‘Hello to you too, Tommy. And for your information, I am home. I’m just ignoring them so I can talk to my biggest client.’
‘Well, doesn’t that make me feel special?’
Who is it? Becky mouthed. She never asked who was on the phone.
‘Dom,’ he whispered to her.
This answer seemed acceptable to her and she went back to her book.
‘Tommy,’ Dom said. ‘I have my finger in the dike here. You missed a third deadline yesterday. What the hell?’
‘It’s not done yet, Dom. I told you.’
‘You’re a rainmaker, friend, but even that will get you only so far. You have a contract.’
‘It’s my best book yet.’
‘That’s what you keep telling me. But how the hell would I know? You haven’t let anyone read anything but the first chapter. Nice and creepy, admittedly.’
‘I’m close. I just have to figure out the ending.’
There was silence on the other end, but not for long.
‘You don’t know the fucking ending? You don’t know the one thing your readers want the most from you? Why didn’t you tell me this?’
‘I just did.’
‘You just ruined my night.’
‘You should have called me in the morning. I could have ruined your whole day.’
More silence. Labored breathing.
‘When?’ Dominic asked.
‘Three weeks.’
‘How firm?’
‘Completely. Three weeks and I promise you it will be done.’
At least that’s what I thought before a few minutes ago, Tommy thought.
‘OK, that’s what I’ll tell them. Don’t fuck me on this.’
‘Dom, you paid off your house thanks to me. I’ll fuck you any way I want to.’
Becky raised her gaze to him. Tommy shrugged.
‘Touché,’ Dom said before disconnecting the call.
‘What did he want?’ Becky asked.
‘Wanted to know when the draft will be ready.’ Tommy looked out the window as he spoke. He wanted to look at his wife, but he was too afraid of what his face would show.
His phone chirped again. Tommy finally glanced at his wife.
‘Another call?’ she said. ‘Now who is it?’
Tommy looked at his phone.
PRIVATE CALLER
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Ignore it, then.’
Tommy normally would have. But this day was now far from normal, and Tommy answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Tommy.’
Maggie’s voice. It was deeper and without the soft Minnesota accent, but he knew it was her. Maggie.
Elizabeth.
Tommy stood and walked away from his wife. He didn’t turn around to see her expression, but he could feel her gaze burning into his back.
‘How did you get this number?’
‘That’s a pretty clichéd question coming from a writer. That’s really the first thing you want to ask me?’
He bowed his head into the phone and lowered his voice. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Of course it is. You didn’t recognize me.’
‘That was a disguise.’
‘You’re a genius.’
She sounded younger than Maggie. In the darker parts of Tommy’s brain, she even sounded sexy.
‘How do I know it’s you?’
A pause.
‘Do you want me to tell you where the body is buried?’
It could still be a joke. Or someone with some information but not all of it. Hoping to blackmail a rich novelist.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’
‘Very well. Rade Baristow is buried four feet beneath the dead elm tree, thirty paces west of the clearing in the woods behind the Jackson Creek subdivision in Lind Falls, Oregon.’
A small hand squeezed Tommy’s heart. ‘More,’ he said. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Buried with him is a steak knife,’ she said. ‘On the blade of that knife is the blood of—’
Tommy pressed the disconnect button on his cell phone. He didn’t know why, and wasn’t even sure he had wanted to. But his finger had done it just the same, as if beyond his brain’s control.
His fingers raked through his long dark hair, squeezing and pulling until it hurt.
He turned and looked at Becky. He was certain she hadn’t heard anything, but that didn’t comfort him much. The last thing Tommy wanted to do was walk back over to his wife.
Dear Jesus. If ever I need a blank expression, it’s now.
His legs felt stiff as he walked back to the table.
‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘No one.’
‘Clearly it was someone. Phones don’t ring by themselves.’
‘It was a solicitor. I was surprised they had this number.’
She stared at him. Assessing.
‘What were they selling?’
It wasn’t in her nature to probe like this. She’s spooked.
Tommy knew he could play this one of two ways. Deepen the lie and hope it all went away, or cut her off until he could think of a better story. He decided on the latter.
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Why do you care who it was, then?’
‘Because,’ she said, sitting up in her chair, ‘you seemed freaked out and you walked away from the table. So I’m thinking they must be selling some pretty crazy shit for you to have that kind of reaction. I’m a little curious.’
The worst part of all of this was he wanted to tell Becky. More than anything he wanted her to know. What a relief that would be. To share the pain he’d felt for so long. To let Becky into the darkest part of his life, so that she could bring some light with her. But he couldn’t. No one could know, because if she knew, Tommy would lose her. He had almost lost her once, and he didn’t want to risk that ever again. The darkness had to remain his and his alone.
‘It wasn’t a solicitor,’ he finally said. ‘But, it’s like the note. You don’t need to know.’
Becky’s right eye twitched. Not a good sign.
‘That’s an arrogant thing to say. Have I ever held back something from you?’
‘If you did a good job of it, I suppose I wouldn’t know, would I?’
More twitching.
‘Damnit, stop trying to humor your way out of this conversation like you always do.’
‘Becky, listen to me for a second. Let me ask you honestly, do you tell me everything that you do during your day? Do you not hold any secrets from me?’
‘I tell you everything that’s important.’
‘How do you decide what’s important?’
She squeezed her right fist until her knuckle was nearly as pale as the diamond on her wedding ring.
‘I … just … know.’
‘OK, then. Give me a little credit.’
‘You used that credit up two years ago.’
Ouch.
‘In this case, I just know that I don’t want to tell you about the note or the phone call.’
‘Are they from the same person?’
‘I don’t want to discuss it.’
‘Are you … are you in some kind of trouble?’
‘No,’ he lied. He said it fast enough for it to sound convincing. Or so he hoped.
Becky closed her eyes and her mouth turned into a small, tight frown. She took a breath and made it two words into her next question.
‘Are you …’
She didn’t finish.
He saw the pain in her face and he forced himself to keep eye contact.
‘No, Becky. Nothing like that. I promise.’
She was questioning his fidelity. The truth was much darker than that.
FOUR
Tommy squeezed the leather steering wheel, wanting to feel it crumple under his grip. He and Becky each drove their own cars home, and Tommy was thankful for the ten minutes of silence. He changed lan
es and wove in and out of traffic, then sped through a yellow light that had turned red just as he entered the intersection. A fatal wreck might just be the distraction I need, he thought.
Tommy tried to process what was happening, assessing the situation objectively while not really believing any of it was real. She wants revenge, he thought. That’s it. She’s been following my career and she read the teaser chapter of The Blood of the Young. She’s afraid I’m going to reveal who she is.
But that’s crazy. I have no idea who she is. I don’t even know her last name, or where she’s even been in the last thirty years.
Tommy pressed down on the accelerator and swerved around a Honda, earning him a honk from its driver. Finally, he entered his subdivision – Cherry Creek North Estates – and swerved his Audi on to the winding, crushed-stone driveway of their house. He looked up at the massive casa de Devereaux as he always did: like it couldn’t actually be theirs.
The house was over six thousand finished square feet, and they used barely half of it. When the book money went from serious to laughable, Tommy had bought it. Now and then, he yearned for the poorer times, when it was a splurge to get a babysitter and go to the movies.
Tommy got out of his car and stepped into the night. His shoes crunched against the pea gravel path as he walked toward his front door.
The phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out.
PRIVATE CALLER
‘No,’ he mumbled. His thumb found the power button and he shut the phone off without answering.
He put the key into the front door and turned, but nothing happened. The front door was already unlocked. Not unheard of, but not the norm. Melinda – their nanny – was diligent about locks.
He opened the door and slowly stepped inside his house.
‘Hello?’
His voice echoed in the cavernous entryway. More lights off than on. No sound of a television. No fighting. No laughter. Nothing.
A glance at the security system showed it was deactivated.
Lights glowed down the hallway. Tommy walked down the corridor and entered the kitchen, finding it similarly empty. If the kids had eaten, there was no sign of it. Maybe Melinda had already cleaned up.
The silence was stifling.
Tommy placed his messenger bag on the counter and checked the time on the microwave. Seven fifteen.
Too early for bedtime. Kids must be upstairs.
He heard the front door open at the same moment he saw the note on the refrigerator.
A wave of nausea rolled through Tommy’s stomach, like he was freefalling in a nose-diving airplane. He thought of ten-year-old Rade Baristow (known as ‘Brian’ in the fictionalized version), the boy who hadn’t done anything wrong except talk to a pretty stranger on an empty summer day. Rade, whose skull opened like an eggshell under the weight of a rock.
Then Tommy thought of Chance, his own ten-year-old boy.
He squinted at the Post-it note on the stainless-steel surface, not really wanting to read it. Not really. Because Tommy knew there could be nothing good written on it.
I got your kids! Can’t wait to teach them everything I know!
Those were the words that appeared in Tommy’s mind. Elizabeth had come back into his life, and the idea that she could have access to Tommy’s own children horrified him in a way he never thought possible. He felt the power drain from his legs and his brain begin to cloud, threatening to shut off completely.
He forced himself closer to the refrigerator, not wanting to read but having to.
Then he saw the familiar handwriting.
Took the kids to MaGee’s. Back no later than 8. I promise! Melinda
Tommy closed his eyes and exhaled.
‘Where is everyone?’
Tommy jumped at the voice. He snapped his head toward Becky, who had just walked in the kitchen.
‘Um …’ He held up the note, which stuck to his index finger. ‘Melinda took them to MaGee’s for dinner.’
‘You’re a little on edge,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I like secretive Tommy.’
Tommy thought of more lies but held back. It didn’t matter. Becky knew he was hiding something, and denying it served no purpose. What did matter was they were now alone. It would give Becky time to pry a little deeper, which was exactly what he didn’t want.
‘I need to work,’ he said.
‘What, now? You never work this late.’
‘I do when I have to. And the book isn’t going to finish itself.’ He walked over and kissed her on the forehead, which suddenly felt like the wrong thing to do. Confirming this, Becky pulled away.
‘What about dinner?’
‘I’ll grab something later.’
‘Fine.’
‘I won’t be too long. I promise.’
She paused for a moment before turning and walking out of the kitchen, and Tommy understood why. That pause was an opportunity for him to change his mind. To sit and have dinner with her. Assuage her fears.
Tommy said nothing. He let her go.
This wasn’t the time, even if by avoiding her he was making the inevitable confrontation worse.
He walked into his office and shut the door.
The smell of books brought him comfort, a sense of place. His office housed nearly three thousand books – some rare, most not. They stood like sentries on their shelves, floor to ceiling, covering three walls. Tommy breathed them in as he settled behind his hulking cherry desk. He pulled his laptop from his messenger bag and plugged it into his monitor.
The glowing screen showed the same nothingness he’d been staring at on the laptop screen just one hour ago. A page half-filled with words.
As the wireless network established a connection, his e-mail icon appeared.
Three new messages.
Two were spam.
His gaze went to the third one. The one from someone named [email protected].
The one with the subject line reading THE BOY IN THE WOODS.
FIVE
Do you still think about it? About what it felt like carrying that little body to the hole we dug? About the blood you got on your jeans, and the knife we used to cut ourselves? Do you think about how you were the only one who refused me afterwards? How you wanted to hit me, but my Watcher stopped you? Do you wonder who he was and what happened to him?
Of course you do, Tommy. You think of all these things every day. That’s why you write, isn’t it? And your killers are always women. I’m not going to call that a coincidence.
You have always needed me.
And now I need you.
Contact Mark – he’s easy to find. Go to him.
Tommy stared at the plain black lettering on the monitor, the cursor blinking away time.
We had no choice, Tommy thought. Your Watcher? Is that what you call him? Tommy remembered the man who had come out from behind a tree that day, the man with the ski mask and the shotgun. The man who had said very little, but what he did say was the reason Tommy and the others hadn’t all run to the police. He was the reason Tommy lived for years with his shameful secret. This Watcher was Elizabeth’s partner, but Tommy didn’t include that detail in his teaser chapter. In fact, he wasn’t in Tommy’s book at all, because after the teaser chapter Tommy told an entirely different – and fictional – account of that day.
Elizabeth disappeared after Rade’s murder, but Tommy had always wondered if this … Watcher … was someone from Lind Falls. A neighbor, even. Whoever he was, he’d gotten off on the murder as much as Elizabeth had.
Tommy forced down the urge to vomit.
Contact Mark. Go to him.
Mark. In The Blood of the Young, the boy Tommy knew as Mark was renamed ‘Spencer’. His friend Jason had been renamed ‘Drew’. In that opening chapter, the name changes were the only thing altered from reality. And Elizabeth now wanted Tommy to seek Mark out. Clearly, she had already found him (he’s easy to find). But now she wanted Tommy to find him as well. Why?
H
e turned his gaze from the screen to the rows of books in the shelves, the millions of words. How many others had died because Tommy, Mark, and Jason were too scared to talk? How many more bodies were there in those woods?
Somehow she’d gotten his private address – not the one designated for fan mail.
That thought stopped him. Tommy’s assistant, Sofia, went through the fan mail account. What if Elizabeth had written there as well?
But three words mollified him, if only a little.
I need you.
That’s what she had written, hadn’t she? He looked back on the screen and assured himself. If she needed him, then she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize Tommy’s ability to keep their secret hidden. Not yet, at least.
Whatever she was doing, she was making sure it was for his eyes only. For now.
Having a hunch, Tommy replied with a blank e-mail.
Moments later the bounce-back message arrived.
MESSAGE UNDELIVERABLE
Communication was only to be one-way. Elizabeth wanted control.
Tommy put his face in his hands and peered through his fingers out at the wall of books on the far side of the study. His gaze caught his Stephen King collection. All hardbacks. All signed.
He stared at one volume in particular.
Misery.
The irony didn’t elude him, but his mind wasn’t quite ready to assess objectively the whole life-imitating-art aspect of what was happening. Besides, in that book, the author was just trying to mind his own business. It wasn’t like he had a history with his tormentor. A history of violent crime. A collusion.
Tommy stood and stared out the office’s solitary, massive window into his backyard. October was three days away and the days were tightening. Despite the heat that lingered during the late-summer days, the cold of fall would be upon them soon enough. Darkness draped over the pool and the rolling lawn, punctuated only by small circles of light thrown off by the solar lamps lining the pathways. His eyes searched for movement. For anything out of the ordinary. Monsters in the dark, demons in the blue grass. Finding nothing, he lowered the shade.
A rap at the office door.
‘Yes?’
‘Can I come in, Daddy?’
‘Of course, darlin’.’
The door opened and Evie walked in, her long hair kinked and knotted.
The Boy in the Woods Page 3