by Dima Zales
I wiped my face on the back of my sleeve and got out of the car. I was parked in an interstate rest stop, where I’d pulled off to get gas. Heading over to the parking area for the big rigs, I took a moment to tuck my cell phone behind the cab of one of them. It was an ultra-cheap pay-as-you-go model I’d bought that morning, just so I’d be able to get updates from Doyle. I couldn’t risk keeping it now — they could track a cell phone’s location, right? It had served its purpose, anyway.
I got back on the road. I was glad I’d gotten most of my money out of the bank before leaving Dorf. If Williams was in the FBI, he’d have a lot more resources at his disposal than I’d imagined. I probably shouldn’t use my debit or credit cards.
Then again, if he was in the FBI, he wouldn’t be pursuing me, right? He’d stay in Dorf, investigating meth dealers.
Somehow I didn’t believe it. Maybe he wasn’t really in the FBI but had contacts in the FBI who would lie for him. That sounded more like it. It also sounded a lot more frightening.
I stayed on 90 westbound for another hour, then turned south and headed down into Iowa on county roads. Hopefully the semi with my phone would keep heading west.
I drove until I couldn’t stay awake any longer. It was the middle of the night. I stopped in a small town in the southeastern corner of Nebraska. I found a sleazy-looking motel and paid in cash. When I told the clerk I’d lost my wallet and didn’t have ID, he just rolled his eyes.
I showered, then made a dinner out of some granola bars and peanut butter I’d brought with me. The sheets were scratchy and the room was cold. My head still ached fiercely from its impact with the stairs. It didn’t matter — I hadn’t slept in a day and a half, and for a good chunk of that time, I’d been scared to death. I was out as soon as I lay down.
Morning gave me my first good look at America west of the Mississippi. I’d always thought of Nebraska as flat, but in this part, at least, it was hilly.
I felt a lot better than I had the night before. Calmer, clearer. My head only hurt a little.
Standing at the window looking out, I also felt a lot less certain I’d done the right thing. I’d planned my getaway, yes, but I hadn’t really thought about it in a bigger sense. In fact, I dimly remembered deciding not to think about it.
Where exactly was I going to go? If I just kept moving, I’d run out of money pretty fast. I needed to settle some place and get work. But how could I do that without getting found? I didn’t know the first thing about getting a job without ID, or about getting fake identification, for that matter.
Did I even have enough to rent a place somewhere while I looked for work? I emptied my wallet and the envelope of cash I’d gotten at the bank. It came to $1,264, plus change. That wasn’t much when you factored in a security deposit. Could I get a place here in — I looked at the phone book — Sway Creek for that? And wouldn’t any landlord want my social security number?
I drummed my fingers on the bedside table. No solutions presented themselves.
What about Ben? I hadn’t told him I was leaving, much less where I was going or how to get in touch with me. Ben and his girls were all the family I had. Was I prepared to never see them again?
I’d called him Monday night right after I called the police. He’d come and met me at the hospital, where they’d taken me to make sure I didn’t have a concussion. Ben wasn’t the most emotive guy, but that night he looked pretty scared. I’d always known how much I needed my brother. It was a big part of why I resented Justine — she kept him from me. But the reverse hadn’t really occurred to me: maybe he needed me, too.
I sat still, holding my breath as an awful new thought crawled to the surface.
If I’m not there to hurt, will John Williams hurt Ben instead? Or the kids?
Horror settled over me. It was the feeling of having screwed up. Big.
I have to go back.
No. No, I couldn’t. Williams had given me a direct order not to leave town. He’d also ordered me not to tell anyone about him. If he found me, he’d kill me. Twice.
I needed to call Ben and make sure he was okay. I’d tell him to take the family on a little trip. I could do it from a pay phone, then drive in a random direction for the whole day. It was chancy because it might let Williams track me, but it was the best I could do.
“Beth? Oh my god, where are you?”
Ben sounded panicked.
“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m just getting out of town for a while, until that Williams guy leaves. You heard they didn’t charge him, right?”
“Beth, Justine’s gone!”
It so was not the response I was expecting that it took me a moment to grasp it.
“What do you mean, ‘gone’? She left you?”
“No, I don’t know, she’s just gone! She didn’t pick the kids up from school yesterday. No one’s seen her. Beth, I know something terrible happened to her. She might leave me, but she’d never leave the kids.”
I stood there in shock.
“Beth? Beth?”
“I’m here. When’s the last time someone saw her?”
“The security camera at the Cenex caught her getting gas a little before noon. That’s it. She was supposed to be at the school at 3:30, but she never showed.”
Doyle had called me at 2:15 to say Williams would be out soon. “Within the hour,” he’d said.
Oh god, oh my god.
He hadn’t been able to get at Ben. Ben had been at work, surrounded by people. So he’d taken Justine instead.
“Beth?”
“Did you call the police?”
“Of course! Beth … they want to talk to you about it.”
It took me another few seconds to understand what he meant.
“They think I kidnapped Justine? Ben, you can’t be serious!”
“I know. They’re wasting their damned time. But they couldn’t find you either, and people saw you two fighting at church.” His voice slid from anger to defeat. “I think it’s the only lead they have. Could you please just talk to them? Maybe once they let go of that idea, they’ll get a better one. Beth, we have to find her. I need her.”
“Ben, I’ll call you back.”
“Beth —”
I hung up on him. Then I stumbled to the curb and threw up my breakfast beside someone’s junky pickup. I was in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven — the first place I’d seen a pay phone. What a place to be when you find out you’re going to die.
Even taking the most direct route, it took me more than twelve hours to get home.
That morning, I’d bought a bottle of water and rinsed out my mouth. Then I’d called my brother back and told him I’d be there to talk to the police as soon as I could.
Things had been pretty clear to me after I talked to Ben. I’d made a bad mistake when I left Dorf. If I went back now, maybe Williams would let Justine go. Maybe taking her was his way of sending me a message: Come back, or else. If he’d already killed her, at least going back now would keep him from hurting anyone else. What he did to me was out of my hands, but maybe I could keep him from doing anything to anybody else. That idea had brought a measure of calm.
That calm was still with me when I pulled into the parking lot in front of the small brick building that served as Dorf’s police station.
I sat for a minute, enjoying the warmth and familiarity of my car. It was a ’91 Le Mans. It had been my mother’s. When I’d gotten the job with Dr. Nielsen, Mom had offered it to me, sort of offhandedly. We were cleaning up after dinner one night, just the two of us. She’d said she thought she’d get herself a newer car, but maybe we should hang onto this one for a while so I could drive to work.
I’d been so ashamed, back then, of failing at college. She’d saved for years for me to be able to go. It’s not like you make that much, working at a supermarket. She took extra hours whenever she could, even did some house-cleaning on the side. With my scholarships and financial aid and her loans and savings, we’d just been able to make it work.
But when I got there, the panic disorder flared. I’d always had attacks a couple times a week, but in Madison, I started having them every day, sometimes three or four times a day. Sometimes in the middle of class. I felt like I was floating in dark water, and terrifying things were sweeping by me at random, brushing my legs. The sense of terror was constant, overwhelming — crippling. I didn’t last a semester. I didn’t even last two months.
It came down to this: I’d thrown Mom’s money away, and all her hopes for me too, because I was too crazy to do what millions of eighteen-year-olds did every year.
And there she was, still trying to help me.
I should’ve gotten in her lap and cried like a baby; instead I shrugged and said, “Sounds good,” as if it didn’t mean the world to me, how much she cared.
She never got that new car, either. Instead, she got run over crossing Center Street.
I sighed and got out. It was uncomfortably cold. I stood next to the car, wondering if Williams was already hunting me. Maybe he’d shoot me from a distance, and I’d never feel a thing.
After a minute, nothing had happened. I gathered my courage and headed into the warmth and light of the station.
“Yes, Justine and I don’t like each other. No, I didn’t do anything to her.”
The police chief scowled.
I scowled back. I was repeating the same basic information I’d been giving him for the last hour. I’d been scared at first. Then fear had faded to nervousness. Now I was just annoyed. Why was he being so dense?
“So, let me get this straight,” he said, consulting his notes. “Right after we brought in Agent Williams on Tuesday morning, you left Dorf, even though we’d asked you to remain available.”
“That’s right.”
“And you did this why?”
“I was afraid of him. He told me he’d kill me if I told anyone what he’d done.”
I might be a dead woman walking, but like hell if I wasn’t going to let people know who killed me. Well, who was going to be responsible for killing me when it happened, that is.
“Betty, do you really think we’re going to accept this story of yours again? John Williams is an agent in good standing. He’s never been reprimanded. In fact, he’s been decorated three times — I have his file right here.” The chief patted one of the folders on the table. “You expect us to believe he broke into your house, assaulted you, and tried to steal your photographs?”
“I don’t care what you believe. Fact is, I was afraid of him, and I left town at about 8:00 on Tuesday morning. I drove to Nebraska. When I heard from my brother that Justine was missing, I headed back. That’s it.”
“Problem is, you have no proof of that, which means your whereabouts are unaccounted for during the time that Mrs. Ryder went missing.”
This was infuriating — so not helpful to finding Justine.
Well, so be it. I guess it’s true that no good turn goes unpunished.
“Actually, Officer Shumaker’s phone logs should support my story. Since I was so scared Monday night, he was kind enough to call and let me know Williams was getting out. I talked to him at about 2:15 Tuesday afternoon, and I was already in western Minnesota when I received the call.”
The chief looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. I couldn’t have kidnapped Justine between 11:45 and 3:30 and also been across Minnesota at 2:15.
“What’s the number on your phone?”
I got out my wallet and handed him the scrap of paper where I’d written down the number.
“Where’s the phone?”
“I left it in a truck after I talked to Officer Shumaker.”
“How come?”
“I thought Williams might be able to trace where it was.”
The chief looked at me as though he were realizing for the first time that I was the saddest, most pathetic lunatic in Dorf.
“Wait here.”
He got up and left the room with the phone number. I felt bad about ratting out Doyle, but I thought he’d probably be okay. The chief was his brother’s godfather, so they were family friends.
I sat there for quite a while, twiddling my thumbs. Then, curiosity getting the better of caution, I reached over and opened the folder with the FBI logo on the front. On top was a personnel page, complete with photo. I picked it up.
Special Agent Christopher Duncan resided in Bethesda, Maryland. His middle name was Carlos. He’d been in the FBI for eight years. The picture showed a handsome African American man with short dreads. He was wearing a dark suit and a muted green and burgundy tie.
What is this?
I shifted through the rest of the pages in the folder. They all belonged to this Duncan person. I was totally confused. The chief had definitely pointed to the folder I’d picked up.
At that moment, the chief walked back in. Unfortunately, Williams came in right behind him. The bland Pete’s Eats version of him, anyway.
“You shouldn’t be looking at that,” the chief said. “It’s confidential.”
He reached down and jerked the personnel page out of my hands. I saw him glance at it as he was putting it back in the folder. I sat there, stupefied. What was going on here? Was the guy blind?
“Agent Williams, your suspect,” the chief said, gesturing at me disgustedly.
Finally I found my voice. “But that’s not his file!”
The chief glared at me.
I shot a glance at Williams, who was standing quietly by the door.
“Chief, that file belongs to someone named Duncan.”
“Nonsense,” the chief snapped. He jerked his head at me. “She’s all yours. I’ll be in touch if her alibi doesn’t pan out.”
“Wait, you can’t give me to him,” I protested, all my calm evaporating. “What do you mean I’m ‘his suspect’?”
The chief eyed me with displeasure.
“Should’ve known you’d be wrapped up in something like this.”
He stalked out.
Williams’s blandness seemed to vanish. Suddenly he looked a lot less like a milquetoast and a lot more like a murderer. He grabbed me by the upper arm and proceeded to drag me out of the building.
Not too long before, I’d been pretty cool with the idea of surrendering myself to get Justine back, but self-sacrifice suddenly seemed a good deal more concrete and terrifying. I did a fair amount of screaming on the way out of the station. No one came to help me.
Williams had a full-sized van. Not surprising for someone who probably had to dispose of dead bodies regularly. He lifted me into the back of it and cuffed me to a ring in the floor near the front seats. I had to hunch there awkwardly on my hands and knees.
I knew I was past help. I stifled the impulse to beg.
He drove for about an hour, then pulled off the pavement. I flopped around like a Raggedy Ann doll as the van lurched over the hardened ruts of some dirt road. I realized we were driving to a place where he could dump my body.
I wished I’d stopped to see Ben before going to the police station. Why didn’t I think of that? Now I’d never see him again.
Finally we stopped. Williams unlocked and relocked my cuffs so I wasn’t chained to the floor anymore. He went around and opened the back doors and pulled me out onto the ground. Then he stepped back.
I ended up on my side in half-frozen mud. Slowly I got up onto my knees, eyes averted. I wasn’t ready to look at him, yet.
I was at the edge of a cornfield. Last year’s dried, broken stalks stretched out to my left. To my right was a dark copse of trees. Probably a little stream down there. I looked straight up and saw stars. It was a clear, cold night. Everything was washed in dim silver from the bright half-moon.
Finally I looked at him. He was leaning on the van with his arms crossed, looking down at his feet. He was completely still.
“Why,” he finally said, “did you do that?”
I could tell from his voice that he was just about as angry as it was possible to be. He actually growled.
>
I figured “that” encompassed everything I’d done that he’d told me not to do. I didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t he figure it out?
“I was scared. I thought I could get away.”
He stared at me, silent, for several minutes.
Finally he said, “You are a lot of trouble.” The words came out at long intervals, as though he were squeezing each one through his teeth with great effort.
“I’m sorry. I’m here now. Could you please just let Justine go?”
He jerked me to my feet. “I’m going to show you something, and you’re going to take a good long look at it.”
He pulled me into the trees. When I fell, he just kept walking, dragging me over roots and dead bracken until I managed to scramble back to my feet.
After about five minutes, we reached an outcropping of large boulders. They were bunched at a low point in the land, like cattle pressed together at a watering hole. Williams threaded between them, pulling me along by my cuffed hands. The space in the midst of them was filled with the detritus of the forest — dead branches, leaves, twigs. There was a slight smell of decay, as though some small animal had crawled into the pile and died. We stood there in front of the wreckage.
At first, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be looking at. Then the shadowy shapes began to resolve, taking on new meaning. The shards of wood became bones; the dead leaves became twists of dried, shredded skin. The smell of decay mushroomed. It was overpowering. I gagged.
Dead people. I had no idea how many. They were jumbled together, as if each new body had been dumped on the pile and had slowly broken down into pieces and fallen through the mass as it decayed.
“This,” Williams said slowly, “is what I do. Every one of those, I put here.”
He gave me a shove, and I fell into the pile. The remains weren’t as dried out as they’d looked. The stench was everywhere; it was like someone had soaked a wool blanket in week-old blood and stuffed it in my mouth. Things squished under me as I thrashed around in the dark, trying to get my feet and cuffed hands to work together.