She had her back against the rough cinder-block wall, one hand on Luka, who was stretched out before her, her backpack at her feet. The dog didn’t seem to mind the worn linoleum flooring. Quincy figured he could survive it as well.
He took a seat next to Sharlah. Forearms on his knees. Head against the wall. They stayed like that for quite some time. Man. Daughter. Dog. Years ago, the family counselor had explained to Quincy and Rainie that in no time at all, they would stop thinking of Sharlah as a foster child and simply consider her their own. For Quincy, at least, that process had seemed to happen quickly. Sharlah felt as much his flesh and blood as Kimberly and, to be honest, probably more so than his oldest daughter, Mandy, whom he’d loved dearly but rarely understood at all.
He and Sharlah, on the other hand . . . She was so much like a chip off the old block. Which is why he didn’t speak right away. Sharlah preferred silence, and Quincy certainly wasn’t one to argue with that. Besides, after the day they’d all had, silence was good.
Luka yawned. Sharlah patted his side.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Quincy said at last.
“I want to go home.”
“Me too.”
She turned to him. “But you won’t.”
“We still have an active-shooter situation. As long as that’s the case . . .”
“Telly’s innocent,” Sharlah said stubbornly. “You heard Rainie.”
“Of the EZ Gas shooting maybe. Yet still, damage has been done. His foster parents, the search team. Maybe soon enough, this mystery person your brother claims he still has to kill.”
Sharlah looked down, sighed miserably.
“What do you want, Sharlah?” Quincy asked softly. “If you could rule the world, what would you do?”
“I’d turn back time,�
�� she said immediately. “I’d go back to when it was just me and Telly and our parents. Except this time, I’d hide all the alcohol in the house. Round it up, dump it down the sink. Drugs, too. I’d find them. Flush them down the toilet.”
“And the knives?”
“I would only allow plastic silverware in the house,” she said solemnly.
“The baseball bat?”
“Toothpicks. We’d eat with plastic forks and play little miniature games of baseball using toothpicks and tiny balls of lint.”
“You and Telly would grow up with your parents. Do you think they’d love you more?”
“Telly would. He’d take care of me. He always did. Except this time around, I’d take care of him, too. For each other, we’d be enough.”
“And your parents?” Quincy asked again.
Sharlah shook her head. “Telly and I, we’d be enough.”
“In this scenario,” Quincy continued after a minute, “you and I, we’d never meet. No, you, me, Rainie.”
“In this scenario, you’d get another kid. One who doesn’t run away. Who listens to you. Who even has a gift for, say, um, policing things. I know. Deductive reasoning, like Sherlock Holmes. You and Rainie will train her and she’ll turn into a supercop and set records for how many serial killers she puts away.”
“You think we wouldn’t miss you? Feel this empty hole in our lives, where you would’ve been?”
Sharlah shrugged. “Maybe. But you’ll be so busy with your new daughter’s award ceremonies, you’ll get over it. Besides, you and Rainie, you’ll always be okay, with or without someone. Whereas Telly . . .”
“He needs you?”
“He’s alone. He’s totally alone. And it’s my fault.” Sharlah turned away, stroked Luka’s fur.
“Where is Luka in this new and improved world order? If you stay with your family, if Rainie and I never meet you . . .”
For the first time, Sharlah’s expression faltered. Quincy could see tears gathering in her eyes. She loved Luka with a bone-deep purity that made him hopeful someday she could love another human being that much.
“Telly and I will adopt a stray,” she whispered. “A cat. Who will sleep with us at night, flexing her razor-sharp claws if anyone bad tries to open the door. Telly will be the only one able to handle the cat. And my father will back off, just because he doesn’t want to make the cat mad.”
In other words, in the new world order, Sharlah would sacrifice her dog. Give up her precious Luka, so Telly could have a guard cat instead. Meaning Sharlah would still be serving penance. For what? What had she done that was so terrible, that even if she went back in time and that final night with their parents never happened, she still owed her brother everything?
“I know you love your brother,” Quincy said.
His daughter shot him a scornful look. From vulnerable child to full-on teenager, just like that. And yet another reminder that his daughter was only growing in one direction—away from him.
“Whatever he’s doing now,” Quincy continued steadily, “whomever he’s become, he’s still your brother and, by all accounts, he cares about you very much.”
Less scorn. More uncertainty.
“You don’t want your brother hurt. That’s why if you were in charge of the world, you would go back in time. To save him. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? You don’t just want him safe; you want you two to be together again, big brother, little sister.”
She didn’t say a word.
“That’s why you went to him. To help. To be his little sister. And when he sent you away . . . that must’ve really hurt. I’m sorry, Sharlah. Sorry you had to hurt like that.”
She moved. Just slightly. But it was enough. Quincy lifted his arm and she ducked under, tucking against his chest.
No words again. Quincy placed his cheek against the top of her head and did his best to just breathe in this moment. Rare. Fleeting. And doomed to be over soon enough.
“I don’t know who he is,” Sharlah murmured against his chest. “This new Telly, I don’t know him at all.”
“He still loves you.”
“Because he didn’t hurt me?”
“Because in his pack—in with his journals, the scrapbook, his most personal possessions—he had a library copy of Clifford the Big Red Dog.”
“Our story. The one he read to me.”
“Maybe if Telly could be in charge of the world, he would build a time machine, too. And in his new world, you and he would never go home. You’d stay in the library, together forever.”
“Reading books,” Sharlah whispered. “While eating the librarian’s snacks.”
“Sounds like a good childhood to me.”
Sharlah drew back. Quincy didn’t stop her. He let her retreat, gather her thoughts.
“Rainie’s going to take me home,” Sharlah said. A statement, not a question. “She and Luka will stand guard there, while you stay here, working on finding my brother.”
Quincy nodded.
“And if you find him?”
“Sharlah, do you know what a great profiler does?”
She shook her head.
“He takes all the statistics and probabilities that help define criminal behavior and still does his best to think outside the box. Humans are complex. At the end of the day, there is no equation yet for predicting the full spectrum of possible human behavior.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means if there’s any way to help your brother, I’ll find it. We still don’t know at this point what all he’s done or not done. But if Rainie’s correct and he’s being set up, I’ll do my best to figure it out. I will do my best to bring your brother home safe.”
“Thank you.”
Quincy hugged his daughter. Not long. Not hard. She had her boundaries, and it was his job to respect them. But then she surprised him by hugging back. He took that moment, recognized it for the magic that it was. A gift. One he’d have suffered through dozens of terrible afternoons just to experience again.
“You were wrong about your time machine,” he whispered. “If we’d never met you . . . Rainie and I would’ve felt more than simply a hole in our lives. Becoming foster parents isn’t about changing a child’s life, Sharlah. It’s about you changing ours. Thank you for being part of our family.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said.
“I know. And for what might happen next, you have my apologies, too.”
—
QUINCY FOLLOWED SHARLAH AND LUKA back into the conference room. Rainie was standing in front of the far wall, gazing at the photographs Cal Noonan had taken of Telly’s scrapbook pages. Sharlah went to join her, immediately riveted by the collage of Telly’s baby picture, school photos, and, yes, images of their family.
Quincy hung back, taking in the scene. It occurred to him that Sharlah had probably never viewed these photos and, being so young when she was removed from the home, probably didn’t even remember what much of her birth family looked like.
The first photo, posted eye level, featured a gurgling baby boy. Telly Ray Nash, seventeen years ago. Sharlah paused, then reached up and very lightly touched the baby’s pudgy cheek. No one stopped her. The visuals were just printouts, nothing fingerprints could damage. Not to mention . . .
The pictures had been just pictures. Images collected at a crime scene. But now, with Sharlah hungrily gazing at these remnants of her childhood, the photos came to life. They became memories of a family, before the worst had torn them apart.
Sharlah moved along the wall, one hand on Luka, as Rainie, becoming aware of their daughter’s presence, stood off to the side. Like Quincy, she studied Sharlah as the girl consumed images from the first five years of her life.
Sharlah’s mom appeared ordinary enough, Quincy thought. Five-year-old son balanced
on her lap as she held a bottle for her infant daughter, strapped in a baby carrier. The woman was smiling faintly in the picture. She had Sharlah’s dark hair, hazel eyes. Her face was thin, hair stringy. Upon closer examination, you could see that the woman’s flowered top was frayed at the edges, while the baby carrier appeared secondhand. Definitely not a wealthy family, but still . . .
The wall of photos presented a family. Any family. Every family.
Posing for the world, while holding their secrets close.
“Are these my parents?” Sharlah asked softly. She’d paused before the one group photo, taken in front of a white building. Mom, dad, seven- or eight-year-old Telly, toddler Sharlah.
“I would assume so,” Rainie provided.
Sharlah leaned forward. Not looking at her mom but staring intently at the image of her father.
“Telly looks just like him,” Sharlah said quietly.
“Do you remember your father?” Quincy asked.
“Nah. He’s all distorted in my mind. Big red face. Bulging eyes. Like, you know, some monster in a movie.”
“And your mom?” Rainie spoke up.
“I think she loved us,” Sharlah said, and now her voice wasn’t so steady. Luka whined, licked her hand. “She just . . . didn’t love us enough.”
Sharlah reached the final photo.
“That’s my grandpa?” The picture showed an old man in a tan trench coat and dark fedora, standing near a gray-painted garage.
“I guess,” Rainie said, looking back at Quincy.
Sharlah touched her face, then the old man. She shook her head.
“I don’t know. The other photos . . . Even if I didn’t remember them, I remember them, you know? They’re like . . . exactly as I imagined. But this one, the grandpa. I don’t get this one.” Sharlah frowned. “Wait, if I had a grandpa, how did I end up in the foster care system? Wouldn’t he have taken us in?”
Quincy had moved over to where she stood. Now he studied the final image as well. “You don’t remember this man?”
“No. But like I said”—Sharlah shrugged—“I don’t exactly remember anyone.”