Point Blank

by Diane M. Campbell

  “Just let it go, Brock. This place is fine.”

  “For you, maybe, but I’m this close to signing a pro contract, babe.” He measured an inch with his fingers. “And that means a future spent with all the right people in all the right places.” He waved a hand about the room. “This hole-in-the-wall is for losers.”

  “I thought we were starting fresh today.”

  He gave me an abrupt stare but kept any further discontent to himself.

  After breakfast, Brock went upstairs while I helped Mrs. Wilton clear the dining table and tidy the kitchen. “I’ve really enjoyed my stay here, Mrs. Wilton.” I hung the tea towel to dry. “I don’t suppose I’ll be back this way again, but I’ll remember your hospitality always.”

  Mrs. Wilton smiled and put her hand on my arm. “That’s very sweet, but there’s something more important for you to remember, my dear.”

  “Oh?” I reacted to her more serious tone. “What’s that?”

  “God loves you, Penny. He knows everything, and He loves you.”

  I tried to smile, but drew back when unexpected tears threatened to brim. Sentiments like hers were familiar. A repeated litany I’d heard all my life—but they rang hollow when things happened that showed how little God actually paid attention.

  She released my arm and her smile softened with compassion. “When the time is right, and God reveals the things that have been hidden, you will know how much He loves both you and your father.” With that, she went back to the sink, softly humming a tune. In spite of her quirkiness, she was a kind woman—someone I hoped God would take time to care about.

  I wiped my eyes and started toward the door.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Wilton turned, raising a soapy wet hand from the dishwater. “And don’t be too surprised if we see each other again. You never know.”

  “That’s right. You never know.” It was a sweet notion that lifted my spirits.

  Later, while we loaded Brock’s car, I paused to study the sky from the bottom of the porch steps. In only a moment, I detected the soft press of a cat stroking his back against my leg. “Kitty. Where have you been?”

  He looked up, blinking his radiant blue eyes, and I crouched to pet him. “Good Kitty.”

  Brock came down the steps with my suitcase. “We’re not taking a cat along.”

  I chuckled at his good-natured rib. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” He maneuvered past us. “I’m allergic, remember?”

  I stroked Kitty’s head one last time. “Sorry, but I have to go now. Take care of Mrs. Wilton, okay?”

  I stood and Kitty smoothed against my leg once more before heading into the tangle of shrubs beside the walkway.

  It marked a poignant close to the end of my time in Dalton.

  So much for Nowhereville.

  Soon we were on the road to Barrett, heading up a mountain pass and over to the next valley. Overcast skies draped the highest peaks in white. It began to snow softly along the winding way, but it felt good to be back in my home state. Colorado’s byways always held new wonders at every bend. Rounding a curve would bring mesmerizing glimpses of snowy peaks into view. A moment later, those would be cut off by sheer cliff faces that hugged the roadside. We even stopped once for a photo at the unexpected sight of mountain sheep standing among fallen boulders in a side canyon.

  For a long time we chatted easily about the trip, the weather, the view—everything but the topic I knew we needed to broach.

  Eventually the conversation lulled.

  Brock spoke first. “I want you to know I planned to tell you about Abbi’s disappearance yesterday.” He shifted to a lower gear and kept his eyes on the road. “I just forgot about it when I arrived last night.”

  “I suppose Tyler must be pretty upset.”

  “The investigators have been a real pain. They had us both down at the station for hours, and while we were there, they snooped around his house.”

  “Really?” I turned to study his profile. “What were they looking for?”

  “I don’t know.” He swallowed. “Evidence from … the fight, I guess.”

  I gasped. “They had a fight?”

  Brock kept his eyes straight ahead, working his jaw. “C’mon, Penny. They didn’t fight. You did.”

  “What?” My breath caught in my throat.

  “Don’t worry. The investigators didn’t find anything.”

  “Brock, I did not fight with her! I don’t even know her. Why would we fight?”

  “You don’t remember because of the booze.”

  “I already told you I wasn’t drunk. Why don’t you believe me?” My voice rose, like the heat that suddenly climbed my neck.

  “I was there. Tyler and I both saw what happened.” He sounded condescending now. “Besides, we already told the investigators all about that night.”

  Panic gripped me, choking off my ability to reply. No wonder Cheri said the investigators wanted to talk to me. They might even want to arrest me, and my fragmented memory provided no conclusive defense. They could easily take Brock’s word over mine.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to turn you in.” He reached over and put his hand on my shoulder.

  “What?” I jerked away to lean against the car door. “Turn me in? I had nothing to do with Abbi’s disappearance!”

  Why was he saying such things? I pinched my eyes to shut off the sudden flow of tears and choked as they caught in my throat instead.

  What if I didn’t know myself? What if…? My memory might be fractured, but I shook my head against any suggestion of doubt.

  “Fine then.” Brock’s voice cut through my thoughts. “So much for trying to be helpful.”

  He glared at the road while I stared at a dry creek bed out my side window. Rocks and weeds blurred as we passed by.

  I tried to recapture my memories of that evening. Was there any time when Abbi had been angry at anyone? Could she have started the fight? She seemed to be in full party mode, laughing, making numerous toasts and hanging on Tyler as if she were a necktie. She’d even come in a costume, though it wasn’t that type of party. Some kind of glittery, flapper-style dress with a headband to match. If it wasn’t a costume, it certainly suited her flamboyance.

  Abbi did everything possible to remain the center of attention that night, and it seemed to work on everyone, including Brock. I recalled having some embarrassment at the girl’s obvious behavior, but mostly I ignored her.

  Late in the evening, after she finished my one-and-only drink, I found her asleep in a chair, one leg draped over the arm and the slit of her dress exposing a bit more thigh than it should. I laid a napkin across her lap thinking that, for all the hoopla, she couldn’t even manage to stay awake until midnight.

  But then what happened? I closed my eyes and reached for the memory, but the only sensations my mind conjured were more like some kind of dream. Shifting shadows. Shouting. A jerk of my shoulder. Dizziness and swirling that threatened to turn my stomach…

  I jolted upright and opened my eyes to the road. In my periphery, Brock glanced my way with a concerned expression though he said nothing.

  Were these disjointed bits and pieces actually snatches of memory about the fight, or were they some kind of fiction my mind had created? It was true my shoulder ached yesterday, but had it bothered me the day before? And what about the bruise on my hip? What if Brock was right? Was it possible to have a physical altercation with someone and not remember it?

  No. I wasn’t the fighting type, and I refused the notion that a partial drink would impair me so much. Besides, even if I had gotten agitated enough to take it to that level, it wouldn’t explain Abbi’s disappearance. Something else had happened. Surely, even the police would realize that.

  Brock kept glancing toward me, his hands clenching the steering wheel as if to reshape it. Ever since he arrived last night, he’d been difficult, even testy. Where was the fun, enthusiastic football player I had met just weeks ago? The guy who thought we were destined fo
r each other, like Cleopatra and Antony? Was all this tension due to pressures from their winning season? He was certainly a guy used to getting his way, and I’d been around him long enough to see the tactics he used on others. The same ones he bragged about using on the field. Press. Maneuver. Control.

  Was he now using them on me?

  A sharp lump formed in my throat—one too painful to swallow.

  My mind wandered in sullen silence until Brock pulled off the highway into the rustic mountain town of Barrett. My eyes skimmed the rooftops of bungalows, cabins, and small Victorians lining Main Street while my thoughts focused on a different house on the other side of the next pass. Home.

  Dad was there, keeping everything exactly as Mom would have, while living a life unaffected by how far we’d drifted apart. Initially, we had clung to each other, desperate to find meaning in our shared tragedy. But Dad found consolation by declaring faith in God’s sovereign power, while I became convinced of His weakness and apathy. Over time, the swelling current of my disappointment in God had carried me to a distant shore.

  Would Dad accept me while I held on to my reluctance of faith? Soon I’d have the answer. At the moment, as the remaining miles between us dwindled, home felt as far away as ever.

  Brock tapped the plastic that covered the car’s dashboard clock. “Hey, look at that. It’s nearly noon.”

  He glanced my way, but I ignored him. As far as I was concerned, his accusations about drunkenness and fighting with Tyler’s girlfriend had earned an extended cold shoulder treatment.

  “Are you hungry?” He held fast to his nonchalant act. “We could get some lunch before we head over the next pass.”

  I shifted from silence to apathy. “I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

  “There may not be many options here. Good thing we’re not fussy eaters.” He smiled, perhaps pleased at having cracked my resolve.

  “Whatever.”

  Downtown Barrett amounted to three blocks of vintage storefronts, with additional businesses and offices scattered on side streets. As Brock circled the downtown area to find parking, we discovered the bus station one street over from the main avenue. It was housed in an old windowed storefront wedged between a hardware store and barber shop.

  He nodded toward it. “Good thing you don’t have to wait in there all day.”

  I didn’t argue, but given my current frame of mind, it would have been easier than he thought.

  He parked opposite the station, in front of an abandoned lot between two weathered Victorians. My purse had tumbled back from the center console during our drive, so I pulled it out from behind the car seat.

  “Why bother with your bag? You don’t need it.” Brock sounded impatient.

  I looped the strap over my shoulder. “There’s a gift shop next to the café. I thought maybe I could get a little something for Dad. A Christmas gift.” Or peace offering.

  He tilted his head. “We don’t have all day.”

  “One little shop won’t take much time.”

  He resigned and, as we walked back toward Main Street, he reached for my hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze. I had always thrilled at the times his hand clasped mine, but today I recognized the charade. A play toward some unknown audience. Though I didn’t resist the gesture, I didn’t reciprocate either.

  The café exuded a rustic European charm. Against one wall, a fragrant bakery display sat next to the register and filled the room with luscious aromas. From overhead, Parisian accordion music interspersed with the hubbub of lunch patrons.

  The waitress, a girl about my age sporting spikey neon-yellow hair with black roots, led us to a small table at a narrow spot in the back of the room. Brock slumped into the chair on the side with the most room while I squeezed into the tight space opposite.

  When the waitress returned a few minutes later, he ordered for us both. I wasn’t hungry, but withheld a protest. Let him play the scene his way.

  Brock stared around the room while drumming his fingers on the table. In Arizona, he would occasionally be approached for an autograph, especially since the championship win. Was he annoyed at his anonymity in Colorado? His phone chimed an incoming text, and he read it while the waitress delivered our drinks.

  I thanked her and took a sip. “Who’s it from?”

  “Tyler.” He tucked the phone back into his coat.

  “Any news on Abbi?”

  He twirled the straw in his glass. “Nah.” His tone suggested he didn’t expect new developments.

  “What’s Tyler’s theory on why she disappeared?”

  “That she probably decided to leave town without telling anyone—like you did.” Another jab indicating he wasn’t over it.

  “But I told Cheri.”

  He poked at the ice with his straw. “But you didn’t tell me.”

  “I didn’t know it was that important. Are you still mad at me?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around.” His eyes were steady, challenging me.

  “Brock, you’ve as much as accused me of being responsible for Abbi’s disappearance.” My voice rose. “How should I feel?”

  “Not now,” he warned through gritted teeth. “Let’s eat our lunch and get out of here.”

  Whatever. I put my hands in my lap and stared at the coffee rings staining the table top.

  He excused himself to find the restroom, and I noticed him reach into his coat on the way out. He was probably planning to call Tyler back, so why act secretive? Was he going to tell Tyler about accusing me? From the sound of it, Tyler already thought I was responsible too. And if they believed I was to blame, how many others did as well?

  With elbows on the table, I held my head and forced myself not to groan.

  Press, maneuver, control. Brock’s football tactics had turned out to be his life tactics. I felt squeezed in a vise. How did I ever get mixed up with this guy?

  It suddenly occurred to me I didn’t need to be involved with him. Not any longer. The bus station was here—right around the corner.

  I unwrapped the silverware and asked a passing waitress for a pen. In a hasty scribble, I wrote on the napkin. This isn’t going to work. Thanks for bringing me this far. I want to go home alone. It’s for the best. Penny.

  Our sandwiches arrived as I finished the note, so I laid the napkin over his plate, and asked the waitress if they had a back door. The last thing I needed was to encounter Brock as I left.

  “Is something wrong?” Her brown eyes widened.

  “Not the food. It’s just time he and I parted ways.”

  She offered a sympathetic nod and led me through the kitchen to a back door.

  I exited onto a small wood platform two steps above the alley pavement. Pausing, I lifted my face to the sky and breathed in the crisp mountain air. What do I do now? It wasn’t exactly a prayer, but I needed to get centered and calm the quivers in my gut.

  I rested a hand on the rough railing, crusted with peeling paint. The texture seemed to trigger something inside my brain. As if a dam had suddenly burst, my heart began to pound. Dizziness threatened my footing. I gripped the rail and pinched my eyes shut against a swirling sensation that engulfed me. My equilibrium seemed to tilt. What was happening?

  Then a strong hand gripped my shoulder from behind. With a harsh jerk, it spun me around, and I opened my eyes.

  Brock held me in his grip, his face hostile, twisted with angry determination. His dark eyes pierced through me like poisoned darts.

  Terror shot through my veins and my vision tunneled, closing off the alley and the sky. Instead, we were in a place that smelled vaguely like a workshop or toolshed.

  I felt powerless to move under Brock’s gaze. Judging by the look in his eyes and the snarl of his lip, my once-adoring boyfriend had become angry enough to kill me.

  I drew a deep breath. One last chance to scream. The icy outdoor air hit my lungs and Brock dissolved before my eyes. I found myself standing in the alley once again, under a white winter sky
.

  I swallowed, hoping to calm my racing pulse, but the memory of Brock’s threatening gaze didn’t dissolve with the vision. I had actually seen that glare on his face. It was a memory of something real that happened between us, but where? And when? It wasn’t my imagination. For some reason, I had forgotten this event—until now. His anger had been real, and I could still feel the pinch of his wrenching grip.

  Stumbling in haste down the wooden platform, I stared in the direction of the nearest side street. Get ahold of yourself. Think. What would Brock do when he saw my note? Chase me down and drag me back to the car? Would I see that glare again?

  I ran to the side street and turned toward the end of the block, then realized the bus station would be the first place Brock would look.

  Yes. He would look for me.

  At the very least, he would be upset that I’d left him, the hero football player, publicly scorned. He would expect an apology, and I’d have to deal with his indignation on top of the gut-wrenching accusation he’d made.

  Would he even drive me to my dad’s house after this? He might choose instead to call the cops and tell them I was wanted in connection with Abbi’s disappearance.

  No, he wouldn’t do that.

  Or would he?

  I dashed down the sidewalk and ducked into the nearest storefront. “New to You” was painted on the door. Any other day, a consignment shop would have been a fun diversion from the mundane.

  Today was anything but mundane.

  “Hello,” called a cheery middle-aged woman from her place behind the counter. “May I help you find something?”

  “Just looking.” I maneuvered through some clothing racks, then realized none would hide me from view if Brock peered in the front windows. I headed to a row of tall shelves farther back and pretended to examine some vintage china while my mind raced. The bus wouldn’t be here until late tonight. Would Brock search for me that long? Probably not, but where could I find a place to wait him out?