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Authors: Patrick Lee
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leaned into him, her forehead against his cheek. He was about to stand when she spoke again.
“Remember this. From the place where they tortured me, go in the opposite direction from the crash site, and at fifty steps find the biggest tree around. You can’t miss it. The Whisper is on the far side, buried two feet down. I scattered needles to hide the ground I disturbed.”
“You don’t need me to know that,” Travis said. “You’re going to report it yourself.”
He waited for her reply, but none came. After a moment her breath against his neck fell into a steady rhythm, slow and even.
VERSE IIAN OCTOBER NIGHT IN 1992
Through the sheer curtain across the living-room window, Travis sees that he was close to right: they are seated, holding each other, though they’ve squeezed into one of the big recliners instead of the couch.
He knocks, and sees the man’s shape turn. A moment later Travis sees his face through the little window in the door as he approaches across the laundry room. The man’s eyes are blood red from crying. Behind him, the dining-room table is covered with flowers and somber cards.
The man does not even look through the door before opening it—he expects someone else, anyone else—and when he finds himself face to face with Travis, he flinches angrily. His eyes narrow. A tear spills from the left one.
Looking into those eyes, Travis expects the man to turn from the door, stride into the next room, return with his shotgun and open fire. If it happens, Travis will not try to run. He knows he deserves it, for the misery he has brought to these people.
But Emily Price’s father does not turn away. Behind him in the house, her mother calls out to ask who’s there, her voice stretched and ruined by her own tears.
She gets no answer.
Mr. Price holds his glare on Travis and says, “What do you want, Detective?”
Travis hears the contempt behind the last word. He knows he deserves that, too.
“What have the police told you?” Travis says.
The man’s eyes harden. “Why don’t you go ask them? They trust you, right?”
Travis says nothing. He waits for the answer.
“They’re not going to charge anyone,” Mr. Price says at last. Hate and despair and torment become a unified whole in his voice.
“Why not?”
“No evidence. They didn’t even find her body. Just her car. But they said there was so much—” The man falters. For a moment he seems incapable of saying more. Then: “There was enough blood, her blood, that a girl her size couldn’t have sur—”
His voice gives out then, of its own accord. He looks down. His lower lip shakes.
Through the tremors, Mr. Price says, “She didn’t do anything to them. This is all you. It started with you.”
Travis manages a nod. He steps closer and speaks softly. “It’s going to end with me.”
Mr. Price looks up at him.
“I wasn’t here tonight,” Travis says. “Can you agree to that, Mr. Price?”
Emily’s father only stares. Seconds pass. He knows what Travis is saying. He knows what he means to do. For a moment he actually considers his response, as if there’s any real choice. But then, because Emily was his only daughter, because she took her first awkward steps into his arms, because when she was a teenager she used to fall asleep resting against his shoulder on the couch during The Tonight Show, and because three times today he’s gone into her bedroom and pressed her pillow to his face to breathe in whatever fading trace is left of her there, he nods.
“Okay,” Travis says.
Mr. Price closes the door, and Travis turns away, back into the night and the fog, and his hand goes unconsciously to the .32.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Travis ran the last thousand yards to the highway. His knee joints felt like they were riding on glass chips instead of cartilage. Through the front windows of the Brooks Lodge and Fuel Depot he saw half a dozen patrons, maybe the regulars watching a baseball game on the TV above the
“Remember this. From the place where they tortured me, go in the opposite direction from the crash site, and at fifty steps find the biggest tree around. You can’t miss it. The Whisper is on the far side, buried two feet down. I scattered needles to hide the ground I disturbed.”
“You don’t need me to know that,” Travis said. “You’re going to report it yourself.”
He waited for her reply, but none came. After a moment her breath against his neck fell into a steady rhythm, slow and even.
VERSE IIAN OCTOBER NIGHT IN 1992
Through the sheer curtain across the living-room window, Travis sees that he was close to right: they are seated, holding each other, though they’ve squeezed into one of the big recliners instead of the couch.
He knocks, and sees the man’s shape turn. A moment later Travis sees his face through the little window in the door as he approaches across the laundry room. The man’s eyes are blood red from crying. Behind him, the dining-room table is covered with flowers and somber cards.
The man does not even look through the door before opening it—he expects someone else, anyone else—and when he finds himself face to face with Travis, he flinches angrily. His eyes narrow. A tear spills from the left one.
Looking into those eyes, Travis expects the man to turn from the door, stride into the next room, return with his shotgun and open fire. If it happens, Travis will not try to run. He knows he deserves it, for the misery he has brought to these people.
But Emily Price’s father does not turn away. Behind him in the house, her mother calls out to ask who’s there, her voice stretched and ruined by her own tears.
She gets no answer.
Mr. Price holds his glare on Travis and says, “What do you want, Detective?”
Travis hears the contempt behind the last word. He knows he deserves that, too.
“What have the police told you?” Travis says.
The man’s eyes harden. “Why don’t you go ask them? They trust you, right?”
Travis says nothing. He waits for the answer.
“They’re not going to charge anyone,” Mr. Price says at last. Hate and despair and torment become a unified whole in his voice.
“Why not?”
“No evidence. They didn’t even find her body. Just her car. But they said there was so much—” The man falters. For a moment he seems incapable of saying more. Then: “There was enough blood, her blood, that a girl her size couldn’t have sur—”
His voice gives out then, of its own accord. He looks down. His lower lip shakes.
Through the tremors, Mr. Price says, “She didn’t do anything to them. This is all you. It started with you.”
Travis manages a nod. He steps closer and speaks softly. “It’s going to end with me.”
Mr. Price looks up at him.
“I wasn’t here tonight,” Travis says. “Can you agree to that, Mr. Price?”
Emily’s father only stares. Seconds pass. He knows what Travis is saying. He knows what he means to do. For a moment he actually considers his response, as if there’s any real choice. But then, because Emily was his only daughter, because she took her first awkward steps into his arms, because when she was a teenager she used to fall asleep resting against his shoulder on the couch during The Tonight Show, and because three times today he’s gone into her bedroom and pressed her pillow to his face to breathe in whatever fading trace is left of her there, he nods.
“Okay,” Travis says.
Mr. Price closes the door, and Travis turns away, back into the night and the fog, and his hand goes unconsciously to the .32.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Travis ran the last thousand yards to the highway. His knee joints felt like they were riding on glass chips instead of cartilage. Through the front windows of the Brooks Lodge and Fuel Depot he saw half a dozen patrons, maybe the regulars watching a baseball game on the TV above the
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