The Kill Box

by Nichole Christoff

  I thought of Stan Liedecker, lying to extort money from Hudson Paul, and I knew what the old woman said was true. We do lie to take care of ourselves. And if we’re willing to listen, we even tell lies to our own minds—and hearts.

  “Libby was grief-stricken,” Miranda Barrett said, “and she was selfish. I don’t think either Adam or Elise have heard from her to this day.”

  And as if that were all she could think about, Mrs. Barrett drifted to the piano again. She gazed at the photographs there. And got lost in her own thoughts.

  I carried her words with me as I traveled upstairs. On autopilot, I got in the shower, but the hot spray couldn’t wash away all I’d seen and heard since sunup. Or all I’d felt, either.

  If I were completely honest with myself, I was certain Barrett hadn’t harmed Pamela. It was only the doubts of others that got in my way. The evidence hadn’t pointed to Barrett when he was in high school, and after the attack on Kayley, none of it pointed to him now.

  I toweled off, got dressed, and retreated to Elise’s old room. The sun had begun to set, painting the panes of glass in the window with great swathes of orange and rose. Outside, in the lane, I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

  I looked out and down and saw an unwelcome visitor.

  Vance McCabe, in his butternut truck, bumped toward the garage. Barrett emerged from his apartment on the second floor, met the pickup as it rolled to a halt. Vance barely got his door open before Barrett grabbed him by the shirtfront—and dragged him from the cab.

  I couldn’t make out a word of their conversation. But it was heated. I wondered if it was about drugs and last night and Vance’s meeting at the Cherry Bomb. When Barrett jabbed his thumb at the house—and Vance turned his moon face toward my window—I suspected the topic had turned to Kayley, Barrett’s grandmother, or me.

  I withdrew into the shadows. But not so far that I couldn’t see Barrett return to his apartment to grab his denim jacket. Or to see him climb into the truck alongside Vance and leave.

  Snatching up my own brown wool blazer, I thundered down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  The room’s warmth, a whistling teakettle, and Barrett’s grandmother slowly setting delicate cups on the table’s cloth made me wistful. I knew I could choose to stay in this comfortable bubble, tune out what was happening with Barrett and the rest of the world. But that wouldn’t do, so I steeled my heart.

  “Mrs. Barrett, may I ask a favor?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  “May I borrow your truck? I need to check into something.” And given what had happened when I’d driven to the Roadhouse, I didn’t want the driver of Eric’s stolen car to spot my gleaming green one again. “I’ll gladly leave my Jaguar keys with you.”

  A ghost of a smile dashed across Miranda Barrett’s wrinkly face. “Oh, Jamie. I couldn’t drive that beast if I tried. Besides, with all that’s happened, I plan to stay in, in any case.”

  “Thanks,” I said, depositing my keys beside the sugar bowl on the kitchen table despite her protestation.

  She told me her grandson had likely left the truck’s keys in the vehicle. That behavior, I figured, was a holdover from working on the farm and a time when several hands and members of the family would be sharing the truck to get the work done. After all, I knew Barrett didn’t leave his keys in his own Ram pickup in New Jersey.

  But in this little town, we were a world away from there.

  The blue-and-white Chevy was parked in front of the Barrett farmhouse, exactly where Barrett had left it when we’d come back from the Cherry Bomb the night before. And sure enough, its keys dangled from the ignition. I slid behind the massive steering wheel, turned the engine over.

  The truck chugged along the country roads pleasantly. I kept one eye on the landscape and one on the rough map Charlotte had sketched for me. I supposed if I’d grown up in the area, the landmarks she noted would make plenty of sense. But I hadn’t and they didn’t. I took a wrong turn more than once.

  Sooner rather than later, however, I found myself on a paved road behind a handful of other cars and trucks. When every one of them turned at an old windmill, I took a chance, assumed the asterisk Charlotte had penned on the menu represented the machine, and turned off with them. That’s how I found myself driving along a faint track running across open pasture.

  The trace dipped through narrow woods, opened onto a clearing. Vehicles of all kinds had parked in the high autumn grass. None of them were Eric’s Mercury.

  The cars in front of me tapped their brakes. They parked alongside the others, so I did, too. Drivers and passengers got out. I rushed to join them. And walk with them over a gentle slope.

  Some of the men and women carried insulated coolers between them. A few hauled lawn chairs. Here and there, a person carried a blanket or two. Most folks were my age, give or take a couple of years. They would’ve been Eric’s friends, or at least his classmates. They would’ve been Barrett’s, too.

  But coming to this makeshift wake and remembering Eric proved to be a multigenerational affair. Kids of all ages trotted along at their parents’ sides. A trio of boys even dodged into the open field for an impromptu game of chase—until a stern word from Mom brought them to heel.

  We’d crested the slope by then. Below, on a sandy patch of soil, a circle of rocks outlined the makings of an enormous bonfire. The stacked logs and accumulated brush pile had to be taller than me. No wonder Cal had called this the fire ring. When that heap was ignited, it would be an inferno.

  I hung back and didn’t mix much with the arriving folks. I did this out of respect for Eric’s friends and his memory, sure. But I also wanted a good look at those who’d come to pay him tribute.

  I spied Charlotte. She’d erected a card table and was laying out bags of what appeared to be hot dog and burger buns. Other women fluttered around her, opening coolers and readying snacks. Every time a newcomer joined the group, Charlotte hugged her. I tried to picture her as a teen, shoplifting a nightgown, and failed.

  I spotted Vance, too, skulking in the lengthening shadows and nursing a can of beer. And I located Dawkins, out of uniform and sticking to the perimeter of the gathering. He flicked a sassafras switch at the heads of summer’s dying weeds and offered me a nod of recognition when our eyes met. Calvin was nowhere to be seen, but the crowd was thick and growing thicker. He could’ve been anywhere. To my surprise, Marc tramped past me with a man in a Fallowfield Football sweatshirt. He winked at me as he walked by—but how he’d wrangled an invitation to this shindig, I didn’t know.

  A ripple in the throng drew my eye to Barrett. He carried a heavy stick, one end of it wrapped in fabric. It was a homemade torch and I bet he’d crafted it himself. But I didn’t believe his carrying it was why his former friends and neighbors gave him a wide berth. The sense of uneasiness followed him like a stench. And I could smell that the people gathered here were thinking of Pamela Wentz as much as they were thinking of her brother, Eric. Barrett’s presence reminded them of bad times. Of an unsolved crime and the suspicion that had fallen on him. And that that same crime had been committed again. Against a teenage employee at his family’s orchard. Against Kayley.

  When Luke Rittenhaus materialized from the dusk, my heart leapt to my throat. But it turned out he wasn’t here in an official capacity. The sheriff had traded his uniform for jeans and the navy blue hoodie he’d worn to the Apple Blossom Café, and when he stepped onto a stump near the fire ring, a hush fell over his peers.

  He lifted his voice and said, “I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say thanks to Jeff Stephensen for bringing us together. I only wish it was in better circumstances.”

  Murmured agreement ran through the group.

  “In this world,” Rittenhaus intoned, “some people deserve what they get. Some get worse than they deserve. Let’s remember Eric tonight, a guy who served his country and our community—and who was a hell of a good brother.”

  Barrett appeared at Rittenhaus’
s side, steadied the torch while the sheriff doused the bundled fabric with lighter fluid. Then Rittenhaus struck a match, touched the flame to the material. The torch blazed like a comet across the night sky.

  Vance chucked his beer can into the woods, joined Barrett and Rittenhaus, grasped the torch when Barrett offered it. He stabbed it at the dead brush heaped within the fire ring. The pile ignited with a whoosh. Firelight chased the darkness away. But not all of the darkness.

  “I see Adam came to his senses.” Cal stood at my elbow. “He brought you after all.”

  “Not exactly,” I admitted.

  Around us, people began to relax. They broke into groups of threes and fours. Beer was handed round. Kids chased one another through the crowd. I could hear the gentle strains of a guitar as someone began to strum a melancholy tune.

  I couldn’t quite name it.

  Calvin invited me to take a seat on a fallen log, so I did.

  I said, “Your sister appears to be in her element.”

  “Oh, yeah. Char’s got to feed people. It’s a way of taking care of them. She’s still taking care of me.”

  “Come on. You’ve done well for yourself. Ivy League. A PhD.”

  “And yet I’m right back where I started. In Fallowfield. I guess I’m the classic underachiever.”

  Or maybe, with his degrees and his suede-elbowed tweed, his fancy pocket square and his panache, Calvin Mead was actually an overachiever.

  In my experience, overachievers had something to prove. To themselves, sure. But often to another person in particular. And I would know. Being the only child of a two-star general, and now the grown-up daughter of a United States senator, I’d always had to be smarter, quicker, braver, faster, and stronger so my father would accept me.

  Sometimes he did.

  And sometimes he didn’t.

  There had been no such thing as unconditional love in my house, as there’d been in Miranda Barrett’s. She’d believed in her grandson, come hell or high water. My father still grumbled that divorcing my lying, cheating, ex-army ex-husband had been an error on my part.

  “You know,” Calvin said, “Adam’s not going to come over here while I’m in his seat.”

  I shrugged with a carelessness I didn’t feel. “I don’t see his name on this log. Besides, he wouldn’t be avoiding you. He’d be avoiding me.”

  Despite my determined cynicism, however, my eyes roved the crowd until I found him. Barrett was at Charlotte’s table, sliding puffy marshmallows onto sharpened sticks under her direction. They chatted. I didn’t know what he said to her, but she laughed and touched his arm. And even at a distance in the dusk, I could see the flirty flash in her eyes.

  Jealousy threatened to burn me up. And I wasn’t the only one. Luke Rittenhaus, glaring at Barrett, dropped onto the log on Cal’s far side.

  To me, he said, “I thought I told you to go back to Washington.”

  “You made a suggestion,” I reminded him. “I didn’t listen to it.”

  Rittenhaus said nothing, only gulped beer from the can in his hand.

  I said, “Somebody told me the nightgown Pamela wore the night she was attacked didn’t belong to her. It belonged to Charlotte.”

  I had the sheriff’s full attention now—and Cal’s as well.

  “What if,” I said, “the assailant didn’t intend to target Pamela? What if he meant to target Charlotte?”

  “ ‘Target’?” Calvin said. “You make it sound like the attack was premeditated rather than a chance encounter in that field.”

  “Maybe it was chance. But maybe it was planned. Rape is an act of violence. It’s about domination, subjugation, power, and control. Pamela could’ve inadvertently ticked off a guy with self-entitlement issues. Or maybe Charlotte did.”

  “Not plausible,” her brother said.

  “Why not?”

  “No one went after Char once Pamela was dead. She’s lived in this town all her life and no one’s bothered her in the last twenty years.”

  “Are you sure of that? You only recently moved back to Fallowfield.”

  I’d made him uncomfortable. I could see it in the way he fidgeted. I hadn’t made Rittenhaus feel much better, either.

  The sheriff said, “In your coat and with her ponytail, poor Kayley Miller would look a lot like you in the dusk. You may be right about Pamela Wentz’s assault being a case of mistaken identity, and you may be wrong, and I’ll do my best when it comes to arresting Kayley’s assailant. But if you stay in Fallowfield, Miss Sinclair, you keep an eye over your shoulder. I’ve got no leads. No fluids, hair, or fibers. I just know I wouldn’t want to see you end up like Kayley.”

  And with that, the sheriff crossed the clearing to slip an arm around his girlfriend. Cal, too, excused himself and disappeared into the darkness that pressed close. I turned up the collar of my blazer to ward off the night’s chill. But I knew I was kidding myself. The shiver suddenly racking my bones had nothing to do with the weather.

  Barrett materialized from the gloom. Wordlessly, he sat beside me on the log. He had a longneck bottle in one hand. And something else in the other. He offered that something else to me.

  It was a graham cracker s’more.

  “Don’t you want it?” I asked.

  Barrett wouldn’t meet my eye. “I, uh, made it for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I took it and bit into it. Between the honeyed crackers, a delectable square of milk chocolate had melted under the heat of the fire-roasted marshmallow. The whole thing was warm and gooey and sweet and comforting.

  Not long after Barrett and I had first met, we’d shared late-night Pop-Tarts in his office. He’d made mine s’more that time, too. That was scarcely seven months ago, but out here, in a remote field on the edge of Barrett’s hometown, it felt like that brief moment of connection between us had happened a lifetime ago.

  “Would you like a taste?” I asked, offering the treat to him.

  Barrett hesitated, then leaned close to me. He smelled of hardwood smoke and the fresh night air. Of lemon soap and bitter hops. His lashes were golden in the firelight. They fanned his cheeks as he took a bite.

  “Not bad,” he mumbled, washing it down with a swig from his bottle.

  I gestured toward his beer. “How many of those have you had?”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  He rested his elbows on his knees and gazed into the bonfire. He’d shaved at some point during the afternoon, and licks of orange and red danced across his handsome face, highlighting every sorrow he’d spent so much effort trying to hide. On impulse, I reached for him—and stroked the back of a fingertip along the arching bow of his mouth.

  Barrett jerked, looked at me like I’d slapped him.

  “Marshmallow,” I said, and prayed he believed me.

  He said, “I didn’t see your Jag by the road.”

  “I got here late. Besides…” I pulled the keys to the old Chevy from my pocket, jingled them until they rang like wind chimes. “I didn’t want to run into Eric’s Mercury again. That Jag sticks out like a sore thumb here in Fallowfield.”

  “Your Jag’s not the only thing that pegs you as an out-of-towner.” Barrett plucked the keys from my hand. “Any objections to getting out of here?”

  “None. But are you sure you want to go? I don’t mind staying.”

  “I’m sure,” he said, and pushed to his feet.

  Chapter 23

  Barrett drove.

  And I suspected the roads he took weren’t on any map.

  For over twenty minutes, we plowed through the darkness. The Chevy’s high beams spooked the occasional stray rabbit. A red fox paused in the middle of the road to watch our approach before streaking away into the black. We didn’t see any human beings, however. And we didn’t encounter other cars.

  Eventually, a split-rail fence popped up on my side of the truck. On Barrett’s side, the terrain fell away at a gentle slant. At a certain spot, he stopped the pickup, cut the engine and the lights
.

  The night closed in on us—and brought with it the giddy thrill of being alone with someone special in the dark. Beyond the windshield, an inky sky beckoned. Like a rich spill of the sweetest sugar, stars lay scattered across it.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” I whispered.

  And it was. I’d nearly forgotten how beautiful night in the countryside could be. And I knew that meant I’d lived too long under the light pollution of the East Coast megalopolis.

  “Wait until your eyes adjust to the dark,” Barrett said. “Come on. We’ll get a better look.”

  He reached behind the seat of the pickup, came up with a rolled sleeping bag. He hopped out of the truck, offered a hand to me. Heart hammering, I laid my palm in his.

  “You just happen to drive around with a sleeping bag in your truck? When you were in high school, I bet all the fathers in Fallowfield locked up their daughters when you boys rolled through town.”

  If I could’ve bitten back the words, I would’ve done so. The last thing I wanted to do was spoil this moment by reminding Barrett of his encounter with Pamela. And everything that had happened to her after he’d turned down her amorous advances.

  But she seemed far from his mind when he said, “What? Are you saying I was some kind of senior-class make-out king?”

  “Can you offer evidence to the contrary?”

  “This sleeping bag is serious business, Jamie.”

  “I bet it is.”

  “Winter’s coming,” Barrett said, sounding prickly. “You get stuck in a ditch up here, you can freeze to death before help finds you.”

  I refrained from commenting, smiled to myself, and followed Barrett blindly into the slanting field.

  I heard rather than saw him unfurl the sleeping bag, unzip it, and spread it on the ground.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “Unless you’re afraid to be alone. With me. In the dark.”