The Shadows We Hide

by Allen Eskens

  I scramble to my feet and charge the big man, hoping that Nathan and the others are watching. I run as fast as I can, my shoulders down. Ray hears me when I’m about eight feet away and tries to ready his shotgun, but I hit him in the back with all the force I can muster. Pain explodes through my neck, and my bruised rib comes alive with a whole new level of hurt. We tumble forward.

  I land on top of Ray’s back, his arms outstretched in front of him, the gun still clenched tightly in his hand. I roll forward and grab the shotgun, trying to wrestle it away. I start to twist it around to break his grip, but he grabs the stock with his free hand and tries to jerk it back. The gun is facing the sky, so I jam my thumb onto the trigger and the gun explodes, the butt slamming into the ground, the pellets shooting harmlessly skyward. He can’t shoot it now without ratcheting another shell. All I have to do is hang on and not let him chamber another round.

  He’s on his knees and I’m still on my backside, kicking my feet into him and pulling at the gun with everything I have. Pain lights up my chest, and I feel like I’m being bludgeoned with a board full of spikes. Ray has strong fingers and hands, but he’s worn out and breathes in chunks. Spittle bubbles from the side of his lip, white and frothy against his dark-red cheeks.

  I pull on the gun, expecting him to yank back and make this a tug-of-war, but instead Ray lunges at me, the stock of the gun landing across my throat, his heavy body pinning me to the ground. I can’t breathe. I claw at the back of his hands, but he keeps pressing. The light around his face is fading, shrinking, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out.

  That’s when something slams into Ray from the side. I don’t know what it is at first, but then I see Nathan Calder, clamped onto Ray’s back, the two men rolling down the slope of the lawn. I can breathe again, and I gulp at the warm summer air. Tiny dots of light squirm in my vision as my blood pressure settles, and in my hand I am still holding the shotgun.

  Two other deputies pile on top of Ray, each one grabbing an arm and prying them behind his back. Nathan has scooted out from under the big man and is reaching for a pair of handcuffs.

  “Quit squirming, Ray, or I’ll have to Tase you,” Nathan yells.

  “Fuck you, Nathan.” Ray twists back and forth, unable to shake free of the three peace officers. Nathan clicks the handcuffs around one wrist, then the other.

  “Where’s Vicky?” Sheriff Kimball asks as he lumbers up the driveway, a latecomer to the party.

  “She took off on her motorcycle,” I say, pointing past the house.

  Kimball looks in the direction of the pole barn, grits his teeth, and curses under his breath. Then he turns to the two deputies whose names I don’t know, and says, “Get in your squads. Tank, you head east, and John, you go west. Keep an ear out for that bike of hers.”

  “You ain’t never gonna find her,” Ray growls between gasps of air.

  “Shut up, Ray,” Nathan says, taking a knee beside him like a hunter posing next to his trophy. “No one’s asking you.”

  Kimball walks over, and together, he and Nathan lift Ray to his feet. “I’ll take Ray in,” Kimball says. “You go help with the search.”

  Nathan and Kimball each take an arm and walk Ray Pyke to Kimball’s car, while I remain sitting in the yard alone. I guess I expect a thank-you or something, but they completely ignore me.

  After Sheriff Kimball drives away, Nathan stays behind, inspecting his car for damage from the shotgun blasts. I peel off the tape that held the wire and battery pack to my body and walk down to hand the transmitter to Calder. “I told you she’d confess,” I say. “You heard her, right?”

  He tosses the gear into his squad car but doesn’t answer. He’s mad, and I think it’s because it was my idea to wear the wire; I’m the one who cracked the case. I’m the one who saw the female cutting across Ray’s lawn and the glow of the Triumph’s taillight against the shed. I’m the one who figured out that Vicky had been to the barn before Nathan got there. And when I showed Kimball and Calder what I’d found, Nathan couldn’t wait to criticize it.

  “It’s too blurry,” he said. “And even if that’s her, that doesn’t mean she killed Toke. I guarantee you that a good defense lawyer will come up with a reasonable explanation as to why she’s running through that gap.”

  “Let me wear a wire,” I said. “I can get her to talk. I know I can.”

  Nathan had been flatly against it, but I convinced Kimball. I would go in first, get her talking, try to get her tangled up before they charged in and arrested her. If she later invoked her right to remain silent, they’d have my conversation to take to court. It was a simple plan. “What could go wrong?” I had said. Now I knew what could go wrong.

  “You got her confession on tape, didn’t you?” I say again.

  “You should go,” Nathan says.

  “Why are you such a dick?” I say. “What’d I ever do to you?”

  Nathan stops inspecting his car and turns to look at me with dead eyes. “I had to call Jeb Lewis’s wife today and tell her that we were arresting him. I had to tell her about Jeb’s affair with Jeannie. She went to pieces. You have any idea what that’s like? Delivering that kind of news? Jeb has two girls. His life’s in shambles right now, and all because of you.”

  Nathan looks at the road between us, shaking his head like he has more to say but is holding it back. “Go home,” he says. “You’ve done enough damage.”

  Chapter 46

  I don’t go home because I have no home to go to. I spend the rest of the evening alone at the Caspen Inn, Nathan Calder’s words echoing off the walls around me. I had exposed Jeb’s affair, broke up his family, and got him arrested—all for nothing.

  Vicky Pyke, my father’s murderer, was now on the run. I should have hated Vicky for what she did, but I couldn’t seem to muster that emotion. She had killed a man who wanted me to die in my mother’s womb. He was a first-rate asshole—ask anyone. And now, because of some bizarre chain of events, I am on my way to becoming a millionaire. If Toke hadn’t wormed his way into the Hix line of succession, and if Vicky Pyke hadn’t murdered the son of a bitch, none of this would be happening. Conflicting emotions keep me awake deep into the night as I search for a calming thought to settle me down.

  I pull up the memory of Jeremy playing cards with our mother this morning, Kathy letting my brother win. I had seen my mother happy at various times in my life, but not like what I saw today. This wasn’t the careless glee that accompanied the opening of a new bottle of vodka, or the passing delight tied to a new pair of jeans. What I saw this morning was deep-down happiness, something new. I suspect that Jeremy saw it as well.

  Then I turn my thoughts to Angel. If Toke wasn’t Angel’s father, then Charlie has no claim to her, and just knowing that she’ll be safe from Charlie lulls me deeper toward sleep. How I want to be there to see the look on Charlie’s face when he learns that he isn’t Angel’s uncle—that his guardianship petition will fail.

  But I don’t fall asleep until I conjure up a daydream of me walking into Bob Mullen’s office to sign papers to split Jeannie’s estate equally between Toke and Angel, the way it would have been if the world had known about Jeb being Angel’s father. I’ll inherit from Toke, and Angel will inherit from Jeannie. I can get by just fine on three million. The dream makes me smile because Mullen doesn’t believe that I’ll go through with it, but I will. I spin that scene over and over in my head, taking comfort in how it slows my pulse. Before I know it, sleep comes for me.

  Somewhere in the dark hours of morning, I wake from a dream. I don’t remember the details of the dream, but I recall something about sliding down a hill toward a churning river. I remember the river because at first it smells of mud and rot, but the odor turns into the smell of gasoline. It becomes overpowering, and I wake up—but the smell of gasoline is still with me.

  Before I can make sense of it, my motel room erupts into flames, the whumph of the ignited fuel hitting me like a cudgel, throwing me off my bed. The ro
om lights up as fire licks its way toward the ceiling. I’m on the floor between my bed and the wall, staring at a curtain of fire that’s blocking my path to the door and the window. The heat is unbearable.

  I have to get through the flames. I pick up the mattress off of my bed and throw it onto the burning carpet between me and the door. Then I grab my jeans and shoes and charge through the flames, jumping onto the mattress using one of my pant legs as an oven mitt to try to open the door.

  The handle turns, but when I pull it, the knob jerks out of my hand and the door springs back shut. I yank again and feel that the door is caught on something. Then, through the small gap in the door, I see that someone has tied a small chain to the door handle, looping it around a bar across the door frame outside.

  The heat is lashing at my skin as I fall back. Thick, black smoke is filling the room, burning my eyes. I can’t breathe.

  I retreat into the bathroom, shut the door, and turn on the faucets in the sink and tub, closing the drains. I soak a towel and shove it under the door and then slip into my shoes and jeans, all the while contemplating my failed attempt to get out of my room. Someone barred the door shut. Someone is trying to kill me. I shake that thought away; I need to focus on getting out. Think.

  The window? I’d never be able to wrestle the air conditioner out of the way with that whole wall on fire. And who’s to say my attacker hasn’t thought of that exit as well. I’d burn to death before I’d be able to get out.

  And why isn’t the sprinkler going off? I stand on the edge of the tub and grab the sprinkler head. There’s something wrong with it. Someone has packed it in epoxy. “Goddamn him!” I yell.

  I look at the mirror as the smoke seeps in, creating a veil that blurs my reflection. I could lie down in a tub full of water, but smoke inhalation would kill me even if I managed to survive the flames. My throat burns. My image in the mirror is getting hazier. Then an idea hits me. My escape is through the mirror. Beyond the mirror, and the wall behind it, is another bathroom and another motel room—one that’s not on fire.

  I jump to my feet and lift the lid off the toilet tank, smashing it onto the tile floor. It breaks into a dozen pieces, one of which is shaped like a large slice of pizza. I pick up that wedge, close my eyes, and slam it into the mirror, ignoring the pain in my ribs. The glass shatters into a thousand shards that rain down onto the vanity.

  I wrap a towel around my hand to keep my tool from cutting me, and drive the point of the porcelain into the drywall. It makes a smaller dent than I had hoped. I change my angle and start whacking away, cutting an ever deepening groove in the wall with each chop. My chest is screaming in pain, but I keep chopping, white gypsum spraying and ricocheting against my arms as I strike again and again.

  As the cut expands, I see that there are two layers of drywall—a firewall. I chop harder. The flames have reached the bathroom door, and thin, yellow fingers are lapping through the crack. My eyes water from the smoke.

  I chop harder and feel my blade break through to the insulation. I put the tool down and slide my fingers into the cut, pulling until some nails pop. It’s giving way. I grit my teeth and pull again and a seam splits. One more pull and a chunk of drywall about the size of a clipboard comes off.

  Flames are licking through the top of the door, the heat pricking at the skin on my left side. I can smell the odor of my own burned arm hair. I grip another section of wall and pull, ripping away another plate-size section. This creates an opening big enough for me to wiggle through.

  I tear the insulation out of the wall and give the drywall on the other side a hefty kick. It doesn’t budge. I kick again. Same result.

  The sink in front of me is full of water, and I use my hands to slosh water at the flames. It does no good. I dunk a towel in the water and drape it over my head and shoulders. The smoke is so thick that I can’t see. I feel across the vanity until my hands fall on my porcelain tool.

  I close my eyes and stab the wedge at the wall, hitting it five times in quick succession. I hear the sound of glass breaking as the mirror on the other side of the wall splinters. I drop the tool and raise my foot again and kick. The wall pops out a little bit. I kick again, and this time nails give way. My third kick sends my foot through the wall.

  I can’t see. I’ve been holding my breath, and my lungs are about to explode. I put my face to the hole and suck in fresh air. I’m dizzy, but I can’t wait for that to pass. I hold my breath again, close my eyes, and tear at the drywall with all I have until a big section breaks free.

  The door beside me is on fire. I jump onto my side on the vanity and stick my head through the hole. My shoulders get caught because the hole is too small. My arms need to go through first. I back out and slip my arms through, then my head. My hands grab for anything solid as I pull my torso through. The glass from the mirror slices into my skin as I crawl out of hell. When my legs slide through, I fall to the floor. A billow of smoke follows me through the hole, blooming and spreading on the ceiling of this new bathroom.

  I take a moment to cough and wheeze and catch my breath. But now that I am safe, my fear turns to rage. My only thought is to find the shovel-faced son of a bitch who tried to kill me and put an end to his miserable existence.

  Chapter 47

  I charge out of room number eighteen, startling Mitch, the night manager, who is knocking on doors to get the last few guests out of bed. When he sees me, his face lights up.

  “You’re alive. Christ, how…?”

  “Did you see anyone outside my room tonight?”

  “I was sleeping when the alarm went off. Did you break through the—”

  “Anyone lurking around earlier?”

  “The guy from room nine was sitting in his car when I took out the trash around midnight.”

  Charlie.

  I run around the backside of the motel, where the glow from the fire creates shadows that dance against trees. I hug the edge of the property until I circle to the parking lot in front of my burning room. A handful of guests have gathered well back from the flames. Among them, I see Jeb Lewis, barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

  In the distance I can hear the approach of the volunteer fire department cutting through town. I scan the crowd for Charlie but don’t see him. Then, as the firetrucks pull into the motel, their headlights sweep across the empty lot next door, and I catch a glimpse of the unmistakable outline of Charlie’s Lexus. And there’s Uncle Charlie leaning against the front bumper, his arms folded across his chest.

  I ignore my bruised rib and take off on a dead run, charging past the cluster of guests in the parking lot. I hear Jeb shout my name, but I don’t slow down. I don’t take my eyes off Charlie.

  It’s dark, but early shades of morning gray are filtering in from the east. In that penumbra, I can see that Charlie is looking at me, but he must not recognize me because he doesn’t move. Maybe he can’t believe his eyes, his thick brain refusing to accept the possibility that I am still alive given the inferno spiking up through the roof where my motel room had been.

  When he finally realizes that it’s me charging toward him, it’s too late. He takes off running, old legs paddling as fast as they can. But Charlie doesn’t stand a chance.

  He makes it to the mouth of an alley, but I tackle him before he can fully turn the corner. We go down together, me on his back, riding him like a sled. When the slide stops, he gets into a pushup position, trying to rise up off the ground, and I drive my fist into his back, landing it right between his shoulder blades. I hear his breath leave. I punch again, and my knuckles rattle loose, my wrist folding in. Pain shoots up my arm, and I pull my hand into my chest.

  Charlie makes a second attempt to get up, and I throw my shoulder into him, sending him back to the gravel. He’s yelling something, but I don’t listen. The only thing I hear as I grab the back of his head and shove his face into the ground, is the voice in my head screaming, Kill this man.

  I don’t hear the footsteps approaching from behind
me, but suddenly, two arms wrap around my shoulders and yank me off Charlie. I twist and land an elbow on someone’s jaw. Breaking loose, I jump back on top of Charlie, hitting him in the back again. I want to crush his spine. I want to destroy his lungs.

  Again, the man’s arms lock around my chest and pull me up. This time, I hear Jeb Lewis holler, “Joe, get off him.” He throws me to the side, and I fall to the ground. When I look up, I see Jeb with his hands stretched out in a calm-the-hell-down position, standing between me and Charlie.

  “He tried to kill me,” I say, scrambling back to my feet. Jeb’s a big man, but I am determined. I take a step toward him.

  “What are you talking about?” Jeb asks.

  “That’s my room on fire,” I say, pointing to the blaze. “He barred my door. He locked me in and set my room on fire.”

  Charlie rolls onto his side, coughing and spitting up what might be blood. When he talks, he sounds like he’s swallowed glass. “You saw him attack me.” Charlie’s talking to Jeb and pointing at me. “He tried to kill me. You saw it.”

  “Shut up, you psychopath!” I charge at Charlie again, but Jeb grabs me around my waist and pulls me back. I manage to land a kick to Charlie’s ribs before I’m out of reach.

  “He set your room on fire?” Jeb asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the Hix farm. He wants to get guardianship of Angel, so he can get his hands on her money. He thinks I’m in his way. The dumbass doesn’t know that he’s not even related to Angel.”

  “She’s my niece,” Charlie says. “I have every right to be her guardian if I want.”

  “She’s not your niece, you fucking moron,” I yell. “Toke wasn’t her father. She’s nothing to you.”

  That catches Charlie off guard. He’s sitting on his butt in the middle of the alley, and all he can do is look at me with the raised brow of a confused chimp. He glances at Jeb and then back at me. “You’re full of shit,” he says. “Toke’s her daddy. I know that for a fact.”