by Greg Enslen
From among the contents of the backpack she took out a large plastic bag that she’d removed from a sleeping bag in their attic, the kind you could seal along the top. She also took out a roll of fishing line. Opening the plastic bag, she stuffed the backpack down inside, sealing up the bag tight with as much air inside as she could manage, then tied a long length of heavy fishing line around it.
She stripped down to the bathing suit she had on under her clothes, dropping the clothes she had been wearing in a small pile on the muddy beach. She walked out into the water, leaving obvious footprints, and threw the plastic bag as far as she could into the water, smiling when it floated to the top.
The water was intensely cold and smelled brackish. She walked out to the pack and fished the line out of the water, tying it around her waist, and then swam off, moving parallel to the lake shore.
After a minute, her body warmed to the exertion and she swam harder, feeling like an escaping fugitive.
She glanced up at the distant boaters—it was important for no one to see her. The note she had left at home would bring Vincent to the lake and make clear what she had done. She hoped they’d drag the lake and eventually give up on finding her body.
Judy swam for another fifteen minutes and then began scouting the shore, looking for someplace where she could climb up and out of the water without leaving any footprints. Finally, she saw a large rock under some overhanging tree limbs.
Judy swam toward the stone, suddenly growing tired, as if her body knew the swim was almost over. The rock was large and difficult to climb, but she finally managed to pull herself up and out of the water. That was when her weakened body betrayed her.
The swim had been more exertion than she had known in weeks, and the effort required to pull herself out of the water and onto the large rock was too much. Her legs buckled and she began to slip off the rock, now wet from her body. She scrambled, reaching for the top of the rock and a low branch, getting a tenuous grip on the rough tree limb. Judy curled the other hand around the limb and started to pull herself up, but there just wasn’t any strength left in her arms or her shoulders. She scrabbled her legs against the slick rock and finally managed to get her feet up onto the top, and she let go, collapsing.
Judy lay there for a long moment, shaking, her hands scraped and bloodied from the bark of the tree. The sun beat down on her, drying her and the rock. It felt warm and glorious.
Finally, Judy sat up. Her left thigh was scraped and cut, seeping blood onto the boulder. It was amazing that she hadn’t noticed it.
She looked around but saw no one else.
Judy tugged on the fishing line gingerly and saw the plastic bag come around the boulder, bobbing in the greenish water. She pulled it out. It was heavier—some water must’ve gotten inside.
Using the wet bag, she sprinkled lake water onto the bloodstain she had left atop the rock, trying to wash as much evidence of her presence as possible back into the water.
When she was happy with the way the boulder looked, Judy reached inside her swimsuit and pulled out the flip flops, putting them on her feet. Sliding over the top of the boulder, she turned around, hung her legs off the side facing away from the lake, climbed down off the rock, and started for the woods.
The boulder sat astride the shore of the lake, and behind it was a line of trees and a small path leading back into the woods. She tried to step on large rocks and tree branches to leave as few tracks as possible.
She followed the path for five or six minutes, winding into the forest, and in a clearing sat down to do something about her bleeding leg. She went through the bag—some of her clothes were wet, and there was water at the bottom. All the money was stuck together. She took her clothes out of the backpack and, glancing around, slipped out of her swimsuit. She pulled the clothes on, hating their wetness against her skin.
She wrapped the swimsuit around her thigh and tied it off—the bleeding had slowed, but she didn’t have anything else to bandage with the cut. And she didn’t have the time. The key now was distance—she needed lots of it, and the money would help.
It wasn’t far to the highway. She could get a ride with someone there going south.
Chapter 12
Gary’s headache pounded like a drum, breaking his concentration. He swore he could feel the bones in his head pulsating with each heartbeat.
He’d taken twelve Advil so far today and still couldn’t work—the light was too bright, streaming down from the skylights of the pit. It felt like a hangover, but not the good kind.
Fridays were usually busy at MacMillan, and today was no exception. Gary wasn’t on a deadline, but he wasn’t getting anything done, either.
The dream would not leave him alone.
Five more times last night, it had come. The accompanying headaches had come in waves.
Gary had started thinking about going to Sacramento to talk to his dad. He was hoping to describe the man in the dreams—maybe his dad would remember him, or help Gary place him.
It was a stupid idea, the mother of all stupid ideas—he hadn’t been back to see his dad for a while. In fact, he planned on never returning. It didn’t make sense; but then, neither did having these dreams.
He reached for the phone on his desk.
“Hey, man,” Mike said into his phone—Gary could see him two rows away. “You look like crap today.”
Gary smiled weakly. “Thanks, man—love you too. I gotta pass on tonight—I’m just gonna head home. Cool?”
Mike was quiet for a moment. “You have that dream again?”
Gary felt a chill run up his arm. It was not good, letting anyone know this much about him. “Uh, yeah. Not sleeping a lot. I’m going to relax and try to get some rest.” He didn’t think he sounded very convincing.
“Okay,” Mike answered, sounding skeptical. “Call me if you need anything.”
“Sure thing,” Gary said, hesitating for a long moment and not hanging up. Mike waited on the other end, not breaking the silence. Finally, Gary spoke up.
“I need to go to Sacramento.”
Mike glanced over at him, then put the phone down and came over to Gary’s desk, motioning him into the hallway.
Gary joined him, sipping from the water fountain. Mike leaned on the wall next to him. After Gary finished drinking, he put his hands under the water and splashed some on his face.
Gary stood and dried his face as best he could. “I need to leave. I need to go up and see my father in Sacramento.”
“Why?” Mike asked. “Do you think this dream is connected to your folks?”
Gary shook his head. “My mother died back in Illinois, and my father remarried a few years ago. And I don’t know about any connection, but I know that...the dream is so real,” he said, trailing off. “It has to be a memory. I need to talk to my father and see if he knows who the guy is.”
Mike shook his head. “These are just dreams, Gary. They might be related to something in your past, but you would remember the guy if you had ever met him, don’t you think? The guy can’t be somebody from your past, can he?”
“I don’t know, Mike. I really don’t know,” Gary said, shrugging. “All I know is that these dreams are ruining my life. And I don’t remember this guy, but maybe my dad will. He doesn’t sound like anyone I know or met out here in California, but maybe it was some guy back in Illinois. There’s something in his voice that reminds me of the Midwest.”
Gary looked at his only friend.
“Mike, I don’t want to talk about this stuff. About my past.”
Mike nodded, looking around. “Why?”
Gary was quiet. “I can’t really get into it. But I need to go, and I’m worried about—well, this morning I blacked out.”
It was so hard to ask for help.
“I’m worried about driving,” Gary said finally. “Would you come with me?”
After a long moment, Mike nodded.
Chapter 13
Vincent was standing on his front porc
h, reading the note.
It was a suicide note from his wife. She had gone to the lake, gone to kill herself.
He couldn’t believe it. This was crazy. Things were finally starting to come together for him, and now this had to happen. He’d come home early to change clothes—tonight was the big meet, and he’d wanted to look halfway respectable. He’d pulled up around three o’clock, but he hadn’t found his wife waiting for him. Vincent had gone upstairs to their bedroom, calling out her name. As he’d picked out some clothes to wear, he’d seen the note leaning up against the lamp on the dresser. Vincent guessed he was supposed to find the note tonight.
Maybe he’d have time to get her before she did anything stupid. God knew she wasn’t bright enough to take care of herself. He was always trying to talk to her, to get her to listen, but she was just too thick-headed to see that he was trying to help her be a better person. She was always flirting with people in town, always trying to embarrass him.
He’d reminded her over and over about how important he was, about how many people in this town looked up to him, respected him, feared him. And things were only looking up, with the new deal he’d set up with his brother. Things were finally working out.
He shook his head—he didn’t have time to deal with this. He walked back inside and picked up the phone, dialing Marcus.
“Hello?”
“Marcus? Vincent. I’ve got a problem I need you to help me with—my wife’s gone missing. Can you meet me at Lake O’Fallon? The east side, by the boat docks.”
The immediate and unquestioning affirmative response, followed by a couple of quick and insightful questions, reassured Vincent that Marcus was the man for this job. If anyone could track her down and find her, it was Marcus.
After Vincent ended the call, he grabbed his things and locked the house behind him. He threw the bundle of clean clothes and a nice pair of shoes into his new Mustang—he’d have to change after he finished at the lake. He didn’t want to get his good clothes dirty.
Vincent gunned the engine, cursing his wife under his breath. She was going to have to learn to obey him, learn to be a proper wife if they were ever going to get along again. Tonight was too important for him to miss because of a rebellious wife—if anyone else heard about this, he’d be a laughingstock.
Taking Blackwood Lane, Vincent headed for the lake. Hopefully he could take care of this quickly and get on with the important events of the day. And when all this was over and he could concentrate, he and Judy would need to discuss this. Discuss it at length.
------
Judy wasn’t making very good progress.
It was almost four hours later, and she was only a mile closer to San Antonio, or a mile further from her prison. She’d tried to concentrate on imagining how she would feel when she was finally away from this place, but the brambles and thorns kept pulling her back into reality.
It had taken her longer than she had guessed to get to the highway—for a while she had thought she’d gotten lost, but finally the din of traffic had cut through the trees. By then her leg had been throbbing, and she had to stop every few minutes. How could she make it to Texas when she couldn’t even get out of the parklands that surrounded Lake O’Fallon?
Finally, the highway was before her, several lanes wide in each direction. She knew where she was. Staying in the trees, she started along the highway, heading south.
The truck stop was not far. Her plan was to walk there and get a ride from one of the truckers who’d stopped off there for lunch, but now it was almost three o’clock, and lunch was over. Now, she wasn’t sure what to do.
Judy walked on, favoring her injured leg. The blood had slowed but not stopped—even with the ridiculous-looking tourniquet she’d fashioned, she knew she was losing blood and would have to stop soon and rest. She was tired and frightened, but the constant roar of the highway off to her side assured her that she was on the right path.
------
It took Vincent only a few minutes to get to the boat docks at the lake. He loved his new Mustang—it was fast and took the corners of Blackwood Lane like a champ. He used just a tiny tap of the brakes to slow the car going into the curves. And accelerating out of the tight turns was a blast.
He hated taking time out of his day to deal with stupid people, but he never minded getting there.
Judy had gone on foot to the lake—that was no surprise, since he didn’t let her have a car. After he’d called Marcus, he’d searched the house but wasn’t certain what, if anything, she had taken with her. He didn’t know for sure what her intentions were.
He’d finished renting a small boat and was checking out the rope and anchor when Marcus arrived.
“Any idea where’s she’s gone?”
Vincent shook his head. “We’ll check the other side of the lake—she was walking and would’ve come out over there,” he said, pointing with his elbow as he coiled the long rope. “We’ll start there and then move around, looking for her. The note said she was going to kill herself, but I don’t believe it. I think she’s trying to leave.”
Marcus nodded and said nothing. He pushed the boat away from the dock and jumped in as Vincent pulled the engine to life.
Twenty minutes later, they found the clothes. Marcus stayed in the boat while Vincent waded to shore. He poked at the pile of clothes with a stick and then picked them up, digging through them. Just some clothes.
Was she thinking about getting away from him? Had she really killed herself?
He unfolded the note from his pocket and read it again. It said how she was supposedly tired of it all and needed to escape. Escape from what? He provided her with everything she needed. Sometimes he could get a little physical with her, but that was only when she angered him. The rest of her life was a breeze—she could sit around and do nothing all day long!
“What did you find?” Marcus shouted from the boat.
He waved the clothes in the air. “Some of her clothes. But I don’t buy it—I think she’s smarter than this.”
Something in her eyes over the past week had changed. He’d seen flashes of defiance, moments when she’d fought back. Was she really trying to leave him?
A small part of his mind suggested letting her go. If they let her go and followed her, she might lead them to Chris and John O’Toole and all that beautiful missing money.
But Vincent didn’t want to let her go, or admit that he had been unable to hang on to her. He had to find her.
Vincent waded out into the brackish water and muscled himself back into the small boat. “She’s here somewhere. I know it.” He pointed south. “And if she’s running, she’ll go for the highway. Go that way, but stay close in to shore. She couldn’t have swum far.”
Marcus pointed the boat in the direction of Vincent’s outstretched hand. Vincent moved to the front of the boat and began scouting the trees and rocks that bordered the murky water.
------
There was supposed to be a road south from where she’d come out of the woods, but she hadn’t found it yet. Crossing over the highway would’ve put her on the right side of the road to find the truck stop, and from there she’d be able to find a ride south to Texas. There were always truckers. Maybe one of them would find her attractive and feel sorry for her—Vincent had done everything he could to erase her beauty, but maybe some of it was still left.
Her foot caught on an exposed root and she tumbled to the ground, scraping one of her hands. Instead of getting up, she lay on the ground for a long time. The swim had been more exhausting than she’d guessed. And the hike afterwards even worse.
The ground was soft and wet, and for a moment she thought about just lying there on the cool ground until she died.
The truck stop was what got her moving again—that and thinking about Chris. She knew that if Vincent found her now, she was as good as dead. He’d beat her senseless and take her back to the prison he’d constructed for her. And somewhere along the line, he’d hit her too hard or push h
er down the stairs and kill her.
No, she needed to get away, to find Chris and start her life over. Her life in O’Fallon was on a downward spiral that could only end badly. Leaving would be the only way she would be able to salvage anything of her former self.
The blaring horn of a truck stirred her, and she climbed to her feet. She should’ve found the crossover by now, and as she continued for a few more minutes, she finally saw the bridge over the highway through the dense trees.
------
“Hold up, Marcus!” Vincent shouted, pointing.
There was a stain of red painting the top of a large rock that jutted out into the lake.
Marcus steered the boat over and Vincent jumped out, wading up to the rock. It was a large one, and on the side facing the lake, a long, dry runner of red snaked down into the water. On top of the rock was a flat area that looked as though it had been washed clean.
And on the side of the rock facing the shore, Vincent saw tracks in the muddy soil.
“This has to be it,” Marcus said as he came ashore and tied the long rope off to a tree stump. “Looks like she hurt herself somehow.”
Vincent nodded. There were no footprints but plenty of shoe prints, and all very fresh. They led off into the woods.
He walked over to the large rock and dabbed at it with his finger. It was blood. “She’s hurt,” Vincent said. “She won’t be making very good time.”
Marcus nodded, following the footprints with his eyes as they disappeared into the woods.
“Marcus,” Vincent said quietly, his voice low. “I don’t have time to deal with this right now. I want you to follow her, find her, and take her home, okay? She probably hasn’t even made it to the highway. Just follow the tracks and don’t come back ‘til you find her, okay?”