Still Mine

by Amy Stuart

  Sometimes, in the absolute darkness, I’m certain I can hear your voice. Calling my name. I can’t be sure how long it’s been. The daylight peeks through in no pattern I can discern. My head is clear, but the shadows play the strangest tricks on me.

  I know his face so well, the contours of it, but there’s an emptiness to him that wasn’t there before. Does he even know who I am?

  I understand why you’ve done what you’ve done, I tell him. I can’t be sure he hears anything I say. They will come looking for me, I tell him. Please. Let me out. I tell him that you will come for me and I try to imagine it, you finally here to rescue me. But how long has it been? What if you’ve given up? Or worse, what if you were never searching at all?

  TUESDAY

  The ground cracks underfoot. The day’s first light has woven through the woods, everything a dull gray. Everything out of focus.

  Clare is running.

  Her shoe catches on an exposed root and she falls hard against the ground. Where is the sweater she was wearing earlier? Jared had given her his coat, but now she is down to only a T-shirt. Her head throbs and the warmth of her own blood tickles her mouth. She sits up and presses her hand to her lip. The knees of her jeans are padded with mud.

  Deep breaths, Clare tells herself. Deep breaths. She looks behind her, back toward the fire pit. He is not there anymore. He is not chasing her.

  When Jared leaned in to kiss her, his mouth felt perfect and warm.

  Run, Clare said.

  Jared had pulled back and frowned at her.

  Who? he said. Run? From what?

  She must have been dreaming. Her eyes wouldn’t open. She could see Shayna sprinting through a field flat and white with snow. Shayna locked in the cellar. Was that Shayna? When Clare woke up, Jared lay next to her, his face slack with sleep, the wood in the fire pit blackened and hissing. Next to her the creek seemed to sing, and the water curled around the rocks in a perfect pattern. Her jaw felt stiff.

  Beyond the creek, just before the earth dropped off, Clare spotted movement. A figure. A man. The gold of his hair.

  Where am I? Clare thought. How is it possible? Is it him?

  He lunged from behind the trees.

  Then, Clare was running.

  Though the morning light is seeping in, she cannot see far into the trees in any direction. Clare spits blood onto the soft ground. The creek still gurgles next to her, she has traced its path, the sludge pipe beyond it slick with rain. If she stays with it she will find that upward trail, a way home, a way back to the trailer.

  Behind her, the sound of someone coming. Clare fumbles for the gun still tucked into her belt. She aims it at the woods, her breath in her ears, searching.

  “Charlie?” she says.

  Please let it be Charlie, Clare thinks. That blond hair. Jason is not here. He can’t be here.

  The gun in her hand, Clare walks. Her legs nearly buckle from the effort of climbing the hill. She reaches a bend in the creek where the pipe splits into two, one branch heading down and away toward the gorge, the other up. This spot is not familiar. She must have missed the path back up to the Cunningham and Merritt properties. She must be close to the mine.

  Her breath. Clare tucks herself behind a tree. Down the hill she spots another figure, another man. He is seated on a felled log, leaning against a tall stump, his shotgun gripped in both hands and rested across his lap. Wilfred Cunningham. He wears a thick coat and an army-issue blanket is draped over his legs. He seems to be asleep. Even from this distance Clare can see the wildness in him, the dirt on his face. Behind him the earth slopes downward. Only forest. No sign of anything or anyone. Only trees and rock, the creek, the sludge pipe.

  Louise. Did she escape? Clare focuses, searches the woods around her for Louise. It might be that she is dulled by the remnants of the pill, that she isn’t thinking straight, because Clare steps out from behind the tree and approaches Wilfred. Once closer, she can see a large flashlight at his feet.

  “Wilfred?” It might only be a whisper. “Wilfred?”

  He doesn’t move. Clare lifts her gun and closes one eye, aiming for the center of his forehead.

  “Wilfred?”

  Clare thinks of Christopher, his hands up, Jason’s shotgun pointed at him, Grace’s voice behind her, the scene spilled out of her kitchen and into the yard. Don’t shoot. Clare had only wanted the money, her share of their mother’s will that he was refusing to hand over. She needed it, but not for the reason her brother thought she did. It was desperation. I am not your child, she’d yelled at Christopher. You are not my father. Seared into Clare’s mind is the fear in her brother’s eyes. He believed his own sister capable of pulling the trigger.

  The light is upon them now. Clare steps even closer to Wilfred, lowering her gun.

  “Wilfred? Are you alone?”

  She cannot bring herself to raise her voice.

  “Wilfred? What are you doing here?”

  His hand grasps at his shotgun. The rest of his body still leans into the tree. His eyes open. Instantly Clare’s senses are about her again, her mouth leathery and dry. Why did she call his name? She ducks behind a thick pine tree and holds her breath. There is no sound of him rousing. He might be fifty feet away. His eyes are open but he has not moved. He stares straight ahead, unblinking, and then his eyes close again and he tilts back into the tree.

  Behind her Clare can now trace the path of the creek and the pipe clearly, back from where she came. First she walks backwards, her eyes upon Wilfred, until a screen of trees is between them, enough distance so that even with good aim, he would surely miss. Then she tucks the gun away and wills herself to go. To run.

  The trailer glints silver. Inside, Clare doesn’t sit on the bed, for her body aches with exhaustion, and even a small concession like sitting might lead to sleep. She does not look at the photographs that hang in the kitchen. She must clean herself up, keep moving, dance around the drop that will follow this high. In front of the mirror Clare pulls the elastic from her hair and shakes it out. A cluster of pine needles falls to the floor. She is rumpled and filthy.

  Rage fills her. Clare yanks Jason’s portrait from the clothespin and grips it, squeezing it at the edges, pulling it taut. Her teeth are gritted and she cannot recognize the sound that comes from her, a quiet wail. Though she tugs with all her might, the photograph will not tear. She feels as though the black and white might spill over into her hands. There is blood on her fingers. Clare crushes the photograph into a ball and throws it at the window. Then she yanks down the pictures of Malcolm, Wilfred, and Jared and does the same. Finally she collapses at the banquette and cries, the tension seeping out of her, a blast of cold sweat running up her back and along her scalp.

  A shower. Clare strips off her clothes and runs outside naked. Though the air is cold, her skin cold, the water cold, Clare feels only relief as it douses her in a torrent. She dances and lathers as quickly as she can, soaping the gash, its redness already faded. Once rinsed, she darts back inside the trailer and yanks the blankets from the bed to wrap herself. Her phone, tangled as it was in the sheets, drops to the floor. She picks it up and flips it open. How alert she feels. Hungry and exhausted and too alert.

  No word from Malcolm. No message. Of course not. No signal.

  From her duffel bag she’s able to dig out jeans and a T-shirt, a sweatshirt over it. As she wrestles with her clothes a panic sets in, a hollow pain filling her chest. She cannot keep it all straight. She keeps seeing Shayna, either dead or running, tied up. Trying to reach her. She thinks of Charlie behind the trees, it must have been Charlie. Wilfred sitting on the log with his shotgun, Derek lunging at Jared, his hands curled around his neck. Louise in her bed, the restraints undone. Clare opens the bottle of antibiotics and swallows two.

  She will go to the Cunningham house. Intercept Wilfred. Louise.

  Outside, there is noise. Someone is approaching. Before Clare can make it to the window, someone knocks on the trailer door.

&
nbsp; “Clare?”

  Whose voice is it? A man’s.

  “Clare?”

  Malcolm.

  Clare swings the door open and waves him in, then slams the door closed behind him. Inside the tight space of trailer Malcolm can barely stand up, and in the ensuing fumble he and Clare do this awkward dance, each trying to step around the other. By the time he sits at the banquette Clare has retreated to the bedroom door. Malcolm wears a jacket Clare has never seen before, an earthy green.

  “How long have you been here?” Clare thinks of her naked dash from the shower to the trailer.

  “I just arrived.”

  “I haven’t heard from you.”

  “I’ve sent you four messages.”

  “I didn’t get them. There’s no clear signal. I told you that.”

  “I came here to get your things. It’s time to extract you.”

  “Extract me? You said I had three more days.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. It’s gotten risky. You look like you haven’t slept.”

  “I keep seeing her.”

  “Who?”

  “Shayna. I need to make sure Louise is . . .” Clare trails off.

  “Did you take something? Your eyes don’t look right.”

  “Please don’t grill me.”

  “You have no restraint, Clare. Jesus.”

  “I’d love to see how you do it, Malcolm. How you show restraint.”

  “It’s no longer safe for you,” Malcolm says. “Do you understand that?”

  A shrill laugh escapes Clare. “Was it ever safe?”

  “I couldn’t have predicted certain—”

  “You did this,” Clare says, her voice dropping. “You brought me here. You knew about me, didn’t you? He told you about me.”

  Though he evades all questions, Clare has learned one small detail about Malcolm, the way he uses simple gestures to end a conversation. He stands and fiddles with the hot plate, then sets the kettle upon it. Next to him on the counter are the balled-up photographs. Clare cannot stop fidgeting. With the tea made, Malcolm squeezes back into the banquette.

  “Sit,” he says.

  “No.”

  Malcolm cups his hands around the warmth of his mug. Calm.

  “How long have we known each other?” he asks.

  “A week.”

  “Eight days. I sent you here. You’re right. I did. But now you’re refusing to leave.”

  “My head is full of things,” Clare says. “I’m closing in. I wonder about Derek. Charlie too. He’s trying to take hold of me. This morning I saw Wilfred Cunningham in the gorge. He was asleep against a tree with a shotgun on his lap. I really think Shayna’s mother knows where she is.”

  “Did you spend the night at the gorge?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “You’re being reckless.”

  “I’m being thorough. And I’m not leaving yet.”

  “You work for me.” There is a stark change to Malcolm’s tone.

  “I don’t have to work for you anymore. I’ll do it myself.”

  “It’s too dangerous.” Malcolm pulls his cell phone from his pocket and unlocks it. “Pack your things.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking the time.”

  “There’s a clock on the counter.”

  “I can’t be sure it’s right,” Malcolm says.

  “You’re threatening me. That’s what you’re doing. You’ll call him.”

  “This isn’t about him,” Malcolm says. “We agreed on how this would go and now you’re not complying. I made a mistake sending you here.”

  Since that snowy night when she drove away from home, Clare has taken to counting. In hours at first, and then in days. Two hundred and six days since she pulled the bedsheet off that car in the field and drove away. Two hundred and six in between. One hundred and forty motel rooms, sixty nights in her car, and six in Blackmore. Two hundred and six days worth of distance, erasable by a single phone call. Malcolm stands and puts on his coat.

  “Sometimes the job doesn’t get finished,” he says. “I know that. I’ve been doing this long enough. Sometimes you find nothing. Often, you find nothing. You don’t know that yet.”

  Clare’s eyes stay on Malcolm’s hand, its light grip on the phone. Then she lunges and snatches it from him.

  “Jesus, Clare!” Malcolm says. “What are you doing?”

  Clare shoulders the trailer door open and jumps outside. She drops Malcolm’s cell phone on the rocks of the fire pit and lifts her foot to smash it. But before she can do it Malcolm is behind her, his arms around her in a bear hug. Her feet lift off the ground. She thrashes.

  “Put me down!”

  “You’re out of control,” Malcolm says, perfectly calm, even now.

  Clare throws her head so that it butts him hard in the nose. He releases her and falls backwards. The blood runs from his nose and down the sleeves of his jacket. Clare picks up the cell phone and runs to the edge of the clearing.

  “Please don’t,” Malcolm says.

  “I’ll kill you before I’ll let you call him!”

  “You’ll kill me?”

  “You know nothing about me,” Clare says. “You are not my savior.”

  There might be thirty feet between them, and the rage escapes Clare as quickly as it surged. A swell of vomit fills her mouth. She retches at the foot of the closest tree. Then she slumps to the ground and jabs at Malcolm’s cell phone. His contact list is empty.

  “You don’t have it in here. His number’s not here.”

  “I learned my lesson about storing names or numbers in my phone. Yours is memorized.”

  “You made it seem like you were going to call him.”

  “You aren’t seeing straight,” Malcolm says. “Whatever you’ve taken has made you paranoid.”

  Malcolm tilts his head back. The blood abates. It always amazes Clare how fast the human body reacts to blood loss, the clotting, the self-preservation. She jabs at his cell phone again. The lock screen has come on. There is no photo on his wallpaper, just the swirling orange background, the factory settings. His phone the same as everything else about him, revealing nothing. Clare steadies herself and walks over to him.

  “Here.” She drops the phone in his lap. “I’ll get you something for your nose.”

  In the trailer Clare gags over the sink. A cold sweat wraps her. She gargles to clear her throat, then finds a cloth and some ice from the small fridge. Outside, Malcolm sits in one of the lawn chairs. Clare hands him the cloth. He touches it to his face and winces.

  “I owe you some explanation,” Malcolm says. “I’ll tell you. I’ve corresponded with him.”

  “Jason?”

  He nods, the ice pressed to his nose.

  “When?”

  “He’s been keeping in regular touch.”

  “Did you meet him in person?”

  “No. I use e-mail with clients.”

  “What did he give you to go on?”

  “Photos, mostly. Some basic history. Your features. Copies of your identification. Tendencies.”

  Tendencies. Clare can guess what that means.

  “Did I leave an easy trail?”

  “Not at all. It took me a long while to find you.”

  “But you did.”

  “I went to seventy-six motels before someone recognized your photo. Eighteen days of driving in a circle, an expanding radius from your house. Finally this motel attendant told me he’d seen you. Maybe four months earlier, he said. Remembered your face, said you were pretty. I paid him a hundred bucks to go back through the records. Find me a name. After that, it got easier. I knew you’d gone west. You changed your last name a few times, but you never changed your first. And always the O. The O names.”

  The choices of O names had been plentiful. She had counted on the name Clare to be common enough to go undetected.

  “You disappeared mid-December,” Malcolm says.

  “I went for a run. A storm
was coming.”

  “There was no thaw until spring. They thought they’d find a body. Figured on a hit-and-run, worst case a domestic or a kidnapping. There were news stories here and there. Search parties organized by family and friends.”

  Clare can hope Christopher would have been the one to trudge through snow, searching for her, maybe even her father alongside, or Grace and her husband. She feels the heat of tears in her eyes.

  “But they never did,” Malcolm says.

  “Find a body.”

  “No.”

  “And you never talked to anyone else?” Clare asks.

  “You mean your family? No. He instructed me not to.”

  Another wave of nausea passes over Clare.

  “Why did it have to be so elaborate?” Malcolm asks. “Why not just leave?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think I could. I thought he’d kill me.”

  “Did you want them to suspect him?”

  She’d imagined it more than once in the months since she left, Jason finally faced with questions he’d eluded for so long. What did you do to your wife? Clare angles the other lawn chair and sits facing Malcolm.

  “I just wanted to escape,” she says. “He needed to be fooled. Thrown off course.”

  “I don’t think he was fooled,” Malcolm says. “I think he understood very plainly what you did.”

  “I knew he’d come. One way or another.”

  “You have the instincts. They’re there.”

  “I’m not so sure. I thought I saw him in the woods. At the gorge.”

  “He’s thousands of miles away.”

  “I can’t shake it. He’s chasing me.”

  “Something bothered me,” Malcolm says. “Your husband. The case. It bothered me from the start. There was something off. I thought I might find you dead. Suicide, maybe. He was clearly . . . ill-intentioned.”

  “So? Surely he’s not the first husband who hired you to find his wife. You didn’t know me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “So why’d you hire me instead of turning me in?”