“Thanks.” Levi snatched them up. He clapped the EMT on the back, pushed open the door, and stepped into the wind.
22
The drifts were deep now. The borrowed truck barely made it up Blackberry Ridge. But that might have been because I was driving.
In the central clearing on Birchardville Hill, we found a makeshift command post. Sheila Norris, Pat’s dispatch operator friend, huddled in the cab of a huge truck. She had a mane of thick chestnut hair shot through with gray. Her voice was sharp, but her eyes kind. “Booth is off coordinating with the State Police to set up check points along the highways. They’re hoping to snag Johnson before he crosses the state line.” She unfurled a map of Birchardville Hill separated into quadrants, instructing us to search between Quarries Two and Three.
My heart stuttered. Multiple quarries? And we’d been running around up here in the dark?
The woman extended an air horn. “Take this. Two short blasts to signal trouble, one long blast if you find anything. Three blasts calls everyone back. And be careful. Visibility is low.”
No kidding. The snow had died down, but low-hanging clouds still obscured the moon.
Levi had grown up in these hills. I had no doubt he could navigate them blindfolded. Without checking to see if I was following, he trudged off into the dark.
We searched for hours, swinging our flashlights in crazy arcs and calling Reed’s name until we were hoarse. We checked tree stands, the shallow quarries, small caves, hollow trees, and mile upon mile of snow-covered deadfall. Eventually, the storm dropped completely. The clouds cleared and the air stilled.
The surrounding hills reared against a pink-tinged sky, and I realized I didn’t need the flashlight any more. It was morning.
I tugged Levi’s sleeve. “We’ve checked this area already.”
He nodded but pushed forward. His toe caught against a hidden rock, and he stumbled. He looked awful.
“We should head back and check in,” I said, thinking he needed fluids. “Maybe someone’s found something.”
Levi grunted. “They would have blown the horn.”
As if on cue, a horn sounded. Three blasts. We’d been called to the clearing.
Levi broke into a shambling jog, high stepping through the drifts.
I struggled along behind. It was a bit like running through a calf-high surf. Just as wet, but a thousand times colder and much less enjoyable.
In the clearing, we joined a gathering circle of Birchardville residents. Pink-cheeked and red-nosed, they drooped—cold, tired, and haggard. I’m sure I looked no better.
Beside me, Levi swayed, ready to drop. His attention jumped from face to face, scanning for hope.
Sheila Norris stepped in front of Levi, her face set. “Levi. I’m calling the search.”
He rocked back as if he’d been kicked in the head again.
Tears filled Sheila’s eyes. She laid a hand on his arm. “We hate to do this. We really do. But we’ve combed every inch of this Hill. Reed’s not up here.”
It took two grown men to drag Levi off Birchardville Hill. They muscled him into the bed of a truck and sat shoulder-to-shoulder, pressing him between them as the truck skidded its way down Blackberry Ridge to Griffis Road.
I followed behind at a snail’s pace, alone in the EMT’s truck.
To think that just days ago, I’d suspected that Levi didn’t have Reed’s best interests at heart.
The tires bumped over half-frozen ruts, the heater hummed, and my ears rang.
Beneath it all, my heart thrummed a dreary rhythm.
Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.
23
I parked behind Levi’s house, watching as he all but fell out of the other truck and shambled up the steps to his house. Feeling lost, I trailed behind.
Someone forced him into a back room, presumably to shower and change. I dumped the cold coffee and made a fresh pot, pouring it out for the friends who had gathered. No one questioned my right to do this. In fact, most of them thanked me. Pat Martin even hugged me.
I felt crushed by their kindness.
I’d just set a third pot to brew when a commotion from the living room drew my attention. I paused in the doorway, the soft light from the Christmas tree blurring as tears filled my eyes.
Gathered around Levi, a circle of men and women laid their hands on his shoulders. Together they prayed, the murmur of their voices rising and falling in quiet symphony.
Half of me longed to join them—these people who had known each other their whole lives, who had put their Christmas on hold for this man and his nephew, whom they obviously loved. But I had no right to be here.
I stepped backward, intent on slipping away.
My phone rang.
The prayer circle fell silent. Watery eyes popped open and heads swiveled.
Horrified, I yanked the phone from my pocket and fumbled to shut off the ringer.
In my shaking rush, I accidentally accepted the call.
A tinny little voice cut through the silence. “Earth to Captain Scott—are you there, Captain?”
24
Levi shot across the room, vaulted the couch between us, and lunged for the phone. He accidentally hip checked me, and I spun hard into the door frame. I ricocheted back into him and clutched his forearms. My socks slipped against the polished wood floor. Together, we stumble-hopped sideways, bobbling the phone between us.
Meanwhile, Reed’s voice rattled on, high and thin. “Morgan? So you are there. Thank God. I lost my phone on the Hill and couldn’t remember any numbers. Thankfully, I had yours written on the back of my hand.”
I had questions.
Levi, however, didn’t seem to have processed the statement. Apparently, he also hadn’t noticed that he’d turned the speaker on. He clutched the phone to the good side of his face, cradling it with his big hands. “Thank God,” he breathed again and again. “Reed, thank God. Thank God. Thank God.”
“Oh, so you’re there too, are you?” Reed’s voice sounded pleased, if shaky. “Good. Listen, can somebody come pick me up?”
Levi pushed past me, grabbing for his coat and patting for his keys, seeming to have forgotten momentarily that an escaped convict had stolen his truck. “Where?”
Reed laughed. “I’m in Maryland.”
In the end, we didn’t have to drive that far.
A quick call to Officer Booth was enough to get him coordinating with the Maryland State Police. They agreed to drive Reed partway so that we could pick him up.
There was a brief scuffle when the EMT refused to let Levi borrow his truck on grounds that he might have a concussion. Only after checking and double-checking Levi’s pupil dilation with a pen light and grudgingly receiving my solemn assurances that I’d intervene if I thought Levi wasn’t fit to drive did the EMT give in.
Once behind the wheel, Levi stared straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel precisely at the ten and two positions.
“Do you want me to start route guidance?” I asked, extending my hand between us, palm upward.
Levi shot me a surprised glance out of his good eye, seeming just then to have realized I was there. He wordlessly passed my phone back. Our fingers brushed. I’d forgotten my gloves again. This time it hardly mattered.
With the heater blasting and the hope of seeing Reed beating through my veins, we headed south on Route 220.
Driving conditions weren’t ideal, but the lanes were bare and empty.
Of course they were.
It was Christmas morning.
25
Levi forgot to put the truck in park. He hopped out while it was still rolling and barreled across the parking lot toward Reed, engulfing him in the hugest hug I’d ever seen.
I scooted across the cab into the driver’s seat, stomped on the brake, and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Reed was OK, and we were taking him home.
“I was already i
n the truck when Johnson dove for it,” Reed explained, wedged between us in the cab. His knees jiggled rhythmically as he talked, pumping excess energy into the air. “He was so intent on getting behind the wheel that he didn’t see me roll behind the seats.”
I laughed. “How did you fit?”
“I know, right? I really had to scrunch up. It helped that it was dark and Johnson was distracted.”
Levi gripped the wheel, his knuckles white. “What possessed you get into the truck in the first place?”
Reed tensed. “Don’t be mad, OK? I was planning to run into him. I know, I know, don’t say it. But come on, he kept screaming about how he was going to kill Morgan and then kill me and kill you and kill Booth and everybody in Birchardville. I panicked.”
I patted his arm.
“Once he drove out of town, I didn’t know what to do. It thought the smartest thing would be to wait until he stopped—then I’d just roll out and run away. But the first time he stopped, he didn’t leave the truck. He just stood in the door peed right there. I could hear everything.” Judging by his tone, this might have been the most traumatic part of his experience.
“Then he finally pulled off the interstate, ditched the truck in a hotel parking lot, and boosted the one parked next to it. I waited until he pulled away, jumped out, and ran into the lobby. I don’t think they believed my story, but they called the police, which is what I wanted anyway. I had the Maryland police contact Booth, and after they talked to him, they let me call you.” He looped his arm though mine.
I squeezed his bony elbow. Beneath my palm, the fabric of the red hoodie was worn and soft.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Levi growled.
Reed shook his head. “You were right about my generation not knowing any phone numbers. The only reason I knew Captain Morgan’s is because I sneaked it off your phone while you were in the shower yesterday.” He pulled up his cuff to reveal faded marker on the back of his hand. It was indeed my number.
“I would have used it for good,” he assured me. “Not evil.”
I laughed and nudged him with my shoulder. I believed him.
Levi’s phone pinged, and he flipped it to Reed, whose face lit up when he read the message. “No way,” he chirped. “Mom’s coming?”
26
The woman huddling on Levi’s back steps could only have been Evie. Her hair, a glorious chestnut brown, billowed in all directions. She ran straight at Reed, and the two of them went down in the snow, a tangle of limbs and wild hair. Levi slogged past them, his steps heavy and deliberate. He kicked a bit of snow at them as he passed. They leapt to their feet and back-tackled him, forcing him into the world’s most awkward hug. When he groaned, they helped him up the steps and into the house.
Loath to break the moment, I turned to go, inwardly quailing at the cold walk across the street, through the cemetery, and up the hill to Pat’s house. I thought I might die of exhaustion. One thing was for sure. I was ready for the longest, hottest shower of my life.
“Morgan.” Levi’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried through the winter hush.
I turned back. He had paused in the doorway, propped up by his sister and his nephew. He had an arm slung across each of their shoulders. Behind him, the lights glowed. It was hard to meet his gaze.
“Join us for breakfast,” Levi said.
“You have to.” Reed gestured for me to hurry.
Evie nodded. “We can’t let you spend Christmas alone.”
I stepped forward through a sudden blur of tears.
Then my phone rang.
27
They’d caught him. Mitchell Charles David Johnson had been apprehended in Maryland and would be transported back to Florida where he would, in God’s providence, be put back behind bars—and remain there.
“Thank you,” I breathed into the phone, clutching it against my face. It seemed such an inadequate thing to say—just two small words. I wracked my brain for something more, but Booth was still talking.
“Where are you?”
“I’m at Levi and Reed’s.”
“Stay there.”
Which could mean anything. Fortunately, I wasn’t left wondering for long.
Shortly thereafter, Booth stumped up the steps and into Levi’s kitchen, easing his bulk into a chair with a long sigh. He greeted Evie as if she were a long-lost relative and accepted a cup of coffee, studying me as he sipped. Evie bustled quietly in the background, pulling things from the fridge and tsking over the mostly empty cabinets.
When Officer Booth had said he needed to talk to me, I’d assumed he merely needed to tie up some loose ends regarding the dead bird incident or the fact that a well-known murderer had just tried to kill me and half the town.
But I was wrong.
Officer Booth had been a busy man. Apparently, coordinating a successful statewide manhunt hadn’t been his only focus over the past twenty-four hours.
He set down his mug and leaned forward on his arms. “Something you said yesterday didn’t sit well with me.”
Had it been just yesterday?
“OK,” I said. This couldn’t be good.
“It’s about your assistant.”
“Leah?” My stomach dipped. Leah. In all the fuss, I’d nearly forgotten. “Is she all right?” I clenched my hands together.
He stared at me, long and steady. “They thought it best that someone tell you in person.”
My pulse stuttered. Had Johnson gotten to her first?
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Booth said.
Anything was better than this suspense. “Just say it.”
“Your assistant—Leah? She’s not who you think she is.”
“What do you mean?”
He shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. “When I sent a request for a wellness check, the department down there told me they weren’t able to find any records of someone of that name living in their county.”
My stomach dipped. Surely not.
“So that’s when I played a hunch,” Booth said.
I sat stunned, finally considering the evidence.
Booth must have seen the truth dawning in my eyes, because his expression shifted from concern to compassion.
“So,” I said, my voice cracking. “Let me guess. Bev Pickett didn’t limit herself to dummy social media accounts?”
“That’s right,” Booth said, nodding. “For the past six months, she’s been passing herself off under the name Leah Randolph Archer.”
28
The Palm Beach International Airport has always been my favorite. It’s small, clean, cozy, and low-key. Today I discovered that it’s also perfect for picking up arrivals.
The night before, I’d stayed up making a sign. On it, I’d printed the names of both my guests. Underneath, I’d written Remote Assistant Training—THE USUAL SUSPECTS.
I planned to wait at the bottom of the escalator in my new yellow sundress—impossible to miss.
Only I didn’t get to use the sign. Their connecting flight from Charlotte had landed early, and they were already waiting outside when I arrived. They stood side-by-side on the curb at Ground Pickup, the family resemblance obvious even from a distance.
I honked as I pulled up, popping the trunk and sliding out of the driver’s seat just in time to be tackled by six feet of flying elbows, skinny knees, and wild hair.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this and that my school is letting me count it as an internship and that Mom let me come all the way down here and that Uncle Levi came along and this is an amazing opportunity and I’m never going to be able to pay you back and—”
I laughed, took Reed’s face in my hands, and patted his cheeks. That shushed him.
“Your uncle convinced me that it would be wise to train my next assistant in person.” Levi and Booth—and what had felt like the entire police force of the East Coast—all said that if I ever hired another stranger, I deserved what I got.
“I mean, you hav
e to consider the evidence,” Levi had said one night over the phone as we’d made arrangements for this trip. I’d decided to forgive him for that. But only after he’d apologized and promised never again to quote my show straight at me.
Reed bounced on his toes. “Are we going to the beach today? Will we see alligators? Or manatees? Or famous people?” He slapped his phone against his palm. “I need to charge my phone so I can take pics. Carmen’s going to be so jealous.”
Levi followed at a more leisurely pace, pulling both suitcases. He appeared to have completely recovered from being bashed in the head with a tombstone. His face looked good. Better than good. He’d shaved the mustache, revealing a full upper lip with a deep dip in the center.
I tried not to stare.
We didn’t hug or even shake hands. Still, the balmy February air felt supercharged.
Levi lifted the bags into the trunk, and I stepped up beside him. He placed his hand on the popped hood but didn’t slam it.
“I can’t believe it’s February,” he said. He leaned against the hood and tilted his head back.
We stood there together, momentarily shielded from Reed. The sea breeze picked up, flapping the hem of my sundress around my calves.
Levi smiled at me, the mismatched eyes very close.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded, lifted a hand, and placed it over his large, warm one.
Then I pushed down, slamming the trunk.
Acknowledgements
Birchardville really is real.
Though everyone in this story is fictional, the town does exist. I wrote the first half of this book there in January of 2017, spending my mornings wandering the hills and the afternoons wrapped in a duvet and curled up next to a pellet stove with a computer in my lap.
Thanks to all my Pennsylvania friends for supporting this project and contributing to its success. First and foremost, to Alissa Birchard Lozano for being an amazing friend and for introducing me to your improbable hometown; to Marsha for hosting my writing retreat and providing ongoing (and vital!) assistance throughout the process; and, of course, to Buzz for cheerfully instigating the whole idea.
Murder on Birchardville Hill Page 8