Followed

by Mark Lukens

  Phil looked at the woods again. He didn’t see anyone. Maybe she was hallucinating, her mind mixed up from the accident, her brain swelling with fluid.

  She grabbed on to Phil’s wrist, jolting his attention back to her. She held him tight. “Save . . . save me.”

  Tears poured out of Phil’s eyes. He nodded. “We’re going to do that. We’re going to get you help.”

  “Save me . . . save me from . . .”

  • • •

  Phil swallowed the last of his whiskey down. He got up and went to the kitchen to make another one. With his fresh drink in hand, he came back to the living room and sat back down on the couch right next to Cathy.

  Neither Cathy nor Detective Grady had spoken during his entire story, during his admission of guilt. And they both stared at him right now.

  “She died?” Cathy finally asked. But it was more of a statement than a question.

  Phil nodded. “Yes. She died on the way to the hospital. They couldn’t save her. God, she was only fourteen years old.”

  Cathy laid a hand on Phil’s knee, and then gave it a slight squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

  He placed his hand on top of hers. “I tried to tell you . . . I tried a bunch of times. But I didn’t know how to begin. I was so ashamed. I’ve always been so ashamed of what happened. Of what we did.”

  “And you’re still drinking,” Detective Grady said in a cold voice.

  Phil looked at the detective and saw that he had his gun out, the weapon resting on his leg. Had that gun been there on his leg the whole time he’d been telling his story? He couldn’t remember.

  “What?” Phil asked Detective Grady.

  “I said you’re still drinking after what you did,” His voice was lower and colder now.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Cathy

  Cathy’s heart stopped for a moment, and then it began beating hard. She pulled her hand away from Phil’s knee. It wasn’t just what Detective Grady had said, but the way he had said it. And there was a strange look in his eyes. She wondered why he still had his gun out.

  “What?” Phil asked the detective again.

  “You’re still drinking,” Detective Grady said with a humorless smile, a grin that looked like a curved gash in his face. He nodded slightly, indicating the mixed drink on the coffee table in front of Phil.

  Phil tore his eyes away from Grady and looked at the drink in front of him. “I tried to quit,” he said in a low voice, almost like he was talking to himself.

  “The drinking helps you forget, doesn’t it?” Detective Grady said, his voice a little lower. “The drinking helps you block out the memory of what you did.”

  Phil didn’t answer. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, and then he snapped it closed again, swallowing hard.

  “He just started drinking again,” Cathy said, rushing to her husband’s defense. “He quit for years, only the occasional drink here and there. He didn’t start drinking like this until we were followed home on Saturday night.”

  Detective Grady glared at Cathy, his stone-cold eyes were on her for only a moment, and then he turned his attention back to Phil. “So, back to your story.”

  Phil didn’t say anything. Cathy knew he wanted to take another drink, but the detective had made him feel self-conscious about it now.

  “No?” Detective Grady asked Phil. “Let’s see, where were we? You and your friend—Travis I think you said his name was—you two were driving drunk.”

  “Travis was driving,” Cathy said.

  Detective Grady kept his eyes on Phil. “But both of you were drunk. Both of you were irresponsible. And then a fourteen-year-old girl died because of you.”

  Cathy shot up to her feet. “What the hell is this?”

  “Sit down,” the detective growled.

  “Don’t tell me what to do in my own house.”

  Phil looked at her. “Cathy . . . please.”

  She sat back down.

  “So, the girl dies,” Detective Grady continued. “And what happened to you and Travis? What kind of punishment did you two receive for your crime?”

  “For an accident,” Cathy corrected through clenched teeth.

  “Driving drunk is a crime.”

  “Could you put your gun away?” Cathy asked Detective Grady. “It’s making me nervous.”

  He ignored her, his eyes still on Phil, waiting for his response.

  Phil cleared his throat, still looking at the glass of liquor on the coffee table. “We were arrested. We were charged. Travis’ parents bailed us out, and then we went to court.”

  “And then what happened?” Detective Grady asked. “I mean in court. What happened with that?”

  Cathy suddenly realized that Detective Grady was different. Everything about him seemed to be different. His voice had changed, his mannerisms, even his face seemed to have changed somehow.

  Phil didn’t answer the detective.

  “Let me guess,” Detective Grady said. “You got basically a slap on the wrist. Is that right?”

  Phil didn’t answer.

  “You said your friend’s parents were wealthy, right? And Travis’ dad hired some fancy, high-priced lawyer who got you two off with nothing.” The detective’s voice was rising. “Isn’t that right?”

  “What is this?” Cathy said again.

  “A young girl,” Detective Grady continued. “Fourteen years old. Just beginning her life. You and your friend end that precious life and get nothing for it. No jail time. No adult criminal record. Nothing.”

  “Who are you?” Cathy said as a feeling of dread weighed her down. Her skin prickled with fear as a realization dawned on her. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  Grady picked his gun up from his thigh and aimed it at Cathy, then he pointed it at Phil.

  Cathy lost her breath for a moment. She’d fallen out of a tree when she was six years old, landing flat on her back, knocking the breath out of her. For those few moments she couldn’t catch her breath as she lay on the grass. It was a feeling she’d never forgotten, and now she felt just like that for a moment when Grady had aimed his gun at her, like her breath had been ripped away from her and she was struggling to get it back.

  “You want to know who I am?” Grady asked Cathy. “I was the pool guy you saw out there the other day. I was in the supermarket line next to you a week ago. I was in traffic with you a few weeks before that, a few cars behind you. I’ve been in your lives for months now, and you’ve never even noticed. I’ve been watching you, collecting all the information I needed about you while you two went on with your lives, oblivious to everything around you.”

  “What do you want?” Cathy asked.

  Grady pulled a pair of handcuffs out of the leather pouch attached to his belt. He tossed them at Phil.

  The cuffs landed in Phil’s lap with a loud clinking sound. Phil jumped back, like a large spider had landed on him.

  “Cuff your wife’s hands behind her back,” Grady told Phil.

  Phil made no move to pick up the handcuffs.

  “Whatever you think you’re doing—” Cathy began.

  “Shut up,” Grady snapped at her. “Stand up and turn around. Put your hands behind your back.”

  Cathy was already shaking her head no, not even able to believe this was really happening. How had everything spun out of control so quickly?

  Grady was on his feet in a flash, quick for a man his size. He jabbed his gun in the air at Phil, his finger on the trigger, his face red with rage, a thick vein materializing on his forehead as he shouted. “Do what I said, Phil!”

  Phil picked up the handcuffs, fumbling with them.

  “No, Phil,” Cathy said. She couldn’t let this happen. She couldn’t be handcuffed and helpless with this maniac in their house.

  Phil held the handcuffs in his hands, staring at Cathy. He still hadn’t gotten to his feet yet.

  Grady sat back down on the couch in front of the windows. He was hunched forward again, his expre
ssion suddenly calm, the redness fading from his pale face just as quickly as it had come. His voice was soft again when he spoke, almost conversational. “I could start shooting your knees out, Phil. And your wife’s knees. Neither of you would be able to run.” He snorted out a laugh. “Hell, you wouldn’t even be able to stand. Even crawling would be painful. I could torture the two of you after that, draw things out for hours . . . all night long if I wanted to. I’m sure you’ve talked to Travis’ parents by now, haven’t you, Phil?”

  Phil didn’t answer. He looked shell-shocked.

  “I’m sure they told you what happened to Travis. You know what I can do.”

  Phil looked at Cathy as he stood up, a decision made. “Cathy, I’m sorry. Stand up. Turn around.”

  Cathy felt a balloon of panic inflating inside of her, about to explode like oil from a derrick. She could feel a nervous energy sizzling through her like live electricity. She felt like bolting in a blind panic, rational thoughts fading away and leaving nothing behind but pure survival instincts.

  Grady was back on his feet again, his gun aimed at her now. “Don’t try to run, Cathy,” he said like he knew what she’d been planning on doing. “Turn around and let Phil put those handcuffs on you.”

  Cathy still didn’t turn around, still hesitating, still ready to run.

  “There’s a chance you can make it out of this,” Grady said. “Hell, maybe even both of you can make it out of this. But if you don’t do what I tell you to, then your life ends right now. And so does Phil’s.”

  The panic sank down inside of Cathy, a crushing feeling of defeat and hopelessness weighing on her like she’d never known before. If she didn’t allow Phil to bind her arms behind her back, then she was dead in mere moments. But once she was handcuffed, then what were her chances of survival? Was Grady lying about possibly letting her go? Was he lying about letting both of them go?

  She turned around and put her hands behind her back, her legs shaking so badly she thought she might collapse. She felt Phil snapping the cuffs on her wrists, locking the cold steel in place. They were still loose on her wrists, but they were locked now and there was no hope of escape. Her thoughts turned to Megan—at least Megan wasn’t here.

  “That’s right,” Grady cooed, confident again now that things were going his way. “You two do everything I tell you to, and nobody is going to get hurt. Not you or your husband. Or Megan.”

  Cathy turned around and stared at him.

  He smiled. “Megan is only right down the street. At Barbara’s house? I think that’s what you told me earlier.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Phil

  “Pull on those cuffs,” Grady told Phil. “I want to make sure they’re secure.”

  Phil felt nauseous, like the liquor he’d drunk was going to come back up like an acidic river of vomit. None of this felt real—this couldn’t really be happening. He was scared for himself, but even more so for Cathy, and now most of all for Megan. But maybe Grady (or whatever his real name was) only wanted him. Grady had only killed Travis and no one else, so maybe he was just going to tie Cathy up and leave her here, take him somewhere else to kill him.

  God, I hope he doesn’t kill me in front of her.

  So many thoughts ran through his mind, but he tried to remain as calm as he could. He needed to follow orders for now, try to stall for time so he could try to find a way to get through to this man. He was a psychologist, if there was anyone who could get through to Grady, it would be him.

  Phil pulled on the handcuffs, tugging Cathy back a little, and she fought to keep her balance.

  “Good,” Grady purred. “You can turn back around now, Cathy.”

  Cathy turned back around, staring at Grady with wide eyes. Phil could already see the tears forming.

  “Sit down,” Grady said, gesturing at the couch with a gentle wave of his gun.

  Phil helped Cathy sit down on the couch next to him, her legs right up against his. She felt so warm. She was breathing so fast, her breaths shallow.

  “Do you know who that girl was that you and your friend murdered?” Grady asked Phil.

  “Look,” Phil said, trying to keep his voice even but firm. “I know you’re upset about what happened. I know you’re—”

  Grady giggled, shaking his head a little, wagging his gun back and forth like it was a giant finger, cutting off Phil’s words. “Don’t try the psychobabble on me, doc. I’ve heard it all through the years. Yeah, I’ve talked to a lot of doctors just like you, and you know what? All of you guys sound just alike.”

  “I know you’re still in a lot of pain about what happened,” Phil began.

  “That girl was my sister,” Grady said. His expression had changed instantly, his features growing tight and cold, his eyes hard again, his mouth a thin line. “Yep. That’s right. You and Travis killed my little sister.”

  “It was an accident,” Phil said, doing his best to keep his voice firm. “I’m so sorry about what happened. You have to believe that. But it was just an accident.” Phil thought about explaining that the girl had ridden her bicycle right out of the woods into the road, arguing that she had been somewhat at fault. But he didn’t.

  And now a realization occurred to Phil, but it wasn’t something he could see clearly yet. There was something about Dolores riding her bicycle out of the woods. That memory was triggering something . . . some important detail about that night, something he hadn’t noticed then. But what? There was something obvious that he should’ve seen that night. He’d tried so hard all these years to block that night out of his memories that he’d forgotten so many details. But after recounting the accident to his wife and Grady, all of those memories were coming back in full force now. And he was beginning to remember something . . . something important.

  Grady got up and paced back and forth in front of them, just beyond the coffee table, his hard shoes clacking on the tiled floor. “You probably don’t remember me, do you, Phil?”

  Phil didn’t remember Grady. Should he? He chose to remain silent.

  “I was in court a few times during your trial. But you probably never knew that. I sat in the back. The place was kind of packed with people, if you remember. It was kind of a big deal back then. Local girl killed by two teenage drivers. Poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks carelessly struck down by two rich boys who don’t even pay for their crime.”

  Phil tried a different line of questioning. “What’s your name? It’s obviously not Grady.”

  “See?” Grady said, and that lunatic smile was back on his face. “You’re trying to change the subject.”

  Phil saw that Grady could change his expression instantly, and he seemed to be exhibiting several psychiatric disorders: multiple personality syndrome, paranoia, delusions, he was possibly bipolar. “No, I just want to know your name.”

  “You don’t remember me,” Grady said. “You don’t remember my name. You don’t remember my face. I bet you don’t even remember my sister’s name.”

  “Dolores,” Phil said. “I remember her.”

  Phil looked at Cathy, and he saw that she recognized the name. She’d told him that he’d been talking in his sleep. Had he mentioned Dolores’ name before?

  “What’s my name?” Grady asked.

  “I don’t know your name,” Phil answered in a calm voice. “That’s why I asked.”

  Grady stared at Phil for a moment, sizing him up. Then he smiled like he’d just caught the punchline of a joke. “You just want to know my name so you can say it over and over again, try to establish some kind of rapport with me. See, I told you that I’ve been to a bunch of shrinks. I know all of your little tricks.”

  Phil thought back to the courtroom, trying to remember if he’d seen Dolores’ brother there, or if any of her family had been there. He couldn’t even remember her parents being in court. Of course everything had been like a blur to him then, nothing even feeling real. But still, it seemed strange that he couldn’t even remember a grieving mother on
the stand, or a family sitting behind him in the courtroom, staring daggers at him. It seemed strange, but it also seemed important, and he was sure it had something to do with what he was struggling to remember.

  “Well, I don’t mind admitting that I cracked up a little after losing my sister,” Grady said. “Yeah, I went from mental institution to mental institution, nuthouse to nuthouse, treatment after treatment to deal with the pain you caused. I talked to so many psychiatrists just like you, but none of them helped.”

  Grady paused like a thought had just struck him. “Odd, isn’t it, that you became a psychiatrist after what you did.”

  “I just want to help people,” Phil said.

  Grady seemed to consider Phil’s statement for a moment, and then he shook his head slightly as if dismissing it. “I ended up helping myself,” he said. “I did what none of you quacks could do, I figured out a way to make my pain go away, a way to make myself feel better.” He paused for a moment, standing very still, his face emotionless now. “You took something away from me, Phil. And now I want to take something away from you.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Officer Wells

  Officer Wells was sitting in his police cruiser when he saw the white pickup truck speed by. His radar detector lit up, but he didn’t need the detector to tell him that the truck was driving well over the speed limit.

  Wells shifted into drive, hit the lights and sirens, and then sped after the pickup. He’d caught up to the truck in a few seconds, following him. But the truck wasn’t pulling over, it wasn’t even slowing down.

  Something about the truck struck a memory in Wells, the make and model, the year, the bumper stickers on the back, the faded gray color—almost white—the big tires on the back. He was suddenly sure that this was the same vehicle that the man in The Oaks subdivision had described when he’d been called out there a few nights ago. The man had claimed that the driver of a pickup truck had followed him and his wife home last Saturday night. Of course there wasn’t much Wells could do for the man, and he’d realized that the man had gotten upset about that.