“I need a car.”
They argue, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking about the sheriff and his little smile when he said, “You have something of your Aunt Elodie in you.” He may be a tub of butter, but I have to believe he’s not Duniway’s tub of butter. He did order a full forensic on Nathan Harper.
If I’m wrong, I’m dead.
“I also need you to find Sheriff Turnbull. If you can’t get him on the phone, try the roadblocks.”
“Where are you going?”
If Shelby is still alive, there’s only one place she could be.
“The old Hensley Asylum. Have him get there as quick as he can, with all the backup he can bring.”
“What if he won’t come?”
“Tell him I’ll be there. Tell him Omar Duniway is responsible for what happened at the crossroad. He killed Jeremy, and he’ll kill Shelby too unless I can stop him.”
Aunt Elodie pulls at my arm. “Stay here, honey. You can tell him yourself.” Her eyes plead. “He’ll believe you.”
“The department is spread to the far corners of the county. Even if the sheriff did believe me, he’d never get there in time unless I can slow Duniway down.” I may already be too late, but I can’t think about that. “Just have him come as fast as possible.”
Aunt Elodie looks from Barb to me, then presses keys into my hand. “I left my car at home earlier, so you’ll have to drive the hearse. Take my phone too, just in case.”
“Thank you.”
As I turn to go, Barb pulls me into a hug. “You still owe me that double feature.”
FIFTY-TWO
Response Time
There are no landmarks and few signs of life once I leave Crestview—just the occasional house or doublewide marked by the gleam of security lights through the trees. I drive too fast, but to my relief, no patrol cars appear, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
A gap in the trees is the only indication of the access road to the asylum. I brake hard and turn, throwing gravel. Darkness swallows the headlights as I rumble down the washboard track, steering mostly by touch. A fork appears out of nowhere, and I skid to stop in front of a small sign. “River Access, Left 1 Mile.” I go right.
Past the fork, the road narrows and gets rougher. I ease off the gas and lean forward, struggling to see over the hearse’s long hood. Somehow I miss the deepest ruts and potholes. For what feels like hours but must be only ten or fifteen minutes, I work my way deeper and deeper into the forest. Just as I’m starting to worry I’ve made the wrong turn—either back at Wayette Highway or at the fork—the road widens. Ahead, I spot the flat bridge over the churning river. On the far side, the asylum seems to skulk in the shadow of the dark forest.
The cast iron gate stands open, the white pickup inside to the left. I park outside, well clear of the wall, and leave the keys under the driver’s seat. Whatever happens next, I hope Aunt Elodie can recover the hearse. With the Stiff out of commission, she’ll need it.
My ankle complains as I hobble through the gate and past the truck. Inside, the old building looms, its gray, forbidding wings outthrust to either side. A pair of old iron fixtures on either side of the front doors cast sickly light across the deserted courtyard. It’s not until I near the steps up to the entrance that I see the camera—a small unassuming box above the door, with a faint gleaming reflection on the lens.
About ten minutes.
Somewhere, a phone is receiving a text alert, perhaps several phones. Unknown is whether Duniway receives alerts himself or if someone has to forward them. Might not do for the chief deputy sheriff to be on the distribution list for the secret forest baby lair.
If anyone sees me, there’s no indication. It’s been at least two minutes since I pulled up outside, which leaves me eight to save Shelby’s life. Even if Duniway heard the moment Shelby was grabbed, he’ll need to make a careful exit. He has to at least pretend to do his job, perhaps at one of the roadblocks, putting on a show for the troops. “We’ll get her, boys.” Forgetting one of his deputies is a woman. “Stay alert. I’m going to check in at the other positions.” He might have a thirty-mile drive. Or he might already be tearing down the corrugated dirt road. His Tahoe will handle the ruts better than the hearse.
The front door is ajar. Someone was in a hurry. I limp inside, then pause to catch my breath. My ankle feels like it’s being crushed in a vise. In my back pocket, Aunt Elodie’s phone vibrates. Barb has been texting.
Sheriff isn’t taking calls. Trying to get a message to him.
You should wait till we hear back.
Respond, goddammit!
As I’m finger-pecking a response, another message comes through.
I will end you if you get yourself killed.
I manage a weak laugh, glad she can’t hear, then text back:
Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.
The foyer is dark and empty. A single bare bulb glows in the corridor to the left, the only light in the place. I lumber past doorways that open onto empty rooms. No furniture, no fixtures. The doors don’t even have knobs. At the end of the hall, the bulb illuminates a heavy fire door. With a grunt, I push through to a dim stairwell, the steps worn smooth from decades of needful feet. Long, dendritic cracks run up the walls like the maps of watersheds. In spots, plaster has crumbled away to reveal the lath underneath. Bore holes indicate where handrails were once mounted.
I climb as fast as I can, one step at a time, the only sound the faint swoosh of my feet. I don’t see any cameras. On the second-floor landing, I pull the door open with my good hand and peer into blackness. No lights, no open windows. No Shelby. I continue my climb. By the next flight, a dozen lousy steps, I can barely lift my feet.
“This is taking forever, little sister.”
Until now, Fitz’s silence has been surprisingly welcome. Ignoring him, I take one more step, then another. Shelby has got to be up there.
“I’ve got this, Fitz.”
“Testy.”
I am worn down to a single frayed thread. One more half-hearted yank and I’ll come undone. How about you shut the fuck up and let me concentrate, Fitz? But I don’t have to go much further. One step. Two. The door to the third floor comes into view. With my right hand, I steady myself against the wall. Step. Again. And again.
Then I’m slumped against the door. I pull out the phone and see another message waiting.
Absolutely do NOT “don’t worry” at me.
Takes too long to tap out my response:
I’m going to call. Just let it go to voicemail so it records.
I wait, eyes squeezed, until the phone vibrates.
Ready.
Barb’s number is at the top of the chat screen—good thing, since my contacts list is at the bottom of Paddle Creek. If I survive the next ten minutes, I vow to memorize the phone numbers of every person I’ve ever met, alive or dead. I tap “Call” and slide the phone into my pocket. Grab the door handle. Pull.
It swings open onto a bright hallway. I make it three halting paces before Lydia Koenig steps through a door ten feet ahead. As our eyes meet, my ears fill with a roar I realize is my heartbeat. She has a leather briefcase in her left hand and a nylon bag slung over her right shoulder. Her sharp, knee-length skirt and matching blazer shout “board meeting,” but her worn sneakers suggest she’ll have to run to get there in time.
“Hello, Lydia.”
She makes as if to move past me. I raise my bound left hand, and she hesitates. Maybe she thinks I’m armed with something more than bitterness and pain.
“I suppose you came for that girl.”
“Is Shelby here? Is she okay?”
“Of course she is. What do you think I am?”
Her head turns, and I look past her down the hall. Aside from the one she came through, all the doors are closed. Locked too, I bet.
“I think you’re someone who wouldn’t let Dr. Varney take Alyssa to the emergency room.”
Shelby said she never knew the doctor’s na
me, but Lydia doesn’t contradict me. “We take good care of these girls, better than they were caring for themselves on the street. I cared for them.” Her chin points up. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Was there no room at the Hensley School? If you really cared, you’d have found a place for them there, or helped them reconcile with their families. Not locked them up like fucking prisoners.”
Lydia flinches as though slapped. “You don’t know what it costs to run a facility like the Hensley School. I have to do more with less every year. We survive on private contributions. It’s not unreasonable for our donors to expect something in return.”
“Oh, so you’re the hero.”
“I’ve done what I had to do.”
“You let Alyssa die.”
“No one regrets that girl’s death more than I.”
“You sold their babies.”
“The adoptions we arranged were legal—”
This is taking too long. “Shut up.”
She scowls, but she shuts up.
“You’re not going to convince me, and I’m not going to convince you, so let’s get back to the issue at hand.”
“What issue?”
“Shelby and her baby.”
“What do you expect from me?” Even as she’s asking the question, Lydia answers it for herself. “No. Impossible. It’s out of my hands.”
“Lydia, she’s a mother. Her baby is in foster care right now. Just let her go so she can take care of her baby.”
“She didn’t even want the child. She wanted to sell it to me.”
“Her.”
“What?”
“Her. The baby is a little girl.”
Lydia’s head twitches, as if she can barely contain her anger. Join the club, bitch.
“So what if Shelby didn’t want her baby when you found her? She was scared, and you took advantage. You manipulated her to get what you wanted. I’m asking you, in the name of what you pretend to believe in at that fucking school, just give her a chance.”
Her eyes close, and for a moment I think I may have gotten to her. But then her head shakes a little. When she opens her eyes again, they’re empty. “As I said, it’s out of my hands. I don’t know why you’re so concerned—”
“Maybe because I know what it’s like to grow up without a mother.”
My outburst is loud enough to rattle the old doors in their frames. How long it’s been bubbling inside me I don’t know for sure. Most of my life. Ever since I woke up in that empty hospital room. Reinforced every time I came home to a package of boy’s underwear on my bed or an empty house and a freezer full of potpies. Fuck knows Fitz did his best, but he’s just a dead little boy, a phantom of memory, no more real than the Shatter Hill Spirit. A shadow of what I really needed.
Fists start pounding on a door down the hall. A voice cries out. Shelby. I put my hand out to Lydia, but her eyes widen and she shrinks back.
Duniway has me by the arm before I can even scream.
FIFTY-THREE
Caught
With his free hand, Duniway punches me in the ear. Burning light and shattering pain rock through my skull. I collapse in his tight grip.
“Lyd, come on.” He starts yanking me back toward the stairs. “It’s time to go.”
“We’re not ready—”
Duniway’s scowl shuts her up. “We’re hanging by a thread here. There’s still a chance I can tie things off, but only if you stop dawdling.”
He’s going to kill Shelby. That’s how Omar Duniway ties things off. It’s what he did to Jeremy, what he plans to do to me.
Lydia has to realize.
She looks down the hall, then her shoulders drop almost imperceptibly, and her empty eyes fall on me. “What about her?”
“She’s going back in the river.” Duniway’s voice rises again as he swings me around. “I’ll hold her damn head down to make sure she doesn’t come up again.”
Lydia edges past me. I claw at her with my damaged hand, indifferent to the pain. She jerks away so hard she hits the opposite wall.
“Move, damn it!” Duniway shouts. “I’ll take care of this.”
“Please, Lydia, let her go.” I’ve been on borrowed time since I was eight years old, but Shelby shouldn’t have to die. I can hear her shout and bang her door, even over my own hoarse cries. “Lydia, please.” When she darts out of sight, I plead with Duniway. “She won’t say anything, I promise.”
His answer is a feral grin. “I knew that girl would draw you here.”
Laughing bitterly, he tosses me into the stairwell. I slam into the hard floor, knees and then wrists. My left arm collapses as lancing pain shoots through me. Duniway strides through the door. I kick at him with my good leg but miss the mark, my foot thumping harmlessly against the back of his thigh. He bends over and backhands me across the face.
“You dumb bitch, stop fighting.”
Dizzily, I remember Quince clucking about Duniway’s overhet language on the bridge.
As the door swings shut behind him, Shelby’s cries fade. I try to lift my head, can’t.
“Please, please—”
With his foot, he shoves me down the stairs. At the landing, I roll, grabbing for the wall, the steps below. He’s too fast. He hooks my collar and pulls me after him down the next flight to the second-floor landing, drops me in a heap.
“Don’t move, chippy.”
He yanks the heavy door open and canters into the dark hallway beyond. The slap of his feet on linoleum fades quickly. The door shuts.
“You don’t have to listen to him, Melisende.”
I blink stupidly as my own muddy voice penetrates my dull mind. With a sobbing gasp, I force myself onto my belly, then to my hands and knees. My left hand is a ball of agony, but I crawl toward the stairs, squealing through clenched teeth. I’m three or four steps down when the door opens again.
“I told you not to move.”
His boot slams my tailbone, and I pitch forward. Hear a loud crack. I can’t even tell what hurts anymore. I curl into a ball at the foot of the stairs. He storms down after me, and then his hands paw my ass. I squirm until he rips the phone from my pocket. The cracked screen is dark. For how long? Did anything get recorded?
Even if it did, isn’t it too late?
“Guess a cop killer can’t call nine-one-one.”
Shattered plastic and plaster dust rain around me as he slams the phone against the wall. Then my head thuds down step after step. I’m half-blind and choking, and in the dim recesses of my mind I recognize the smell of smoke.
What a time for a cigarette, I think, but then the reason for his visit to the second floor hits me.
“Please, don’t burn her. Jesus, fuck, don’t burn her!”
“Shut your filthy mouth.”
I scream and sob, but have no strength to fight him. He drags me to the first floor, then down the long, empty corridor. The bare bulb over the stairway door swings and spins. “You can’t, you can’t—”
I’ll die in cold water, she’ll die in flames. All tied off, evidence gone, the witnesses silenced. Barb and Elodie may speak for me, but the dash cam will overrule them. In the end, Duniway will blame it all on me. The bodies in the retort, the abandoned asylum destroyed by fire. If they even find Shelby’s body in the rubble, he’ll write it off as a kid caught where she shouldn’t have gone.
The foyer is still dark and quiet. The fire will climb faster than it will descend. He kicks open the door and pulls me down the steps into the courtyard. Above me, flames flicker at the edges of the plywood covering the second-floor windows.
“Don’t, please.” My voice is a bare hiss. Useless. Gravel and thorns rake my back. My thrashing arms and legs do nothing to slow him down. One of the sheets of plywood splits and smoke pours out. I can hear the flames now, the roaring cry of burning wood.
Duniway grunts and drops me.
“Damn it.”
I twist my head. The glare of headlights floods through
the gate. Truck lights. “What did I tell you, Lydia? Get out of here!” he mutters, throwing his arm up and waving like he’s shooing kids off his lawn. The lights don’t move. His hand drops, shading his eyes as the door of the vehicle opens and a large figure ambles into the glare. I try to scream but can only squeak.
Duniway adapts quickly. “Thank goodness, Hayward. Look what I found. I got her.”
The sheriff looks from me to Duniway, then up at the building. Firelight dancing in his eyes. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I fear I’ve misjudged him, but then he holds up a cell phone in his left hand.
“Omar, what did you mean by ‘She’s going back in the river’?”
Duniway’s face contorts as his eyes bounce from me to the sheriff. “I was off my head, Hay. She shot that poor boy.”
“He wasn’t a boy.” The sheriff’s face is grim. “He was my deputy.”
“Of course, I just mean—”
“Did you kill him?”
Duniway’s body goes very still. “Hay, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Omar, you dumb bitch,” I mumble through blood and spit. “You’re caught.”
Car doors slam, people shout, feet pound the dry ground. Figures rush through the gate and past the sheriff. Fire and Rescue. Only two paid staff in Barlow County, maybe fifteen volunteers. Looks like the sheriff brought them all.
Sound and heat seem to boil around me. I slump onto my back. The gravel can cut through my spine for all I care. Deputy Ariana Roldán appears, takes Duniway by the arm. He’s still arguing as she leads him away.
“We got her. We got her!” People are coming out of the building. Shelby looks my way, and our eyes meet before she’s drawn away to safety. With that, the pain seems to drain out of me, displaced by a peaceful lassitude as the asylum burns.
Someone kneels beside me. A young woman lifts my head and slides something soft under my neck. Gentle fingers stroke my forehead. “Miss Dulac? They’re bringing a stretcher. They had to check the building first, but they’re coming back for you.” Paulette Soucie.
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