“What else can we do? Can I file a missing persons report? Maybe someone around here knows who he is,” Hannah said when she was finally seated in the itchy brown chair in front of his desk.
The sheriff considered her, then shook his head.
“I can’t say this is technically a missing person, and we don’t have half enough information for that kind of report. We don’t have anything more than that sketch.” He nodded toward the sheet in her hand. “But I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll send that out anyway, on the off chance anything turns up. Can’t hurt anything.”
Sheriff Morgan heaved himself up with a little groan and walked past her, stopping to stand in the doorway, clearly meaning for Hannah to leave as well. She followed him reluctantly back through the open room and to the reception desk.
“Could be some kind of practical joke, man running around without his pants in the woods. Maybe it was a dare and somebody picked him up,” the petite blonde deputy manning the desk suggested helpfully as Hannah headed for the door.
Sheriff Morgan held open the front door into the dark for her to leave, but he didn’t say anything, just shrugged. He looked down briefly at the composite sketch he was still holding in his hand, with a look on his face she could only call resigned. Hannah knew what had happened, but no matter how many times she described it, no matter how certain she was, he was looking less and less convinced the more time that passed.
When the door had closed quietly behind her Hannah took a deep breath and tried to see it from his angle. After all the searching, there was no body, no injured person, and not a drop of blood. He’d spent a long night looking for a nearly dead naked man in the woods on Hannah’s word, and when it was all said and done, there was no evidence the man even existed. The sheriff hadn’t seen what she’d seen, but when Hannah looked at it his way, she had to admit it sounded crazy to her too.
4
The cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Fumbling it out with cold-clumsy hands, Hannah read the number through the cracked screen. The garage—again. Ignoring it for the twentieth time, Hannah slipped the phone back into her coat pocket and kept walking.
She’d gotten a late start. The sun was high enough in the sky when she reached the railroad bridge to draw a blinding white line down the center of the river. Vision spotty from the glare, she took a step and stumbled, catching her foot where the paved road dropped off to gravel. She managed to get caught up in the same spot nearly every time, both coming and going. Hannah had made the hike back to where it happened at least once every day since the accident, so after nearly a month of coming to the scene to look for him, it was a lot of stumbling.
Over the bridge, around the gentle bend in the road that turned with the river, she stopped where a faded piece of yellow plastic tape was wrapped around a tree trunk. Hannah closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and for the thousandth time went over what had happened. She remembered his face, recalled the way it had felt when her car struck him, and the way his blood had felt running through her hands.
Then she shook it all away. She tried to imagine it differently. In her mind she replaced him with a deer, then a black bear standing on its hind legs, front legs outstretched. When that didn’t work, she pictured the man lying there injured, but not so badly, only stunned, with a head wound that was smaller than she saw in her memories, one that her panic had made seem worse than it was. Head wounds bled like crazy, didn’t they, always looking worse than they were? Hannah swapped out detail after detail, the way she’d examined and dismissed features to create the composite image of the man. But none of the alternate scenarios fit, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself they were possibilities and that she might have misconstrued what had happened. It didn’t work. It never worked. Every change to the original memory felt artificial and forced, and she gave up, letting the picture melt back to what she knew.
The blast of a truck horn pulled her back to reality, and she threw herself out of the road, rolling over and sliding to a halt waist deep in the ditch. Hannah popped her head up just in time to see the driver’s hand come out of the open window and raise a middle finger.
“Asshole,” she said, dusting herself off and climbing back up to the road. The rattle of the truck’s muffler died away in time for her to hear another, quieter sound. Shading her eyes from the sun she looked up, trying to find the source. It took a moment of searching and blinking in the brightness, but Hannah saw them.
Above her, over the trees not far away, a trio of vultures circled lazily. As if seeing her watching them, one called again, with the distinct nasal whine that had caught her attention.
Hannah took off. Clearing the ditch with a leap, she pushed her way through the hedgerow. Her sleeve got hung up on a branch but she didn’t stop, dragging the branch with her out of the underbrush. She yanked it away while she was moving, ignoring the thorns that tore into her hand, digging her phone from her pocket. She dialed the sheriff while she barreled through the woods.
“Pick up. Pick up. Come on.” She tripped and went down on one knee, dropping the phone. It was still ringing, unanswered, when she picked it back up. “Damnit. Don’t to go voicemail.” It went to voicemail.
“Sheriff Morgan. It’s Hannah. I found him. Just past the bridge…” Hannah trailed off, stopping under a break in the trees to look up. For a moment she thought she’d lost the way, but a dark shape passed overhead, a shadow to match it skipping over her feet.
Another hundred yards and she didn’t need to follow the birds any more. She knew she was close because of the smell.
It grew stronger and more foul step by step. The smell of decomposition was thick, and it hung in a miasma near the ground, kicking up in rank puffs when her feet moved. It was so strong she stopped for a moment, covered her face with her sleeve, and steeled herself. After all this time Hannah was about to find what she’d been both desperately hoping for and dreading. She had finally found him, and with the worst possible outcome.
A guttural hiss made her jump. An ugly, bald-headed turkey vulture came winging down through the break in the trees, landing on the ground in front of her. When she took a step back, her foot slid out from under her, sinking with a sickeningly wet crunch into a pocket of what that felt like iced-over mud. When she picked her foot back up, part of a ribcage came up with it.
Hannah wheeled backward, landing on her rear, scuttling away and kicking at the bones that clutched at her foot. Vomit rose up in her throat at the putrid smell and the icy sliminess that ran down over the top of her boot and soaked her sock. Hannah scooted across the dirt until her back hit a tree and she couldn’t go any farther.
Scattered, disjointed bones were trailed behind her, slick ropes of rotted flesh stretched out between them, the parts of a broken body fallen and flattened into something unrecognizable. The closest pieces were the biggest, the section of ribcage Hannah had shaken from around her ankle, and another spiky knob of bones half buried in leaves.
A spiky, pointed knob of bones. Hannah deflated. Bone, pointed in a way that would have made a brag-worthy trophy on someone’s wall. A pair of sizable horns, still firmly attached to the head of the deer whose carcass Hannah had fallen into.
“Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Hannah nodded, embarrassed, as the deputy Sheriff Morgan had sent out in response to her frantic call ducked out of the waiting room, relieved to be rid of her.
“Hey Hannah,” Laurel behind the reception desk said, looking up briefly. Her nose crinkled when the smell reached her. Covering her nose with her sleeve, Laurel picked up the buzzing phone. Quickly hanging it up again, she motioned Hannah back.
It was unusual for her to be seen so quickly. Hannah had been haunting the sheriff’s department as often as she had the scene, stopping by daily in the month since the accident and badgering anyone who would listen for information. The short wait today might have had something to do with her arriving in a squad car. Or maybe it was because of the sme
ll. Either way, this wasn’t going to be one of those days where it slowly grew dark while she read and reread the same old magazines and waited for the sheriff to finish whatever he was working on that took precedence over Hannah—which was pretty much everything.
Walking around the edge of the desk, Hannah turned the corner and stood for a moment, staring at the scattered work stations where every person was looking remarkably busy, their attention turned to anything but her. No one looked up or made eye contact as she walked to the back of the room where the sheriff was visible through the glass door of his office. He waved her in.
The rolling office chair gave out a groan as Sheriff Morgan dropped himself into it. He sniffed, just once, then looked straight at her. On his usually cluttered desk was a single sheet of white paper. Hannah’s heart leapt momentarily.
“I told Denny he could’ve dropped you home. This would a kept till tomorrow.”
“You said you wanted me to come by. You have some information for me?”
“First, why don’t you tell me what happened out there,” he said.
“I was out in the woods looking and I saw vultures. I was sure I found him.”
“Deer?”
She nodded.
“Do you know why?” He didn’t waste any breath waiting for her to answer. “In all the looking, all you’ve ever found out there is a deer, because that was all there ever was to find.”
He paused for a moment and sat back, then continued less gruffly.
“Miss Cirric,” he said. “Hannah.” The sheriff pulled his hat off and set it on its little wooden stand by the desk, running a hand through his wispy, carroty hair. “You didn’t find him because there’s nothing to find. I’ve been sure of that for a while now, but I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt, since you were so sure, and since it wasn’t hurting anything for you to keep after it. I realize now that was a mistake.”
“Sheriff, wait. What are you—”
He put up a hand to silence her. “I blame myself. I let this go on longer than it should have, and it turns out that wasn’t the right thing to do. But it ends now.”
Hannah sat back with an empty chest, like the air had been punched out of her. This what not at all what she’d thought she’d come by to hear.
“I won’t waste another breath on this. It’s time to stop coming by here and wasting my staff’s time. Same with calling the state bunker every day. All inquiries into this matter have been officially suspended.”
He pushed the piece of paper in front of him across the desk to her. “I don’t know what you hit, or what happened to make you see what you believe you saw, but there was no man in the road. You didn’t hit anybody. You didn’t kill anybody. That’s a good thing. You should be happy about that.”
“Happy? I should be happy? So you’re saying I made this up?”
“Well…I’m not saying exactly that.” He leaned back and thought for a moment. “All I’m saying is that something happened, but it wasn’t what you believe it was, and the reason you saw what you think you did needs figuring out. That’s why I wanted you to come down here. I had this ready for you before you called, but that just made it even more clear it was time.”
She crossed her arms and blinked back frustrated tears, holding in angry shaking with her arms. “Time for what?” she spat out.
Sheriff Morgan nodded at the sheet of paper. She reached out and flipped it over. There were only a few thin lines of blocky handwriting at the top. Hannah read the name, number, and address for the mental health practice down the street.
“I think it’d be best if you spoke to another kind of professional about this, Hannah. Since I’m pretty sure you aren’t going to just forget about it, I think you better get some help straightening things out.” Sheriff Morgan sounded gruff, but it was a put on. There was pity in his eyes when she looked up at him. A dressing down she could have taken; the pity, she couldn’t.
Zombie-like, Hannah got up and made her way back out past the averted eyes, catching her boot on an unraveled seam in the ugly orange carpet and stumbling, batting away a hand that reached out to steady her. Finally reaching the front door, she pushed her way out onto the sidewalk and sank onto a bench, letting out a big, pent-up breath in a cloud of white air.
To her left and right most of the small town was visible, its main street lined with businesses and houses shoulder to shoulder. Past these were gaps and spaces and empty lots, until the decaying buildings petered out into emptiness and long dirt roads. There were few people outside, and the ones that were took no notice of Hannah, hustling into the restaurant or the bar next door. Everyone and everything else had moved forward and moved on.
Not Hannah. He was out there somewhere, a man likely dead because of her. The sheriff didn’t believe her; no one believed her, but he was out there. Hannah just couldn’t find him.
She crumpled up the piece of paper and jammed it in her pocket. The sheriff could think what he wanted. He could tell himself she’d overreacted or had some kind of emotional breakdown. He could decide to think she’d flat-out lied or was on something. Why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t anyone? There was no body, no blood, no evidence. That meant there was no missing man, nothing to lose sleep over, nothing to worry about.
Nope, she thought. I know what happened. I know what I saw. She took a deep, deep breath, peeled herself off the bench, and headed home, boots crunching on the scattering of salt on the sidewalk. Hannah made the long trek home in the dark, to her silent house.
Once she was inside she crawled into bed and tried to shut out the world, but one part—the worst part—wouldn’t go away. Like every other time Hannah had closed her eyes since the accident, starting with the very first time sitting at her kitchen table, she dreamed of him, replaying the accident over and over again.
Tonight the sheriff had shut her out and stopped the investigation, but it didn’t stop the nightmares. It hadn’t seemed possible, but it made them worse. When she finally fell asleep, what had been a realistic replay of the event morphed into something more sinister. The phantom bloody trickle that had never completely left the back of her throat grew into a hot, choking torrent in her sleep. The coppery flood filled her mouth and nostrils, drowning her in her bed. She jerked awake sputtering and breathless.
Stumbling her way downstairs, Hannah poured herself a coffee mug full of wine from the box in the refrigerator and drained it without stopping. When it was empty she held it out in front of her and stared at it, at the drop of red clinging to the rim. Suddenly furious—at herself, at everything—she hurled the mug across the room. It bounced off the pantry door and hit the linoleum in two pieces.
The cork board on the pantry door was covered with layers upon layers of papers and newspaper clippings, the sketch of the man tacked on top of them all in pride of place. Hannah considered the face staring back at her. It hadn’t been so blank and placid a moment ago in her dreams. Instead she’d seen it streaked with gore and ferocious, filled with rage. A hissing, slurred voice had hurled accusations at her through flapping, severed lips, the chest that was heaving with the effort now fully caved in, rotting and decaying. He looked like a demon as he cursed her, damning Hannah for killing him, for walking away and leaving him to rot.
5
Pulling the door shut behind her, Hannah eyed the bulbous white shape in her front yard. She’d ignored the calls from the garage for so long they had eventually given up and deposited her good-as-new car at a pissed-off looking angle on the lawn. It had gathered an uneven coating of snow since, and some toothy looking stalactites of ice that dripping from the side mirrors. She gave them a swipe when she walked by and sent them crashing to the ground. It was as close to driving it as she’d get this morning, or any morning. Hannah couldn’t bring herself to get behind the wheel since the accident. It conjured up all kinds of bad memories, and she had enough of those as it was.
On foot it was, as usual. It was frigid out, but Hannah was thoroughly warm by the time she m
ade it up to the end of the long driveway. At the top where the dirt met the pavement, she turned right—strictly by force of habit—then stopped and looked down the long stretch of empty road.
That was the way she usually went; Hannah probably could have walked to where it happened with her eyes closed. She still returned to the scene every day to comb the woods and walk the banks of the river. If there was anything out there, chances were she would have found it, after all this time. She knew that; she just didn’t know what else to do with herself.
This morning, Hannah turned around and started walking toward town, feet crunching noisily through the skim of dirty ice. She hadn’t come this way much since she’d stopped making the trip to haunt the sheriff’s department, hardly ever since the day he shoved the piece of paper at her with the number for the local shrink. At the time she’d had no intention of taking his advice, but now, if she didn’t get a move on, she was going to be late for her appointment.
There were plastic clings in the shapes of angels and Christmas lights in the window of the therapist’s office. Their edges were curling under untidily in a way Hannah found instantly irritating, though if she was being honest with herself, she was determined to find fault even before she walked in the door. Nothing she’d seen so far had given her much incentive to change her mind, starting with the sticky smile the receptionist plastered on her face the minute Hannah opened the door. The look was clearly meant to convey concern and welcome, but all the lipstick was just a thin veneer that did nothing to cover up the smugness underneath.
Making the appointment in the first place was enough, wasn’t it? It might be better to reschedule and give herself a little more time to get used to the idea. If only that were an option, she thought. If Hannah cancelled it was at the risk of ending up in jail or committed.
Echoes (Book 1): Echoes Page 3