by Sylvie Kurtz
Local Teens Presumed Drowned
ASHBROOK, TX—Two brothers, Kent and Kyle Makepeace, are presumed drowned in the Red Thunder River. Three days of searching by the Fish and Game Department, as well as local volunteers, has not yielded either body.
“The river runs fast at this time of the year,” Captain Arcaro said. “They could be all the way out to the Gulf of Mexico by now.” He added that with the debris floating on the current, the bodies had probably been torn apart and were unlikely to be recovered.
The third victim, Ellen Paxton, daughter of Sheriff Carter Paxton of Ashbrook, is still unconscious, but doctors expect a full recovery is likely.
“No wonder the sheriff is so emotional.” Taryn glanced down at him. Her eyes were shining bright. Her smile could make him believe just about anything. “She’s not dead. Ellen’s not dead. See, I told you you were wrong. You didn’t kill her.”
“She could have died later. The sheriff’s attitude implies she’s either dead or not herself.” The printed story and his vision didn’t match. “He said he lost her.”
“What you’re seeing,” Taryn insisted, finger accelerating the microfiche through the scanner once again, “is not reality. The psychiatrist at the hospital said that your emotions might not be grounded in facts. These are facts.”
But were they? Nothing felt real anymore. He had no routine to ground him, no order, just a mass of chaos. And the more they uncovered, the more adrift he was feeling, the more the sensation of corruption stalked him. How could something so vivid be so wrong? If it was right, how could he make peace with it, make amends for his actions?
“Wait,” he said. “Go back.”
She sucked in a breath. “An obituary.”
Chance tapped the screen. “Two.”
“‘Kent Aaron Makepeace,’” she read, “Seventeen, of Ashbrook, died last Friday. He was born on November 22, 1970.
“‘Mr. Makepeace was active in the Vocational Agriculture program at the Ashbrook Area High School. This spring, he took part in a volunteer program to inventory the Woodhaven Preserve. An avid saxophone player, he was a member of the marching band. He was also a member of the cross-country team and ranked thirteenth in the state.’”
Taryn paused. “Any of this spark a hint of recognition?”
He shook his head. Emptiness, as keen as a coyote howl, wailed inside him.
Taryn read on, “‘He was the son of the late Lloyd Makepeace and the late Sarah Jordan Makepeace. He is survived by his paternal grandfather, John Henry Makepeace, of Ashbrook.
“‘A memorial service will be held on Thursday at 4:00 p.m. at the Makepeace home on Twin Oaks Road.’”
Taryn crouched beside him and rubbed the stiffening triangle of muscles between his shoulder blades. Maybe he wasn’t Kent. Maybe that was why none of this information was clicking any memories into place. He scrunched his eyes and read the next obituary.
“‘Kyle Bryce Makepeace, seventeen, of Ashbrook, died last Friday. He was born on November 22, 1970.’”
“Look, Chance. The age and birth dates are the same. Kent and Kyle are twins.” Taryn squeezed his shoulders and nudged her cheek against his. The energy vibrating through her echoed inside him.
Twin. He was a twin. He had a twin.
A lump formed in his throat, but he read on, “‘Mr. Makepeace was an exceptional horseman, excelling in saddle-bronc riding and bareback-bronc riding. Named all-around champion for the season by the East Texas High School Rodeo Association, he was set to start a job at the Triple Z Ranch, in Ropestown, near Lubbock.’”
The rest of the copy was the same as Kent’s obituary.
Still nothing stirred his memory to life. Just the thought of getting up on a bucking bronc made his bones ache. If he were Kyle, wouldn’t he be drawn to the beasts?
But with the pictures accompanying the obituaries looking so much like him, he could not deny that he was one or the other of the Makepeace brothers.
His parents were long dead. But he had a grandfather. He had a twin. Somewhere out there was a man whose face matched his own, if that man was still alive, too. He was no longer a nameless nobody who’d washed up all grown in Gabenburg. He had a history, a family, a brother. Had his twin survived the river, too? Where was he? What had happened to him?
As he scanned more pages of the Ashbrook Herald, the feeling of tempting fate trickled through him, burning like acid. He was resurrecting ghosts. Was he throwing away the second chance Angus had given him fifteen years ago? So far, there was nothing pretty about this family’s history. Would he regret digging deeper?
Horror movies always had a happy ending, he reminded himself. The monster was always beaten. But not before it had killed off most of the cast. What was he sacrificing to learn the truth?
He turned to Taryn who was focused on the microfiche files, and a new wave of apprehension, buffeted by yearning, surged through him. His two unremembered pasts were colliding like waves on a beach, eroding, chafing, eating away bits and pieces of him. He wanted her. But what could he offer her without the truth? In the next painful heartbeat, he feared he would have to give up one for the other.
As the files flowed forward, the microfilm scanner sounded like the flap of wings in the dead of night, threatening to blind him with his failures.
“Ha!” she said, pointing at the screen, stilling his hand over the knob. “There it is. Ellen’s still alive. She was transferred from the hospital to a place called the Angelina Rehabilitation Center.”
“That was fifteen years ago.”
Taryn looked at him and shrugged. “It is a long shot.”
Kent or Kyle? He had to know. He had to know what had happened that day fifteen years ago.
He flipped backward to the obituaries. “We’ve got an address. Maybe John Henry Makepeace is still alive. If anyone knows the answers…”
“He would,” Taryn finished, smiling brightly.
Chance was also beginning to understand that he was damned no matter what he decided.
Just as he felt the anger of resentment rumble through him once more, Taryn’s hand reached for his, connecting him to the present. Another wash of emotion swamped him, warm and comforting. His grip tightened against the edge of the table.
If anything happened to Taryn, he would have another ghost haunting him. And this time, he knew, even amnesia would not save him from the torment.
“Chance?”
“Let’s go back to Ashbrook.” He swallowed hard. “Let’s find my grandfather.”
THE PHONE’S JANGLE was an irritation in a field of aggravation that day. The financial statement for the small oil company he was considering buying kept drifting out of focus. Garth let it flutter to the desktop and yanked the receiver off its cradle.
“Ramsey.”
“They’re up your way.”
Garth spun his chair to face the window and scoured the downtown area. The noon sun cut stark shadows across the buildings and blistered heat from the asphalt in waves. The sculpted trees stood still, limp and unmoving without the aid of a breeze. Flowers drooped, their gold and orange heads resting on the mulch trying to extract remnants of moisture from the morning’s sprinkler shower.
Instant excitement coursed through him as he watched pedestrians move along the sidewalks, searching for a familiar profile. That, he decided, was what he’d been waiting for. Playing a chess match with someone who wasn’t there wasn’t as fun as watching a face when it was put in check-mate and realized there was no way to win. He’d always been one for being up close and personal.
“Let ’em come,” Garth said. He returned his attention to the financial statement on his desk. Every line was now in clear focus. “Oh, and Carter, make sure the welcome committee leaves our guests a token of our esteem.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. When I confirm he’s a Makepeace, I want him where I can find him.”
Already concentrated on the bottom line, Garth dismissed Carter. “If he’s here, ther
e’s something he wants. He won’t leave till he gets it. The trick is to make sure he doesn’t get it till you have him where you want.”
AT LEAST they were headed in the right direction, Taryn thought. Toward home. She studied the map they’d printed off the Internet. “Turn left at the next road.”
They’d found no phone number listed for John Henry Makepeace. Chance hadn’t wanted to call anyway, hadn’t wanted to give his grandfather a chance to reject him out of hand.
Taryn rubbed a hand over her stomach. Morning sickness had extended all day today and she longed for some ginger ale to settle the nausea. Maybe she was coming down with something. She shivered. She didn’t want to think about that. For now, she had to focus on Chance.
Bright tangerine clouds streaked the purpling sky. Pines fanned their limbs lazily in the light breeze. Evening was starting to throw shadows, creeping darkness across the land. A crooked mailbox appeared around the bend of the road. The faded number on the rusty box stirred a bevy of butterflies in Taryn’s stomach.
They were here.
She glanced at Chance, but saw no expression cross his face—just the same stony blankness he’d worn since they’d left Lufkin. She hoped for both their sakes John Henry Makepeace would hold the answers Chance sought—and would be willing to part with them.
Chance turned onto the dirt road as instructed. Two deep ruts formed a narrow path. As the truck rocked and rolled its way down the incline, the tires fomented puffs of dust, cloaking the landscape around them in a reddish haze.
Chance brought the truck to a halt in front of a small log house. As the cloud of dust settled, age and neglect became apparent. An old magnolia in dire need of pruning scratched at a window. No fragrant blooms garnished its branches. The barn to the left of the house stood empty. The skewed top half of a Dutch door creaked in the breeze. The pens beyond were overgrown with sandspurs and hadn’t seen a horse or cow in years.
No flowers bloomed in the clay pots on the sagging gray porch. No light shone at the windows. No life seemed to stir within.
“Stay,” Chance said as he exited the truck. “I’ll go take a look around.”
Taryn ignored his directive and followed him, shadowing his steps as he walked around the building, peeked through windows and rattled the doorknob, offering him her silent support.
“No one’s been here in years,” he said, disappointment heavy in his voice.
“Someone’s still managing the land, though.” She pointed at the cleared woods on the other side of the small pond beyond the animal pens. Stumps blistered the view like acne on a teenager’s face. Beyond the scar on the property flowed the river. “He might have moved.”
“Or he might have died.”
She took his hand in hers, laced their fingers, wanting desperately to put her arms around him and hug him. She didn’t want her actions misinterpreted, or worse, for anything she did to add more confusion to Chance’s situation, so she simply held on to his hand and hoped it would be enough for him to know he wasn’t alone. “Tomorrow, we’ll go to the county courthouse and find out.”
Not taking his gaze off the blight of shorn trees, he nodded. “Let’s grab some supper and get some rest.”
That sounded like a good plan. “Drive through?”
“Unless you want another taste of Ashbrook hospitality.”
“I’ve had enough excitement for one day, thank you.”
He looked at her then, traced the puffiness below her eyes with his thumb. “You look tired.”
“I’m holding up okay.”
“You should go on home.”
“Not without you.”
He nodded again. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he led her to the truck and tucked her into the seat like an invalid. And he had the nerve to think he could harm another human being without provocation. She shook her head. When was he going to listen to her?
By the time they found their campsite, night had fallen hard and fast. As she exited the cab, Taryn scrunched her nose and almost heaved her supper. “Smells like someone hit a skunk.”
“Or two,” Chance agreed.
His gaze narrowed. His body tensed.
“Chance?”
He held her back. “Get into the truck.”
“What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer, but grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment. He shone the beam onto their tent. The teal sides breathed listlessly with the night.
“Stay.”
This time, the tone of his voice was strained and she gladly remained within the truck’s protective armor.
WITH EVERY NERVE on high alert, Chance unzipped the tent opening. The burnt-rubber smell of skunk musk had him covering his nose and mouth with his free hand. The beam of his flashlight caught the dark streak on the gray lightweight sleep sacks. This stain wasn’t normal, not unless this particular skunk had a bladder problem. And even if it did, he didn’t think it had found its way to his tent by accident.
He backed out and played the light in widening circles around the tent. Footprints, almost invisible in the fall of pine needles, led a crooked path toward the water. On the river’s edge, caught between brush and a rock, was an empty vial that smelled of skunk scent.
Not natural at all.
His first instinct was to leave, but one look at Taryn’s pale face told him he couldn’t. He’d noticed her lagging energy as the day wore on, the way she cradled her belly as if she wasn’t feeling well. She needed rest.
To find a motel that would take them in, they might have to drive all the way back to Lufkin, and Taryn didn’t look as if she could last that far. She hadn’t complained. She wouldn’t. But he wanted to spare her the added trauma of another long ride.
Sheriff Paxton—or one of his minions—had made his point. He wasn’t likely to strike again that night. More than likely, he expected them to have moved on.
After dunking the musked sleep sacks into the river and anchoring them there to soak, he escorted Taryn to the shower house, stood guard while she bathed, then made a nest in the truck’s bed with the blankets he found in her car. He sat by her side until she fell asleep.
The river’s rush pounded his pulse faster and faster through his veins, making sleep impossible. Striking a balanced stance, he surveyed the woods for any shadow out of place. He remembered the Chief’s Special hanging on the chair in Taryn’s bedroom, and for the first time since this nightmare had started, he wished he’d brought it along.
All he had to do was wait till morning, he decided, then he’d see Taryn home. It was the best thing for her—for both of them.
THE VIDEO IN CHANCE’S MIND was enhanced by sleep. The reds and silvers and blacks became sharper, the emotions keener, the desperation more acute. He awoke from the drowning nightmare gasping for breath, more sure than ever he’d killed the girl in his memory. How else could he explain his own face reflected above the water’s silver-red surface? But why was he seeing the drowning from the victim’s point of view? And, according to the paper, Ellen had been alive after the accident.
It didn’t make sense.
Taryn wrapped her arms around him, pressed her body against his, placed a soft kiss against his neck. “It’s all right. Everything’ll be all right.”
She kissed him again and his pulse slowed. On the whisper of the breeze, he heard words that struck fear into his heart. “I love you.”
“Don’t,” he said, scrambling away from her.
“I know you. I know your spirit. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
In the conviction of her kiss, he could almost believe she might be right. He wanted to believe she was right. But the memories still reeled too strong for him to trust. He could not keep her at his side with a clear conscience.
Chapter Eight
“You can do what you want,” Taryn said. She was ignoring him as she straightened the campsite.
Despite the unhealthy paleness of her skin and the fact something she’d eaten wasn’t agreeing with
her, she refused to listen to common sense.
“Kick, scream, order till you’re blue in the face,” she said, shaking pine needles from the blankets. “I’m not ready to go home, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.”
“It’s for your own good.”
She pointed at the tent. “I don’t think it’s salvageable.”
“I don’t give a damn about the tent.” He grabbed the blanket she was folding and threw it into the truck bed. “I want you to go back where you belong.”
She had the nerve to smile at him. “Then I’m already there.”
Once at the car, she shuffled things around in the trunk. “If we’re not coming back here tonight, I suggest we just pitch the tent in the garbage, along with the sleep sacks. There’s enough money in the budget for a couple of nights at a motel. I’ll park Lucille’s car at the campground office till we’re ready to go home. It should be safe enough there.”
“You’re not going anywhere but home.”
She hiked her suitcase into the truck bed. Then, dusting her hands together, she turned to face him. “I suggest we hit the courthouse first thing before the sheriff realizes his surprise didn’t scare us away.”
He was losing his cool and was having to use his last shred of patience to keep himself from giving her a good tongue-lashing.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked as she got into the truck.
“A miracle,” he muttered as he climbed into the cab.
Had Taryn always been this stubborn? The hell of it was, in any other circumstance, he might have found this spunk admirable. Now it was just complicating his life to no end.
This was a battle she had no plans of letting him win. Even if he dragged her all the way back to Gabenburg, she’d just follow him again. He didn’t even want to admit there was a piece of him that found comfort in her presence.
And he couldn’t give up on his quest. Not when he was so close to the answers.
THEY HADN’T HIT the courthouse early enough, it seemed. The surly clerk at the counter, wide-awake and her system overstrung from the twenty-four-ounce cup of take-out coffee at her elbow, would not budge from her position.