out of Barrett. He released Eric. The crowbar fell from his hand, thudded on the ground.
I snatched it up in case he got a second wind.
But Barrett shook off Vance, turned on his heel, and started walking.
Vance slid a sidelong glance at me and hurried after him. “Come on, man. If Luke shows up, we’re cooked.”
Barrett marched toward Vance’s truck—and passed it.
He walked up the lane, past the lilacs, and out of sight.
“Vance,” Eric rasped, gulping air like a man who’d nearly drowned. “I want you off my property. Right. Now.”
Vance, however, was way ahead of him. Maybe he realized how close Barrett had come to bashing Eric’s brains in. Or maybe he needed a hit of something to settle his nerves. He was as jittery as a June bug at the height of summer, and he couldn’t hide it. He jumped into his truck, threw it into reverse, and sped off.
“Now,” Eric spat at me, “ you get out of here. And don’t come back.”
I nodded once, just to acknowledge what he’d said. And to acknowledge his pain. Because his pain was very real—and it fed on him like a leech.
With his eyes boring holes into my back, I walked up the weedy drive. When I reached my Jag, I tossed the crowbar into the back, slid into the driver’s seat, and locked my doors. The adrenaline that had flooded my system when Eric struck me was fading now—and it was taking all my courage with it.
I wiped my watery eyes with the cuff of my turtleneck, gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel with shaking hands, and watched as the grill of Eric’s Mercury nosed through the lilacs. He punched the gas, shot onto the road toward town. His mother offered me a sweet little wave as they flew past.
Across the way, more movement caught my eye. On the far side of a broken-down barbed-wire fence and past a rusted cattle gate, I saw a dark figure walking the creek bed that cut through the old meadow. It was Barrett.
I met up with him as he crouched on a lip of earth undercut by the stream’s serpentine swath. Only two feet below us, the creek itself had dwindled to a trickle. But its bed was wide where eons of spring rain had rushed past.
“This is where Eric found her,” Barrett said, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jean jacket, shoulders hunched against the rising wind.
Pamela, helpless and hurting, would’ve lain hidden in this fold in the earth and never been seen from the road—let alone from the Wentz farmhouse—but Barrett didn’t need to point that out to me.
“Had Pamela taken this shortcut before?” I asked.
“Not to see me. Not like that night. Before we got driver’s licenses, though, Eric and I tramped back and forth on this trail all the time. Vance, Luke, Charlotte Mead…we all used this shortcut to get between Eric’s house and my grandparents’.”
“Even Pamela?”
“I guess she tagged along once or twice. That’s what little sisters do.”
And little brothers, too, I supposed. But I didn’t know. I was an only child.
I said, “Did your sister tag along after you?”
“Elise? Maybe sometimes. Her best friend lived in town. She spent a lot of time there.” Barrett got to his feet. “Does it matter?”
I shrugged. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, Pamela could’ve fallen prey to a chance encounter with a roaming stranger. But I didn’t believe that for an instant.
I scanned the landscape the way my father, the general, had taught me. I divided it into sections of my own making, assessed the threat potential within each one. But a dozen things could’ve changed since the night, over twenty years ago, when Pamela had been assaulted. A dozen hiding places could’ve come and gone. More obscuring bushes and fewer brambles could’ve clotted the hillside back then. A fallen tree along the creek bed could’ve provided cover. After all, Eric hadn’t seen anyone lurking, lying in wait for his sister, as he’d stomped along this path, agitated and angry with Barrett. Nothing like
I snatched it up in case he got a second wind.
But Barrett shook off Vance, turned on his heel, and started walking.
Vance slid a sidelong glance at me and hurried after him. “Come on, man. If Luke shows up, we’re cooked.”
Barrett marched toward Vance’s truck—and passed it.
He walked up the lane, past the lilacs, and out of sight.
“Vance,” Eric rasped, gulping air like a man who’d nearly drowned. “I want you off my property. Right. Now.”
Vance, however, was way ahead of him. Maybe he realized how close Barrett had come to bashing Eric’s brains in. Or maybe he needed a hit of something to settle his nerves. He was as jittery as a June bug at the height of summer, and he couldn’t hide it. He jumped into his truck, threw it into reverse, and sped off.
“Now,” Eric spat at me, “ you get out of here. And don’t come back.”
I nodded once, just to acknowledge what he’d said. And to acknowledge his pain. Because his pain was very real—and it fed on him like a leech.
With his eyes boring holes into my back, I walked up the weedy drive. When I reached my Jag, I tossed the crowbar into the back, slid into the driver’s seat, and locked my doors. The adrenaline that had flooded my system when Eric struck me was fading now—and it was taking all my courage with it.
I wiped my watery eyes with the cuff of my turtleneck, gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel with shaking hands, and watched as the grill of Eric’s Mercury nosed through the lilacs. He punched the gas, shot onto the road toward town. His mother offered me a sweet little wave as they flew past.
Across the way, more movement caught my eye. On the far side of a broken-down barbed-wire fence and past a rusted cattle gate, I saw a dark figure walking the creek bed that cut through the old meadow. It was Barrett.
I met up with him as he crouched on a lip of earth undercut by the stream’s serpentine swath. Only two feet below us, the creek itself had dwindled to a trickle. But its bed was wide where eons of spring rain had rushed past.
“This is where Eric found her,” Barrett said, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jean jacket, shoulders hunched against the rising wind.
Pamela, helpless and hurting, would’ve lain hidden in this fold in the earth and never been seen from the road—let alone from the Wentz farmhouse—but Barrett didn’t need to point that out to me.
“Had Pamela taken this shortcut before?” I asked.
“Not to see me. Not like that night. Before we got driver’s licenses, though, Eric and I tramped back and forth on this trail all the time. Vance, Luke, Charlotte Mead…we all used this shortcut to get between Eric’s house and my grandparents’.”
“Even Pamela?”
“I guess she tagged along once or twice. That’s what little sisters do.”
And little brothers, too, I supposed. But I didn’t know. I was an only child.
I said, “Did your sister tag along after you?”
“Elise? Maybe sometimes. Her best friend lived in town. She spent a lot of time there.” Barrett got to his feet. “Does it matter?”
I shrugged. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, Pamela could’ve fallen prey to a chance encounter with a roaming stranger. But I didn’t believe that for an instant.
I scanned the landscape the way my father, the general, had taught me. I divided it into sections of my own making, assessed the threat potential within each one. But a dozen things could’ve changed since the night, over twenty years ago, when Pamela had been assaulted. A dozen hiding places could’ve come and gone. More obscuring bushes and fewer brambles could’ve clotted the hillside back then. A fallen tree along the creek bed could’ve provided cover. After all, Eric hadn’t seen anyone lurking, lying in wait for his sister, as he’d stomped along this path, agitated and angry with Barrett. Nothing like
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