by Dan Padavona
Guilt lay heavy over his body like sacks of wet cement. His mother’s murder kept returning to him. Everything in the cottage reminded Shawn of Megan’s house—the knickknacks on the shelves, the stocked pantry, the clean and neat bathroom. Even the smells brought him back. It seemed the Nash family used the same cleaning products as his mother had.
Shawn stood on shaky legs and stretched. The moment he touched the doorknob, a floorboard groaned inside the house. His heart jack-hammered.
He waited at the door, ear pressed against the wood. Silence crept through the hallway. A glance over his shoulder revealed the bedroom window. He’d locked the pane before falling asleep. If he was quiet, he could unlock the window and slide the pane open without drawing attention.
Shadows flashed over the window. Silhouettes of tree limbs, he wanted to believe. Every shadow looked like a stalking killer with a knife.
A thump against the outside of the house sent shock waves through his body. He was trapped. Was the killer in the house or waiting outside the window?
He flipped a coin in his head, gambling with his life, and turned the knob. Stepping into the shadowed hallway, he glanced toward the living space, then toward the door leading down to the basement. The basement was a dead end. No chance he’d escape the killer there. The bathroom loomed across the hall, too dark to make out anyone hiding inside. Logic told Shawn the darkness concealed him as much as it did the killer. Yet he found it impossible not to assign preternatural abilities to his mother’s murderer. The psychopath had stalked him through the park in the dead of night, then tracked him to the Nash cottage, though nobody knew he was here. He’d never escape the madman.
With no other choice, he took one step toward the living space, one tiny stride into the dark unknown. The cottage groaned with each gust of wind. He tried to convince himself the sound he’d heard was the house settling.
Yet something hid in the darkness. He sensed its evil presence.
Another step down the hall. His hand brushed a solid object. He pulled back before he recognized the jamb surrounding the entryway to the master bedroom. A few more steps revealed the couch, the silver reflection of the wall-mounted television, the gray light of the cloudless sky washing over the windows. The front door stood ten steps to his left, the sliding glass door to the patio straight ahead. He was close enough to the deck door to confirm nobody had jostled it open. Every window remained locked. Which meant the killer had slipped into the cottage through the front door. How? He’d confirmed the door was locked.
Terror rooted him in place. He swept his gaze across the room, battling the dark as he searched for the killer.
A bellow broke the frozen silence. Then the shadow of a man leapt from behind the couch and hurtled across the room. Shawn grabbed the first thing he saw—the lamp on the corner table. A flash of light glinted off the knife as the killer rounded a lounge chair and lunged.
With a cry, Shawn swung the lamp. The post struck the killer’s head and bent his neck sideways. It wasn’t enough to stop the murderer or knock him off his feet. But the strike gifted Shawn the precious seconds he needed to rip the door open and lunge through the entryway into the night.
Without looking back, Shawn sprinted across the yard, tree limbs whipping at his face, the killer on his heels and closing in.
He ran blindly. Impossible to find his way in the dark. Everything looked the same inside the forest as the killer’s footfalls slammed the earth behind him.
Shawn faked right and dodged left, leaping a hillock and landing on a steep ridge. Somewhere in the night, the murderer cursed. Shawn heard the madman slip and scramble back to his feet.
The teenager pumped his legs harder, heedless of the trees popping out of the dark. His foot struck a rock. Then the night flipped end over end before his back struck the rocky incline. The air rushed from his lungs. Sharp stones tore through his clothes and ripped his flesh. Confused, panicked, he sought purchase as gravity dragged him down and down. A roar grew as he slid down the hillside, as if a devil crawled out of the earth and opened its maw to swallow him whole. It wasn’t until he spotted the river rushing up at him that he placed the unholy roar. Then he knew his fate.
Shawn’s body launched off the cliff overhanging the Wells River. He hung suspended for a moment, the night deathly silent as though in anticipation. The teenager plunged into the water.
His body slapped the raging current and struck a dam of leaves and tree limbs. In an instant, the river snatched his torso and hauled him over the dam and into its frigid depths. His head sank beneath the water. He couldn’t breathe. Black bubbles spun around his face as the cold clutches of the river tossed him like a rag doll. He sank deeper. Struck the river bed.
Darkness enveloped Shawn with dead, icy hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sunday, 1:05 a.m.
The lights were off inside the guest house behind Thomas Shepherd’s A-frame, the silver glow of the computer monitor the only illumination. Scout typed with growing desperation. She’d crossed off two-hundred of Shawn Massey’s connections on a sheet of paper, keeping a handful for further investigation. Of the names she retained, none lived north of the marina. The investigation kept colliding with dead ends.
Her mother snored on one end of the couch behind her, Ms. Hopkins curled on the opposite side. Even Jack gave up the vigil and lay beside her wheelchair, the dog kicking his legs and groaning as he chased a rabbit in his dreams. Scout pushed the mouse away and yawned. Checking the time, she realized how long she’d worked. But there was no time for sleep. A teenager’s life was at stake. She reached for the Diet Coke and chugged half the can, clinging to unhealthy energy. Anything to keep her awake and alert.
Each of Shawn’s connections blended with the last. As she clicked on another profile, her mind wandered back to her parents’ argument. Why would her father make horrible accusations about LeVar and Serena? The Hopkins family members were the kindest, most courageous people she’d ever met. They overcame impossible odds. If only her father could see them as they truly were. Like hell she’d accept living with her father. Though she loved him, her father hadn’t supported Scout when she needed him after the accident, hadn’t readied her for school each morning and helped her on and off the bus. Her mother deserved better.
Scout crossed another name off the list. This friend lived in Barton Falls, too far away for Shawn to reach on foot. Ready to give up, she called up the next connection on the list. Electricity thrummed through her veins. She crosschecked Mike Nash’s profile and confirmed the teenager’s parents owned a cottage on Lake Shore Drive north of the marina. She turned around to share the news, stopping herself as Mom and Serena slumbered.
Scout focused on the boy’s profile. He attended Nazareth College, close to Rochester. Pictures of college friends, dorm life, and parties filled his time line. She opened his pictures folder and sorted the photographs in chronological order. Focusing on images from last summer before Shawn left for Nazareth, Scout dropped her mouth open. Shawn Massey appeared in dozens of pictures, water skiing on the lake, playing video games and eating pizza at the Nash cottage, the smiling boy posing for a photo with Mike’s parents. Three photographs depicted an amusing scene—the two teenage boys struggling to erect a tent in the backyard. Scout grinned. The cottage was practically Shawn’s second home.
Yet the scenario playing out in her head didn’t compute. If Shawn sought protection from the Nash family, why hadn’t Mike’s parents brought Shawn home to his father? Scout rested her chin on her palm, the hunt for Shawn Massey spiking her adrenaline. She set the soda aside, not requiring caffeine to sustain her intensity.
She returned to Mike’s profile. More pictures of college life. The lacrosse team celebrating a victory. Further down, Mike between his parents with a palm tree in the background.
Wait. It was too late to think straight, but Scout knew palm trees didn’t grow in New York.
Scanning the descriptions, she rapped her knuckle
s against the table.
“That’s it!”
Naomi bolted awake. Beside Naomi, Serena rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and glanced around the room in confusion.
“What happened?” Naomi asked, sitting up. “Is there a fire?”
“Mike Nash. He flew to Florida for spring break and visited his parents in Key Largo. They’re snowbirds. The parents don’t come home for another two weeks.”
Naomi gave Serena a confused stare. Serena answered with a shrug.
“Don’t you get it? Mike and Shawn are best friends, and Shawn spent the summer hanging out at their cottage. He’s always there. Shawn is like a family member.” Scout minimized the social media profile and loaded a satellite view of the forest outside Wells Ferry. She zoomed in on the marina and pointed at Lake Shore Drive. “The cottage is within walking distance of the marina. That’s where Shawn was heading, because he’s aware Mr. and Mrs. Nash are in the Keys and Mike is away at college. Shawn must be staying at their house.”
Understanding lit Naomi’s face.
“Call the sheriff,” Serena said, sitting forward. “It’s worth looking into.”
“I should call LeVar first. He’ll know what to do.”
Scout located LeVar on her contact list. He answered on the second ring.
“Scout, why are you working so late?”
Hearing LeVar’s voice wrenched her heart. She wanted to tell him how sorry she was and make up for the way she’d acted. Even after the way she’d mistreated him, he only concerned himself with her wellbeing.
“I think I found him, LeVar.”
“You found Shawn Massey?”
“His best friend lives north of the marina. A boy named Mike Nash.”
Scout gave LeVar the address and told him about the pictures she’d found.
“So nobody is home at the cottage,” he said. She imagined him jotting a note and running it to Chelsey. “Sounds like a good place to hide. I’ll pass the information along to Thomas.”
Before he ended the call, she cleared her throat.
“LeVar, I’m sorry for being a jerk.”
“Scout, really. It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not. You tried to help me, and I was mean. I’ve been a bear the last few weeks.”
“Everyone understands what you’re going through, and we’ll always be there for you. I’ll always be there for you.”
Her chest quivered when she exhaled.
“You’re a forgiving person, LeVar, and a tremendous friend.”
“Tremendous is an understatement. But go on, I’m listening.”
She laughed for the first time in weeks.
“Find Shawn, and I’ll heap compliments on you for the next month.”
“Promise?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Ha ha.”
“I’ll keep going through Shawn’s friends, but I’m sure we hit the bullseye this time.”
“You’re indispensable. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Probably never catch the bad guys.”
He snickered.
“Bet. You’re not trashing my house, are you?”
“It’s a nonstop party. Our parents are cranking gangsta rap and bouncing off the walls.” Naomi gave Scout a confused look. “At least we have Jack to stop them from wrecking house.”
“Pick up the beer cans and pizza boxes before I get home. I can’t sleep in a pigsty. You’ve done as much as you can do tonight. Get some rest, my friend. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sunday, 2:00 a.m.
Frigid water rolled over Shawn’s body as he lay unconscious against the rocks. A wave barreled down the Wells River and slammed over his face, shocking him awake. He sucked oxygen and clawed at the air until he realized he wasn’t underwater. A slice of moonlight pierced the clouds and illuminated his surroundings.
The fall came back to him. As his mother’s murderer chased him through the forest, he tripped while running down the ridge and tumbled over the cliff. The water’s depths saved him from impaling himself on sharp rocks or cracking his head open. Still, it was a miracle he was alive. Albeit barely.
He was so cold he couldn’t feel his body. His flesh rippled with goosebumps, teeth chattering as the water soaked him through. The borrowed sweatshirt hung halfway off his body, a laceration cutting from his shoulder to his chest. Swiveling his head, he found himself jammed between a boulder and the riverbank. A cluster of branches and dead leaves pressed against his flesh. Had the swollen river not tossed him into this protective nook, he’d have drowned while unconscious. Dumb luck postponed his funeral. For now.
As he assessed the damage, he remembered the masked killer. He searched the bank and the forest encroaching on the river. How far had the river dragged him? Besides his head, his arms were the only parts of his body which hadn’t fallen numb. He pressed his palms against the boulder and pushed himself up. Screamed when searing pain ripped through his right leg. The useless limb bobbed before him in the current. Even in the murky river, he saw the unnatural, crooked bend below his knee. Anxiety ripped through his body. He’d broken his leg and couldn’t move. Was the bone sticking through his skin?
He turned his head and searched for a way out of the river. The bank flattened behind him. Beyond the river, the forest climbed up the hillside. The ridge appeared steep, but not as treacherous as the cliffs. He needed to pull himself out of the water before he froze to death, but moving entailed substantial risk. A little to his left, and the rapids would claim him again and tug him down river.
Shawn pressed his palms down and pushed his body up, crying out and collapsing when the pain became too much to bear. In a moment of clarity, he realized the killer would hear him. He wanted to believe the man in the ski mask had left the scene, assuming Shawn died after the fall or drowned. Yet he’d never be free of the killer. Not until one of them lay dead.
With trembling arms, he tore a piece of hanging fabric from the sweatshirt, rolled into a ball, and stuffed it between his teeth. He bit down and struggled to push himself over the banks. The fabric stifled his cries, though they were deafening in his head. His arms quivered like the legs of a newborn calf. The current snatched at his bobbing legs and pulled him away from the rocks. Wincing, he hung on. He spotted another boulder jutting out of the water. Shawn placed his good leg against the rock and pushed. Even his uninjured leg refused to cooperate, it was so numb.
Thick clouds glowered down at him with indifference. He refused to die here. After all he’d gone through since his mother’s murder, he wouldn’t drown in the river. Shawn pushed until his elbows buckled. Sensation returned to his left leg, just enough for him to press his foot against the boulder and inch himself upward. A wave thundered over his face. He coughed, choking as he tilted his head skyward. Breathing through the waterlogged cloth, he glanced downstream and spied a massive wave tearing between the banks. He wouldn’t survive the next onslaught. No chance he’d keep hold of the rocks.
Desperation lending him newfound strength, he pressed himself out of the water and rolled onto the bank. His broken leg sent pain shrieking through his body. The sweatpants had torn from the knee down. The grotesque shape of his leg made him turn his head and vomit. Spitting, he wiped his mouth and dragged himself across the bank, wary of the river surging higher.
Fallen trees covered the banks, and sharp pine scents filled the night. Pressing up to his elbows, he found what he sought—a stout limb just beyond his reach. He inched closer to the branch, every movement sharpening the pain in his shattered leg. At least it wasn’t a compound fracture. But he needed shelter. Death by hypothermia was a growing possibility.
His fingers curled around the fallen limb. After he reeled it in, he used the branch for support and battled his way to his feet. It felt as if someone jabbed knives through his leg. The broken leg dragged as he stood on one foot, the branch wobbling as he fought to stay upright. If he fell, he doubted h
e’d find the strength to stand again. One agonizing step at a time, he plodded toward the ridge. Though the hill would be brutal to climb, he could support himself on the trees and drag himself toward the trail.
Balanced on one leg, he clutched a young spruce tree, his hands sticky with sap. He pulled himself from one tree to the next and hopped. The numbness subsided, exacerbating the crippling chills rippling through his body. His lips held a sickly blue coloration, the shivers growing in intensity as his head turned cloudy. He needed fire, warmth, a shelter from the elements. If he didn’t peel the frigid, soaked clothes from his body in the next thirty minutes, he’d lose consciousness.
Shawn lost track of time as he struggled up the hillside. When the earth flattened, he hardly noticed. He collapsed onto one knee. An insane giggle escaped his lips while he searched the clearing. No shelter anywhere. No sign of human life.
A decade had passed since he was a boy scout, yet he recalled survival tactics. How would he build a fire? The forest dripped from the storms, enormous puddles pooling in the clearing and reflecting the roiling clouds. His eyes landed on a fallen bird’s nest, sheltered from earlier rains beneath the overhanging bough of an evergreen. He limped to the nest. It was dry, thank God. It would make the perfect tinder nest, if he found a few dry branches to start the fire. Every stick he assessed was too wet. Finally, he picked out two branches. A massive log from an oak tree stuck out of the mud and muck. A deep gouge angled across the log, the bark stripped away. Perfect for a makeshift fire board.
Ignoring the pain, Shawn gathered the supplies and carried them to the fire board. Choosing the sharpest, driest stick among the bunch, he sat down and spun the stick against the fire board, his palms blistering as he worked with frantic energy. Heat fled his body, and he understood his time was short unless he started a fire.
Ten minutes later, he collapsed onto his back and wept to the night sky. It was no use. He hadn’t started a fire without matches since he was a child, and the forest was too damn wet. Shawn closed his eyes, content to let sleep take him. Dying in one’s sleep wasn’t the worst fate.