by Sarah Graves
“Not that in general the whole thing couldn’t be the way Jane said,” Lizzie added after another sip of her Cabernet. “I mean luring your intended victim out of their comfort zone and then offing them…it’s classic.”
Which was also what Jane claimed, that somehow Cam Petry had facilitated the forensic hospital escape, then persuaded Gemerle to come here.
“But as it stands now her story’s just not credible. Also, Jane really could have heard all about Gemerle being here while she was in the ER this morning, where the paramedics were probably gossiping about it.”
She put her glass down. “She could be on a fishing expedition to find out what the cops already know. Or—”
Another thought hit her suddenly. “Or this is all just a clever smoke screen. What if she does already know his location? And she wants to be sure we don’t, so we don’t swoop down on him while she’s—”
“Doing something to him, herself,” Trey finished astutely. “Maybe to get back at him for what he did to this Cam person that she took care of?”
He drank the rest of his own wine. “So she tries to find out whatever she can from you, by floating a bogus story past you.”
She nodded, tight-lipped. “That’s possible, too. All of which is why I’m back to square one, again, because as soon as she found out that we don’t know where he is she clammed up again. Got all dithery and indefinite, then complained of a headache.”
Trey nodded sympathetically. The dinner, the fireplace, his solid presence…relaxed on the soft couch, Lizzie felt she could have stayed forever. But there was still too much to do tonight, she told herself.
“Anyway, thanks for letting me blather on.” The clock in the hall struck ten; in the kitchen she sat to pull on her boots.
“So did this Jane Crimmins person say why Bearkill?” Trey wanted to know. “I mean, why Henry Gemerle came here, and what Tara Wylie’s supposedly got to do with any of it?”
Lizzie shook her head, yanking on her other boot while the dishwasher across the room hummed pleasantly. “Nope. I asked, but she didn’t have any answers to any of that, either.”
Pulling on her jacket, she followed Trey out to the enclosed porch that ran along the whole south side of his big, beautifully maintained white-clapboard farmhouse. The porch, a many-windowed refuge of bentwood chairs and wicker plant stands, was cozily lit by wall-mounted hurricane lamps and warmed by a purring propane heater.
“Meanwhile the New Haven cops have been faxing me stuff all afternoon,” she said. “So now I’m going home to read all of Henry Gemerle’s hearing transcripts and the notes from the investigation in New Haven, and try to come up with something that makes sense.” Because the one thing she did know for sure was that Tara was still out there somewhere, missing and almost surely in danger.
“Yeah,” said Trey. “Same way in my work. Sometimes the real key to what’s wrong is in the history, you know? Not the current complaint.”
His hands rested briefly on her shoulders as she zipped her jacket. “But isn’t the kind of paperwork hunt you’re planning sort of…clerical?” he asked. “For someone with your experience?”
As she turned, he wrapped his arms around her and held her. He smelled like Old Spice, which ordinarily she didn’t enjoy.
But when he wore it she did. “You don’t know many cops,” she said, stepping back from him reluctantly.
The New Haven material she’d requested was nothing compared with some cases she’d had, whose documents filled whole rooms. And the problem with anybody else reading it for you, an assistant or a secretary, was simple:
They didn’t know what to look for. Even she didn’t until she saw it, sometimes. Even if they did know, they couldn’t think about it for you.
“Anyway, I’m just a deputy,” she added when she’d explained this, “so officially at least I’m out of the loop on all of it.”
Trey followed her to the door, shaking his head in sympathy. “Must be hard having your hands tied like that.”
“I’ll get over it. Meanwhile I’ve told all the right people about Jane Crimmins: my boss, the state cops, and the FBI. And I’ve got her safely stashed in a motel room for tonight.”
The motel was not one of the modern ones near the highway. It was an old relic from the 1950s. Its buildings had been remodeled, an indoor pool installed, and a restaurant added; its hand-painted sign, lit by a string of Christmas bulbs, still read AUTO COURT. But it was more suitable for Lizzie’s purposes.
“So with any luck,” Lizzie finished tiredly, “tonight will be uneventful.” She looked wistfully back into Trey’s large, well-appointed kitchen, gleaming with copper pans and stainless steel.
The fire had backed off again, its whimsical advance-and-retreats driving everyone nuts but so far at least not devouring any houses, people, or livestock. “Anyway, thanks again for dinner.”
“My pleasure.” He reached out to ruffle her hair, a gesture that if anyone else had tried it they’d have gotten a bite wound for their trouble.
“Stick around longer sometime,” Trey said. The moment lengthened. “And listen, I’m sorry about Cecily. That’s a tough one, losing a sibling. Still…”
It wasn’t your fault, he was about to say. But when the moment passed, he hadn’t said it, and she liked him for that, too.
Out over the valley the moon hung in a blur of smoke, the hills below black cutouts on the hazy sky. A star peeped through and vanished.
“I really do have to say good night,” she murmured, and moments later in the rearview mirror he was a burly silhouette, waiting until she was safely out of the driveway.
Which is nice, she thought, driving home through the rural darkness. That he cares enough to—
But the thought got cut off as she neared her own driveway and saw the vehicle parked in it. Lights were on in the house, which they shouldn’t have been, and Rascal was out, which he shouldn’t have been, either, bounding across the shadowy yard after a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee that someone had just thrown for him.
Slowing, she turned in and saw who it was.
Dylan, of course.
—
“Hope you don’t mind my going in when you weren’t here.”
And if I did, would it matter? He knew her spare key hung on a nail driven into an old cedar post in the backyard.
“Poor dog was going crazy in there, hearing me,” said Dylan, “so I—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Inside, she hung up her jacket and bag, then went on to the kitchen.
“I see you came prepared.” Back in the old days when he let himself in, he brought roses and champagne. Now on the counter she found two liter-sized bottles of Coke and a dozen doughnuts.
Leaving him in the kitchen to wrestle ice cubes out of their trays, she ran a brush through her hair and put on fresh lipstick.
When she got back he’d opened the Coke, filled glasses with ice, and set the doughnuts on a plate.
He’d already spread out his paperwork, too: crime-scene material from the car in the rest area this morning, photographs and DMV printouts and so on. And her own research was there; she’d last seen that material in a jumbled heap on the coffee table in the living room. Organizing all this stuff, he’d knocked hours off her workload and added hours to his own.
“So,” he said briskly, “let’s review: If Tara left with Aaron DeWilde like we think, that means for at least part of the time she’s been gone she was with him. But there’s been no sign of him or his bike, no cell phone activity or credit transactions, no ATM activity. And nothing in the hospitals for either one of them.”
Of course Dylan would have checked all that. Lizzie nodded, frowning down at a patrol report sheet. “Right. And since they’re both gone, you gotta wonder if maybe something happened to both of them. Still, though…”
He picked up on her thought. “You’re right. Nothing says for sure that’s what went down. And I’ve been wondering too if maybe we should be thinking about something else. What i
f she was already on her way home when something happened?”
He paused. “And that reminds me, I got news about the cell phone.” But the news wasn’t good. “Tower picked it up last night; it was on for about a minute. Local tower. Phone was in Bearkill or right nearby. But since then, nothing at all.”
Lizzie sighed heavily. “Yeah, I guess that would’ve been too easy, huh? Just follow the pings like breadcrumbs, and—”
“Sure. But she was near here. Or the phone was, anyway. So she could’ve got snatched on her way home. Picked up hitchhiking, or even flat-out abducted.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay, let’s assume for a minute that’s what happened, and it was Gemerle who took her. Why, we don’t understand yet. Or how, actually. Like, what vehicle?”
He paged through his notes, looked up. “There was a van stolen in Allagash yesterday. Gray Econoline.”
The town was nearby. “Okay, that could be how he’s getting around. As for why Bearkill, Jane Crimmins says it’s because a woman named Cam Petry lured him here,” Lizzie said.
She repeated Jane’s story. It sounded just as fantastical as before. “But what if Jane’s telling at least part of the truth?” she added. “What if someone really did lure Gemerle here by using Tara Wylie as…”
She didn’t want to say it. He didn’t, either. But it was what they were both thinking, she could see it in Dylan’s face:
Bait.
—
Dark, scared…alone. Tara Wylie fought desperately against panic, knowing now how the kitten she’d rescued must’ve felt when it got dropped off in the darkness by the side of the road.
She’d been here—wherever here was—for a long time, all last night and a whole day, too, she thought. So by now it must be Wednesday night?
She wasn’t sure of that, either. Or of anything, in fact, except that all she wanted was to go home, to feel her kitten’s face rubbing against her cheek once more, his purr like an engine of happiness, and his eyes closed in contentment. She wanted to go to cheering practice, do her homework, work on an art project.
She even wanted to watch some boring TV show with her mom in their stupid half-finished living room…Oh, I want to go home.
Instead she was buried in a box out in a field somewhere, in a hole that was blessedly shallow enough so that some air came in from above, and even a little light for a while, once day came and before it had gotten dark again.
She could have struggled out of her prison easily, in fact, if only she could get the nailed-on wooden slats of the top off. But she couldn’t. Flat on her back in a tiny space with not even room enough to turn over, she’d heard through a haze of terror the heavy hammer blows, and had even dimly glimpsed some of the nails coming through, looking as big as railroad spikes.
Whoever had taken her had found her phone, smashed it on a rock, then tossed the pieces into the box and made her lie down in it. After that, the top had been nailed on; finally came the scraping, clattering sound of dirt being shoveled down onto her. Some of it kept sifting through the gaps between the slats, falling grittily into her eyes and mouth until she clamped them tightly shut.
So she couldn’t even scream, not unless she wanted to choke. No light, no water, and by now she was very thirsty. But not as thirsty as I’m going to be.
Not as scared as I will be soon, either. The words echoed in her head from some hard, truthful place she hadn’t even known she possessed.
But now she did. This. This is how it happens. Buried in a shallow grave.
Just like her mom had said. And no one’s going to search for me. Not out here in some field, somewhere. Nobody has a clue that I’m even here, so why would they?
The thought nauseated her with fresh fear. But she couldn’t give up yet. If she did, she would die here. Steeling herself, she sucked in a gritty breath. Then fury surged through her. She’d done a foolish thing but she didn’t deserve this, she didn’t.
The anger felt good, like fresh blood pumping through her.
But then another slide of soil poured into her coffin and fright made her chest heave, dragging loose dirt up her nostrils.
Tara felt a shriek building inside her and struggled to keep it back, releasing it at last in a painful sob.
Please, she thought, knowing it wouldn’t help. The air in the box was stuffy, smelling of dry earth. This, she thought, is what it must be like when you’re in your grave.
But up there in the air and the moonlight, everything that she loved still waited for her, as safe and good as always, and as precious. Putting her hands up, she strained against her prison’s lid. But there were too many nails holding it down tight, so it wouldn’t budge.
If she kept trying, though…Biting her lip with the effort, she shoved upward against the boards and this time was rewarded by the sound of a nail creaking. Encouraged, she pushed again, and one of the boards shifted noticeably.
More dirt slid heavily down onto her face, which should have terrified her again. But somehow it didn’t. She was too tired and too overwhelmed to be scared.
And too pissed off, she thought, surprising herself.
Her mom got pissed off when things got very hard. When money was short, or Tara had done or not done something, her mom started screaming about it. Blowing her top, her mom called it.
But then the hard thing got dealt with. The thought sent a strange calm flowing through Tara. It was the feeling she got when she was drawing in her sketchbook or practicing with her cheering squad, both things she hadn’t been very good at, either, at first.
She’d tried a hundred times before doing her first cartwheel. She remembered the sharp, sweaty smell of her own body while she sat there in the school gym, blubbering in frustration. And now she was the team’s captain, cartwheeling and somersaulting like she’d been born to do it, the phys-ed teacher said.
Oh, yeah? she thought at the stubborn nails holding her in. You think you can stop me from getting out of here? We’ll just see about that, she thought furiously at them. We’ll just see.
Then she forced herself to relax, breathing slowly and evenly as she lay there alone in the cramped, stifling darkness.
Resting. Only for a little while, though. Just until she was ready to try again. She let her hands lie at her sides, opening and closing them slowly, preparing herself.
And then she felt it, right there at her fingertips. Sharp, pointy-ended…a smile spread on her face as she identified the thing she had found.
It was a large, jagged-edged plastic shard of her broken cell phone.
SEVEN
Fifteen years after I’d left her for dead and eight weeks after I brought her home from the hospital following her stunning rescue, my cousin Cam had her first major seizure.
By then it was late autumn, the streets slick with fallen leaves and the branches black scrawls on the gray sky. Cam and I walked together each day, working on getting her strength back, but that afternoon we had an extra reason to go out: It was the first step in the plan we’d developed for punishing the monster, Henry Gemerle.
“You’re sure he’ll show up?” Cam asked as we made our way into Yale’s campus, past Gothic towers and elaborately scrolled iron gates, among the hurrying students in their bright scarves and jackets.
“He’ll be there,” I assured Cam.
Finny Brill, I meant, the odd-duck boy from our old neighborhood. He still lived there, caring for his aging mother, and while I was back finishing the process of selling my own parents’ house—Cam didn’t like the place, and I didn’t like her being there, either; it was full of memories, and the less she thought about the old days the better. I’d run into him.
Still odd, still desperate for friends, in his rush to update me on the facts of his lonely life Finny had dropped one fascinating bit of information: These days, he worked as an orderly at the Salisbury Forensic Institute.
“Just until I get my big break, of course,” he’d added. He still dreamed of being a filmmaker; I listened politely while
he went on at length about his current project.
Around us in front of the house I’d just sold for a tidy sum, young mothers in leggings and long, baggy sweaters jogged along briskly behind three-wheeled baby strollers, while hipster dads in fedoras and horn-rims circled them on vintage bikes. It seemed that after years of slow decay the whole neighborhood had become trendy all of a sudden, and this turned out extremely well for me; the old house had been bought almost the minute I listed it, and for even more money than I’d been asking.
But while I listened to Finny, all I could think of was that Salisbury Forensic was where they had Henry Gemerle locked up until the courts and psychiatrists decided: Would he go to prison or remain in a locked hospital ward for the rest of his life?
And that’s how I first got the idea of another fate for him. After all, what I wanted was to hurt him and for Cam not to hurt me. So, I wondered while Finny kept yammering on about that break of his, why not kill two birds with one stone?
“But how do you know?” Cam persisted now. “That this Finny guy will show up like he said he would?”
The way I’d presented it to her was that together, she and I would get revenge on the monster. She was on board with it right away, too—or seemed to be. What I didn’t say, of course, was that my having something bad to hold over her head—that she’d helped me torture Henry Gemerle, for instance, at length and eventually to death—would in turn keep her silent about me: that I’d left her with him.
And then there was what I didn’t say to myself: that I wanted Cam back. My old, funny Cam that I loved so much, whose world, so much brighter and livelier than my own, she’d let me into; I wanted that world again, and her with it.
I had, after all, no life of my own; Gemerle had taken care of that. Not that I’d ever been much for trusting people or letting them get near, even before. But now except for work and a few casual acquaintances I was as solitary as a nun in a cloistered convent, only without even the consolation of religion. He’d killed that, too.
Mostly though, what I didn’t want her focusing on was my leaving her for dead. It was our revenge against him that I needed her to be thinking about; that, and my part in getting it for us. But before we could do anything to Henry Gemerle at all, we had to have him, and that was where Finny came in.