by Dan Padavona
He ran without looking back, dodging trees. Branches whipped at his face, and roots tripped him. All around, the forest swelled with breaking branches and the ceaseless wind.
The woods thinned. He was close to the inlet now, civilization somewhere in the distance.
Shawn stopped to catch his breath. Leaning over with his hands on his knees, he flinched when lightning exploded. The flash left him blind, his hearing dulled by the thunder crash. If he stayed here, the storm would kill him before his pursuer caught up.
When he broke out of the forest, he didn’t believe his good fortune. The lake battered the shore. Pinpricks of light shone from residences across the water. No chance of reaching those homes, but the blue-gray marina stood before him. Last summer, he’d rented kayaks with his father at the marina. The windows were dark. The marina didn’t open until eight.
A gust of wind nudged him out of hiding. He crossed the vacant parking lot and ran to the first window. Cupping his hand over his eyes, he peered through the glass. Too dark to determine if anyone was inside. The ghostly memory of Chad May’s rapist followed him from window to window as Shawn circled the marina. The doors were locked. No surprise. But the window on the far side of the marina was open a crack. Shawn struggled to fit his fingers into the opening. The wood shrilled when he tugged up on the pane.
He poked his head inside. No alarms ringing. Then he lifted himself onto the sill and hauled his body inside.
Shawn dropped to the floor and landed on his hip. Pain shot through his leg as he took in his surroundings. He shivered, his clothes sodden and muddied, his sneakers soaked by filthy rainwater. Canoes and kayaks lay stacked against the near wall. The silhouette of the front counter drew a black rectangle against the darkness.
Crouching low, he moved between the aisles and located the storage room at the back of the building. He pulled the door open and squinted into the dark, afraid to turn on the light and give himself away. After his eyes adjusted to the pitch-black, he noticed the space heater tucked in the corner. A flashlight lay on the shelf. He closed the door before he turned on the beam. There were no windows in the storage room, but Shawn worried about light spilling beneath the door. He flicked the light from wall to wall until he found an outlet. Leaving the flashlight on the floor, he hobbled back to the space heater and carried it to the outlet. Fiery warmth enveloped his body when he plugged in the heater.
A thud outside brought his head up. He shut off the light and sneaked back to the door. Grasping for the knob, unable to see anything, he located the lock and twisted it. Even if the killer tracked him to the marina, he’d need to break down the door to reach Shawn. It was quiet outside now, except for the rain.
An orange rectangle reflected off the concrete floor beside the heater. Favoring his hip, Shawn shuffled back to the space heater and peeled his shirt off. After he wrung the shirt out in the corner, he stripped off his pants, sneakers, and socks. Without a rack to hang his clothes on, he left them on the floor to dry.
He wiggled beside the warmth, wary of getting too close and burning his flesh on the grates. His body trembled uncontrollably, water dripping down his skin as he rubbed his arms and legs.
Shawn wouldn’t stay here long. Though he felt safe for the first time since he’d rushed from his mother’s house, he needed to leave before the marina opened and the owner found him inside. Which meant sleep was a huge risk. What if he didn’t awaken before eight?
It suddenly occurred to Shawn he might be a fugitive. It wouldn’t surprise him if the police pinned the murder on him. The killer had worn gloves, careful not to leave evidence inside the house. If the police found Shawn’s fingerprints or hair inside the kitchen—and they would, for he’d eaten dinner with his mother once per week for the past month—they’d paint him as a killer. He couldn’t ask the marina owner to call the police on his behalf. Nor could he pound on a random door and expect a good Samaritan to help him. Shawn might be a wanted man.
Needing someplace to hide after he left the marina, he sifted through his options. Sometimes he partied with Polly’s cousin, Camilla. There was a finished room above the garage, the perfect place to hang out and knock down a beer without their parents noticing. Crossing Wells Ferry to reach the garage was a helluva risk. But one he had to consider.
When the heat seared his chest, he turned and placed his back to the grates. Gradually, the space heater melted the cold away. The orange glow revealed a life vest on the rack. In a pinch, the vest served as a pillow. He set the vest on the floor and lay beside the heat. Whenever he closed his eyes, images of the knife plunging into his mother’s stomach jolted him awake.
Shawn needed to reach his father. Dad was the only person who would believe he hadn’t killed his mother. He promised himself he’d leave after three hours of rest. Just enough to take the edge off.
As Shawn curled beside the heater, he drifted into dreams.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saturday, 1:30 a.m.
The driving rain made it difficult to hear the search party.
Thomas shook the water off his hat and surveyed the park. A paved walking and biking path wound between evergreen trees and led to a bridge at the far end of the grounds. The river sloshed against the crossing, threatening to engulf the bridge if the rain didn’t stop. Raven’s teeth chattered as she hooked elbows with Darren. Aguilar, Kemp, and Deputy Lambert huddled together, their shoes sinking into the mud.
Officers Neal and Barber stood before them. Neal barked orders as lightning flickered through the clouds. Barber barely kept his eyes open. The officer appeared on the verge of collapsing as he shivered in the rain.
“Officer Barber and I will take the north end of the park and search for Shawn Massey. The rain gave us one advantage. If he came through the park, we’ll find his tracks. Be careful. The grass is one big mud pit.”
“Where do you want us to search?” Darren shouted over the storm.
“Down by the pavilion. Maybe the kid found a way inside to escape the rain.”
Thomas scrunched his brow and asked, “Why not check between the soccer field and the bridge? That’s the most direct route between his house and Megan Massey’s.”
“Nobody in their right mind would cross that bridge. The water is too damn high.”
“If it’s all the same to you, we’ll check the bridge after we finish at the pavilion.”
“Suit yourself. But if the water drags you in, don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
Barber and Neal headed north past the trees. Thomas didn’t understand why Shawn would head in that direction when a straight line would take the teenager across the bridge. Still, he wanted to get away from the two Wells Ferry PD officers, and he trusted his companions more.
Lambert and Aguilar swept flashlight beams through the night, the two deputies calling out to Shawn every several seconds. Kemp yelled his son’s name with growing desperation. Thomas led the search party to a wooden pavilion between a basketball court and parking lot. He checked the door and found it locked. The deputies separated and walked from window to window, aiming light inside. Thomas squinted through the foggy glass. No wet footprints inside, no sign anyone broke into the pavilion. As he expected, the pavilion was a dead end.
“There’s nobody in there,” Lambert said as he rounded the building.
“Why wouldn’t Shawn cross the bridge?” Kemp asked. “He would have run home.”
Thomas set his hands on his hips and scanned the field. Between the rain and fog, it was impossible to see more than a hundred feet in front of them. Far in the distance, a flash of light marked the officers’ progress.
“We’ll spread out and walk in a single line,” said Thomas. “Leave about ten feet between you and your neighbor. If we don’t find any signs that Shawn came this way on the first pass, we’ll shift eastward and make a second pass.” He met their eyes. They were all tired, wary of the storm. Yet their determination to save the lost teenager pushed them forward. “Take it slow. We all want
to find Shawn, but this isn’t a race. You’re more likely to miss an important piece of evidence if you rush.”
The search team spread out as Thomas commanded, Aguilar flanking the sheriff on his right, Raven on his left. Kemp walked beside Darren at the end of the line, while Lambert anchored the opposite side. Each member had a flashlight. The crisscrossing beams distracted Thomas as they struggled toward the bridge. A quick glance at his GPS confirmed they were directly between Kemp and Megan’s houses.
“See anything?” Kemp called out.
Thomas heard the frustration in the father’s voice.
“Keep searching, Mr. Massey. If Shawn came this way, we’ll find tracks.”
Lambert shouted, drawing their eyes.
“I’ve got tracks at one o’clock,” the deputy said, fixing his flashlight beam at the muddy indentations arrowing across the field.
“Shift your positions,” Thomas said. “Spread out and walk on either side of the tracks. They have to be Shawn’s. Nobody else would be out in this weather.”
The sheriff’s heart pounded. For the first time tonight, they had a bead on Shawn Massey. But a sick feeling bubbled in his stomach. The Wells River roared a hundred yards ahead, and Shawn’s tracks led directly toward the water.
“Notice the spacing of the tracks and how they weave erratically,” Thomas called to Aguilar.
His lead deputy nodded.
“He was running.”
Running from the killer, or fleeing because he’d stabbed his mother?
Thomas flicked the light behind him. A second set of tracks cut through the park and followed Shawn’s, leading out of the trees near the park entrance.
“Someone followed him.”
“I’ve got something,” Darren called out.
Light sparkled off an object impaled in the mud. Kemp rushed toward the evidence before Darren put an arm out to stop him. Thomas jogged over and removed an evidence bag from his pocket.
“Don’t touch anything.”
Darren leaned over his shoulder.
“Is that a phone?”
Wearing gloves, Thomas wiggled the crushed iPhone out of the muck. It appeared someone had stomped the phone and shattered the screen. With the ground this soft, a drop wouldn’t cause this much damage. The same person must have pried the back open, for the phone had no battery. As Thomas slipped the phone into the bag, he held it up for Kemp.
“Is this Shawn’s iPhone?”
Kemp dragged a hand over his face.
“That’s Shawn’s. That’s my boy’s phone. Where is he?”
Thomas stood and studied the tracks. They kept weaving toward the river bank. Had Shawn run blindly into the river while fleeing his pursuer?
“Keep searching,” Thomas said.
They marched to the river bank. Water rushed over the bridge. Ancient support beams groaned as the river barreled against the structure. A fine spray wet their faces.
“He didn’t cross the bridge,” Raven said, kneeling beside the bank. She pointed. “There.”
The footprints moved along the bank, as if Shawn searched for an alternate route across the river. The water had risen several inches since the teenager came this way. Soon, the water would erase his tracks.
As the search crew followed the bank, Kemp slipped. Darren snagged his arm and dragged him up before the river could sweep him away.
“Everyone step away from the bank,” Deputy Lambert said.
Kemp staggered on, shaken.
“Did my boy fall in? Please tell me he made it across.”
Before anyone answered, Aguilar fixed her flashlight on an oak tree lying across the river. The storm must have knocked the tree down.
“The tracks end at the tree,” Aguilar said, glancing up and down the bank. “My guess is he used the tree to cross the river.”
Kemp’s head dropped. Thomas blinked the water out of his eyes and searched for an alternate route. There wasn’t one. Walking across the tree over a swollen river was a death wish, but this was the only option.
A light blinded Thomas. The officers had returned from searching the north end of the park.
“What did you find?” Barber asked between coughing fits.
“You don’t sound well, Officer. Why don’t you head home before you catch pneumonia?”
“I don’t take orders from the county sheriff.”
Thomas bristled. He was tempted not to tell Barber about the phone. He gritted his teeth.
“We found Shawn’s phone about fifty yards back in the field.”
“You sure it’s his?”
Thomas glanced at Kemp, who nodded.
“Mr. Massey recognized the phone.” He lifted his chin at the tree. “With the bridge flooded, we believe Shawn used the tree to cross the river. The tracks end here.”
“Or the river dragged him in,” Neal said over Barber’s shoulder.
“We’ll assume he made it across.” Thomas studied the forest on the opposite side of the river. “It’s a long walk through the forest to reach his house, and he’d have a hard time finding the trail in the dark.”
“There’s no way across. We’ll have to circle back to the parking lot and use the lake road to reach the other side.”
“We can make it,” Aguilar said, hoisting herself onto the trunk.
“Don’t even think about it,” Thomas said. But Aguilar was already crawling across the tree, her boots slipping on the slick bark as she wrapped her legs around the makeshift bridge. “Get back here, Deputy. It’s too dangerous.”
Lightning stroked down from the clouds and exploded. Aguilar slipped.
Thomas and Darren dove across the trunk as Aguilar’s legs flipped over the side. Thomas snatched her forearm. The river screamed three feet away, branches and clumps from the eroded banks toppling through the waves. The toes of Aguilar’s boots touched the water. In an instant, the force dragging her downstream increased tenfold. Thomas held on, refusing to let go. He’d never seen fear in Aguilar’s eyes before now.
“Don’t you drop me, Sheriff,” she said, grinding her teeth as she locked eyes with him.
Aguilar’s weight threatened to pull them into the river. Hands gripped his shoulders and tugged backward. Aguilar lurched onto the trunk with Thomas still gripping her forearm. Darren and Lambert urged him to hang on a little longer.
With Lambert’s powerful hands holding Thomas in place, Darren crawled over his back and grabbed Aguilar’s other arm. Together, they hauled the deputy away from the bank. Aguilar collapsed and lay on her back while the officers stood on either side of her. Neal radioed for help and shot Thomas a glare.
Thomas struggled to catch his breath as lightning lit the sky.
CHAPTER NINE
Saturday, 6:00 a.m.
Water chuckled along the curb and poured through the storm grates as Chelsey Byrd ran up the sidewalk. She wore her dark, curly hair in a shoulder-length ponytail. Dressed in shorts and a tank top, she breathed through her nose as sweat broke along her brow. Each time her sneakers pounded the pavement, little puddles splashed and soaked her shins.
She’d taken to running every morning before sunrise. Arriving at work by eight o’clock had been a struggle until midwinter, when she started jogging before work. Now she fell asleep earlier and woke before the first signs of gray rose out of the eastern horizon. Exercise also helped her control her anxiety.
Fifteen years ago, during her senior year of high school, major depression struck Chelsey and crippled her. It took years of therapy and medication to piece her life together, and she refused to let depression win again. Last summer, an anxiety attack sent Chelsey to the emergency room after she collapsed at the mall. And on Halloween, she came within a fraction of an inch of dying when gunfire from fugitive Mark Benson grazed her scalp. Since the shooting, she’d jumped at every loud noise, every car backfiring. She didn’t want to imagine what fireworks would do to her come Independence Day.
As if racing against her fears, she pumped her ar
ms and legs, picking up speed. The exertion filled her with endorphins and lent her a sense of calm she hadn’t experienced since before teenage depression struck. She ran faster, heart thundering through her chest.
The lights were dark inside the houses. And that was okay. She enjoyed waking up before her neighbors, preferred getting a head start on the day. After running background checks until well after midnight, she’d awoken at five-thirty, fed Tigger, the stray tabby cat she’d rescued, and dressed in her workout clothes. Instead of driving, she ran from her house to Wolf Lake Consulting, where she’d shower and cook breakfast before Raven and LeVar arrived. Working inside a converted single-story, two-bedroom house had its advantages.
She turned into the village center and jogged past the closed businesses. Only Ruth Sims’s Broken Yolk had its lights on. By the time she reached Wolf Lake Consulting, she was wide awake and primed to run another mile. But she had work to do, so she slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.
Gloom pooled inside the main office. Three desks with computers and a filing cabinet comprised the workspace, and a television hung against the wall. Turning on the lights, she booted up her computer and limped on achy legs to the bedroom. Chelsey had furnished both bedrooms, so she or Raven had somewhere to sleep if work ran late. From her bedroom, she removed clothes from the dresser and carried them down the hall to the bathroom. The old water heater and pipes took a long time to heat, so she ran the water while she peeled off her sweaty clothes. After the shower warmed, she stepped under the spray and felt each muscle unravel.
As she washed, she thought about the case. According to Raven’s message, Kemp Massey had officially hired Wolf Lake Consulting to clear his son’s name and locate him in the wilderness. And that was a problem. In Chelsey’s opinion, Kemp and Shawn Massey were suspects. Both held grievances against Megan Massey for walking out on their family, and Shawn’s records depicted a history of violence, dating back three years to his parents’ separation. Two fights, one school suspension. There was also a minor infraction involving underage drinking. Not a big deal in Chelsey’s eyes. But it painted a picture of a teenager spinning out of control.