Hard Return

by J. Carson Black

  Landry thought about what it would be like when Kristal went to Luke’s funeral. He shut it out of his mind, got the van while people were still milling in the parking lot, and waited to fall in line with the cortege.

  He parked way back in the line of cars along the one-lane asphalt drive.

  There were a lot fewer people who made the trek to the cemetery. The graveside service was solemn and sad. The mother looked strong and determined. Landry knew from the way she kept looking over her shoulder and at the cross streets that she expected someone to picket the funeral.

  A different group of picketers showed up—three to be exact—and parked at the edge of the cemetery. A dispirited little group, they held their signs up halfheartedly. Landry noticed they were checking their phones, just as the first batch at the church did. Awaiting the troops? Within ten minutes, they were gone, even before the mourners had trooped all the way to the gravesite.

  Landry saw the relief, palpable, in the mother’s posture.

  He stood in the dark shade of a tree on the brow of a sun-bleached hill—the cemetery wasn’t the best kept in the world—and watched the solemn graveside service. He was thinking about Luke, not Devin Patel. Thinking about Luke and what that kid had done to save his daughter’s life.

  Which led to his own culpability.

  Landry, the absent father—beyond absent. Nonexistent. Worse than nonexistent, because Luke would not be dead if it were not for him. None of those kids would be dead, if not for him.

  No going back now. He couldn’t change anything. Better to concentrate on what he could change. What he could salvage—he needed to protect Cindi and Kristal.

  He’d put the tracking device on Cindi’s car. Tom had said they were staying at Big Bear Lake. He typed Todd Barclay’s name into his phone, along with the words “Big Bear Lake.”

  And got nothing.

  He looked at the Google map of Big Bear Lake. Scrolled along the lakeshore. There were a lot of cabins. A lot of cabins. It was a big lake and a large surrounding area. Here he was, multitasking at a funeral. Modern life had become complicated, and concentration, fractured. Landry saw it in himself. And yet there was so much to think about—especially when it came to his wife and daughter. He needed to stay on top of the situation.

  He wondered if Cindi and Kristal would go back to Big Bear Lake right after the funeral, or if he’d have to track them all over town. It would be easier if Gary would just tell him. If Gary would step up and do the right thing.

  One eye on the graveside service, he punched in his brother Gary’s number, and waited through two rings. The call went to voice mail.

  “Call me.” He was aware that his voice sounded grim. Grim and frustrated.

  He heard a car turn onto the drive toward this part of the cemetery—the deep rumble of a muscle-car engine—probably a 426. A black car arrowed up the lane between poplar trees and then turned in their direction. A 2013 or 2014 Camaro.

  The Camaro slowed along the curve in the road near where the small group gathered by the gravesite. Rumbled along, idling, before speeding up and driving away. Landry watched as the Camaro followed the road back to the main highway and turned north.

  Someone from the church?

  Landry felt a prickle on the back of his neck, as if someone was staring at him. He looked below—he was on the highest ground in the cemetery. He scanned the area for anything out of the ordinary.

  Nothing. Nothing he could see.

  He found himself thinking about the vehicle the shooter, Zachary Smith, had left at the Devil’s Canyon trailhead.

  Landry had moved it to another trailhead not too far away and had hiked back to his own vehicle. He’d been very careful, had run into no one on the road, and no one at the other trailhead. The Jeep was the only vehicle in the parking lot. Landry was almost sure no one had seen him. But of course he couldn’t be sure.

  He’d suspected the vehicle, an older-model Jeep, had been stolen. If it was recovered, it was probable the police would dust for prints.

  Landry had used gloves. He’d wiped the Jeep down, but it was possible he’d missed the door.

  Too late now.

  The black Camaro did not return.

  The casket was lowered. The crowd broke up and started walking to their cars. Landry watched as his wife and daughter walked to the Hyundai Tucson.

  He took one last look at Willow and her “uncles.” He knew they would take care of her.

  Satisfied, he went back to his car—

  —and followed his wife and daughter to Big Bear Lake.

  CHAPTER 30

  Landry let them get a good head start. He didn’t need to be anywhere near them to track them.

  He spotted a florist and stopped to buy roses. Pink roses, for them both. A massive bouquet. It smelled cool and slightly dank, as roses did, the moist petals resting for a moment against his cheek when he opened the door. He made another stop, this time at a Walgreens, looking for chocolates. Something nice. He chose a Whitman’s Sampler. And a card. They didn’t have any blank cards, so he picked out an anniversary card because it was beautiful—embossed and romantic, with a peacock and a heart. He scrawled a note inside to his girls.

  Actually, it wasn’t really a note. Just “Love, Cyril.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  He followed the tracker, and realized he was taking the easiest way to Big Bear Lake from Torrent Valley. The path of least resistance: Huntington Drive west to Santa Anita Drive; Santa Anita Drive to the San Bernardino Freeway, CA-210 east to CA-330, north. Merge onto CA-18. Turn left on Big Bear Boulevard and you were at Big Bear Lake.

  He followed the transmitter driving east on Big Bear. Getting warmer. He slowed near Mill Creek Road. Hot now. Following the winding road between tall pines and through the Aspen Glen Picnic Area. The pines were tall and imposing, their boughs ragged against the deep blue sky. He’d never been to Big Bear Lake, so he’d looked up the flora and fauna in the San Bernardino Forest: ponderosa pine, knobcone pine, Jeffrey pine, sugar pine, Coulter pine, lodgepole pine. Many of them looked similar to one another. Landry realized he was cataloging the flora and fauna because he was getting close now and he didn’t want to think about what was coming.

  He assumed it would be all right despite what Gary’d told him. Gary was always the dour one in the family. His brother had definitely taken sides, although Landry couldn’t fathom why he’d take that pale little comptroller’s side against his own brother.

  He reminded himself that Gary was easily led. He was the type of person who was prone to hero worship. Landry’s younger brother had always worshipped Landry and now he’d fixated on someone else. He’d imprinted himself on Todd like a duckling on its mama.

  The road seemed to have turned into Tulip Lane. Very strong signal. But it lessened the farther he drove along Tulip Lane. He turned around, drove back, and picked up Mill Creek Road again, slowing for a curve. Way out in the boonies now. The beeping became loud and manic. Not just hot, but burning hot! Scalding. Up ahead he saw a green-roofed cabin through the trunks of the tall pines. He turned onto the pine-needle-covered lane and drove the short way up the hill. The GPS tracker going crazy.

  The cabin was new but made to look old. It had the varnished-pine-log look—rich, honey color. There was a closed garage attached, the green roll-up door the same color as the roof. The dark green of pool-table felt.

  Cindi’s Hyundai Tucson was out front. The sun glistened off ponderosa needles and the blue sky was saturated so much that it had taken on a neon glow. He looked out toward the lake and saw a slightly darker blue through the trees.

  He pulled up beside the Tucson.

  The curtain flicked in the window—he guessed it was the kitchen.

  A dream cabin. The kind Cindi had always wanted. Even the curtains were right: yellow-and-white gingham. Old-fashioned, but new.
r />   He sat in the car for a moment, his heart beating hard. This was the moment of truth. He couldn’t imagine his wife turning him down. Couldn’t imagine Cindi and his daughter—his only child—turning their backs on him. Unimaginable. But his heart still beat hard. There was still a sinking feeling in his gut. He sat there in the van.

  Was he nervous?

  He’d been on TV. She had seen him. She knew he was alive. Gary had confirmed that. Yet she had not reached out to him.

  Was Gary right? Was she finished with him? Had it been too long?

  Landry was used to success. But now that he was here, he realized he might be on the brink—the brink of the dissolution of their marriage.

  He couldn’t believe that. Not after everything they’d shared together. All those years. A child they had raised together.

  He sat in the van. He could hear the engine ticking. The curtain in the cabin window had not moved. What were they doing? Hiding in there? Were they afraid of him?

  The sun bore down through the windshield. It was the high altitude. The air was thinner up here. The colors were lurid. He noticed pansies and daisies and hollyhocks and all that sort of stuff hanging in baskets from the eaves. A home, not a house. Did Cindi plant those? Was this now her home?

  The engine ticked.

  Could it be she really loved Todd? That wimpy comptroller with the comb-over?

  He opened the van door. It squeaked. He shut the door and stood there in the sunshine, feeling it beat down on his head. Pins and needles fuzzing up his vision, then clearing.

  Get a grip, he told himself. This is your wife we’re talking about. Your daughter.

  He walked up the shallow stairs onto the porch and knocked on the door.

  CHAPTER 31

  - The Ritz-Carlton -

  “About what you saw in the paper,” the voice on the phone said. “The SUV they found at the trailhead, that was another trailhead. Not the Devil’s Canyon trail. In fact, it was several miles away.”

  “Yes, the Jeep Cherokee. But was it his?”

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “I’m sorry,” he added. “I didn’t mean to imply that you don’t know what you’re doing. You do think it was his, though?”

  “Actually, we think he stole the Cherokee, but in the scheme of things, that hardly matters, does it?” A pause. “For my own edification I’d like to ask you: What part of ‘mission accomplished’ don’t you understand?” The man on the phone waited for this to sink in. Then he said, “DNA doesn’t lie. Fingerprints don’t lie. You have the envelope, right? There is your proof.”

  “Yes, I know that, but you’re sure you have no idea where the body is? Shouldn’t we at least find out?”

  “You shouldn’t have called.”

  “I’d like to talk to—”

  “Sorry, you can’t talk to anyone. We have now concluded our business.” And he hung up.

  The man in the Ritz-Carlton sat there, stunned for a moment—at a complete loss. He tried to call back. The number he’d just dialed had been disconnected. He tried to absorb what little he’d learned. There really wasn’t anyone he could discuss this with. It was simply a transaction, and now it was finished. He could go back to the man who gave him the phone number, but he didn’t want to do that.

  That man—the first man he’d contacted—was dangerous. A psychopath. He’d said, “What I can do is give you a contact number. If there is interest in pursuing a transaction, they will contact you. Don’t ever call this number again.”

  Now the man sat perched on the edge of the beautiful-but-generic hotel chairs, spine straight as a die, staring out at the city skyline and feeling oddly disconnected. As if he’d been to a smorgasbord and eaten every last delightful thing he could think of, but the food tasted flat—it just didn’t fill him up—and now he couldn’t remember it.

  There was no afterglow.

  Perhaps because he was, at heart, a moral individual.

  It was important to remember: There had been no choice in the matter.

  He stared out at the smoggy skyline and muttered, “I did the right thing.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Landry waited, then knocked on the cabin door again. No answer. The Hyundai Tucson was parked out front, so he knew they were there. He knocked again, harder—feeling helpless in this situation. This was an unusual feeling for him. He’d faced death many times, but this situation confounded him. What would he say? What would she say? Those two questions whirled around his head like moths around a night-light.

  A raven landed on the bough of the ponderosa pine towering over the cabin. The sky’s color was mirrored by its shiny wings. It made that cracking-knuckles sound, loud and ugly, and peered down at him through beady eyes.

  “Get lost,” Landry said.

  The bird’s gaze drilled harder. The thing was big, black, and ugly. Landry ignored him. “Cindi!” he called. “I know you’re in there. We need to talk.”

  Thinking he sounded like a killer in a slasher movie.

  There was a motion in the corner of his eye. The curtain again. He heard a scuffle, and then low voices. He stepped back, expecting one of them to open the door—and collided with the hummingbird feeder hanging from the rafters. Heard the angry buzz by his ear. The bee landed on his cheek and stung him and he swatted it away. It landed on the porch boards and crawled around in a circle.

  The pain—it seemed much worse than just a bee sting. The raven made that cracked-knuckles sound again. He looked up into its black eyes, and it cocked its head quizzically. Landry looked down again. The dying bee toppled onto its back and was still.

  He rapped on the door again. His knuckles sounded like the crack of a baseball bat. He heard Cindi’s voice close to the door: “No! Don’t do that!”

  The door was flung open. Kristal held the knob. She wore skimpy shorts and a skimpier top; she’d changed out of her mourning clothes. Cindi was behind her, breathing hard, her hair pulled out of the barrette that held her ponytail, strands sticking out. It looked as if they had been struggling. Cindi yelled to their daughter, “Get back inside!” and grappled with her for the doorknob.

  “No!” Kristal shouted. “He’s my dad! I want to talk to him!”

  Cindi glared at Landry, seething. Bright red points on both cheeks. Her mouth was a grim, angry line. “Cyril,” she said. “I want you to leave now.”

  For a moment, Landry was speechless, even though he had been expecting this. He said, “We’re still married.”

  “In name only. Whether or not you’re dead or alive, I’m going to find a way to fix that.”

  She was beautiful. More beautiful than he remembered. Sure, she was older—early forties. But to him she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He’d never realized that before now.

  He was aware that Kristal had slipped past her mother and was hugging him.

  He closed his eyes and hugged her back, felt her warm tears bleed through his shirt. Her heart beating against his.

  His baby.

  “Kristal, get into the house!” Cindi screamed. She stood there, fists balled at her sides, the tendons of her neck straining as she jutted her chin up at him. He’d always teased her about being too short. Short and feisty.

  Then she was on him, on Kristal, pulling Kristal away and back into the house. She tried to shut the door but he put his foot in the door and pushed his way in.

  He’d never done that. Never used force—not with his family. Never so much as threw a coffee cup. Never spanked his daughter. Never touched either of them in anger.

  Cindi had pulled Kristal back across the cabin. “I want you to leave, now!” she said.

  “I just want to talk to you, Cin,” he said.

  He’d heard that line in a TV movie not long ago, where the husband was planning to kill his girlfriend. He’d seen it in more than on
e of those movies—probably twenty to thirty of them over his lifetime.

  “We don’t want to talk to you.”

  He nodded toward Kristal. “Why not let her speak for herself?”

  Cindi tightened her fingers on their daughter’s arm. Her face was a mask. She’d smoothed it out so that she looked impassive. But her breath was coming in little gasps, and she was shaking.

  Landry said, “If you want, we can get a divorce. But we have to talk in order to do that. We have to work this out.”

  Thinking to himself: You sound so reasonable.

  Thinking, too, that he was also full of shit. A divorce wasn’t in the cards. He wanted his family back. He wanted to talk her down, get her used to him being here in the cottage’s little living room, get used to seeing him again—back to the way things used to be. All he needed to do was start the conversation—a way in.

  He saw her fingers loosen on Kristal’s arm. Her shoulders slumped.

  I give up. He’d seen it before, a few times in their marriage. Cindi didn’t like confrontation. Cindi didn’t like drama.

  Cindi liked the status quo. She liked the path of least resistance.

  It had worked well for them. He was not overbearing; he was not pushy. Their marriage, he realized now, had always been about “live and let live.”

  And love—don’t forget love.

  But right now, love seemed like the other side of the world.

  Cindi looked at him. There was a shine to her eyes. A “What do you want now?” kind of look.

  “I just want to talk. I just want to see you. If you want this to be good-bye, at least let me say good-bye.”

  How smooth he sounded. Jesus! He’d talked his way out of life-threatening situations, he’d sat down with sheiks in Saudi Arabia and village elders in Afghanistan and soft-soaped spies who could kill him in an instant, and he’d learned to be a chameleon. To mirror people. To quell their objections and their fears. “Can we talk?” he asked.

  Cindi nodded.