I pass the barn and step through some thick weeds on the far side. I’m tempted to use my light, but I don’t want to alert her to my presence.
I can barely see my own shoes in the darkness by the time I reach the woods. It probably would have been better to have done this early in the morning in the gray light of dawn, instead of now. I just didn’t have the patience to wait that long.
The woods are a mixture of tall trees and overgrown brush. I have to walk around the edge to find a gap in the brambles to penetrate farther in.
I find a small foot trail and meander through wild berry bushes and shrubs. When I look behind me, the house is no longer visible, so I turn on my flashlight.
Immediately, something reflects in the weeds. I get closer and realize I’m staring at the headlight of a car. It’s a rusted blue Chevy Citation.
There’s no license plate on the front or the back, but I spot another car, a Datsun, about ten feet farther back. Orange with rust, again with no license plate.
When I spin my light around, I realize that there are at least eight or nine other cars around me. All of them at least thirty years old and covered in rust.
None of them has a license plate. I open the doors to some of them and search the glove boxes for anything to identify where they came from, but there’s nothing to be found.
Weird.
Damn weird.
I take photos using my phone and try to find the VIN numbers. The ones on the dashboards have all been pried off. I check the running boards and engine blocks and come up empty.
What’s with all the unmarked cars? Was old Jack running a car-theft ring?
No.
That’s not why they’re here.
My breath grows shallow as I understand where I’m standing.
Damn.
Holy crap.
I need to get out of here fast.
This isn’t a junkyard.
This is another one of his graveyards.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
JUNKER
I have to get out of here. In a flash, this went from theoretical to very real. Lane’s mystery foster child could have been one of many potential suspects, but the cars tell me otherwise.
All the missing hikers back in Cougar Creek, traveling there from across the country—as Elizabeth said, their cars would have to have piled up.
And they did.
He brought them here.
I race through the woods, weaving around the rusted junk heaps, and try to find my way toward the gap out of here. My foot hits a half-buried piece of metal, and I trip.
There’s an icy pain as my elbow smashes into the side-view mirror of a Toyota Celica. When I pull my arm free, there are bits of glass in my skin and blood on the door.
Damn it.
I try to wipe the blood away with my sleeve, but all I do is smear it over the panel. I see an upstairs light turn on through the trees. Not good. She has to have heard me.
Screw the car. I bunch my jacket around the gash in my arm and take off running again.
I reach the edge of the woods and race over to the property line to follow the fence back to the road. I’m making a hell of a noise as I stomp through the dry grass. My knees clip the edge of a woodpile, knocking it over.
In the distance there’s the sound of a door slamming, and lights come on at the edge of the yard.
“I know you’re out there!” yells Julie Lane. Then she says something truly chilling. “Wait until he finds out! Just you wait!”
I make it to the gravel road, shoulders hunched, fearful that I’m going to get a spine full of lead from a shotgun blast.
Lungs heaving, I start to wobble as my vision begins to get dim around the edges. Crap. I’ve lost more blood than I realize.
I brace myself on a fence post, take a deep breath, and check back over my shoulder. I see Mrs. Lane’s silhouette on the porch, watching me.
I stumble farther along, using the wooden rail to keep me from falling. Eventually I walk far enough away that she’s out of sight. Not that it makes any difference—but mentally it does.
I keep going, afraid that any moment I’m going to take one mushy step and collapse.
Somehow, I make it to my Explorer. When I open the door and see my arm in the interior light, it’s covered in my blood.
I want to drive off and leave this damned place, but I’m fearful that I might pass out behind the wheel and slam into a tree. This needs to be taken care of now.
Using my good arm, I pop the hatch at the back of my Explorer and get out my first-aid kit.
I managed to nick my basilic vein. It takes a tourniquet on my elbow to stop the blood.
I pick away the piece of glass holding it open and squeeze the rupture. Thankfully, the vein isn’t severed, just slit like a botched blood draw. As I sit on my bumper waiting for blood platelets to coagulate and seal it from within, I keep a watchful eye on the road.
I slide Gus’s gun from my waistband to the floor, in case I have to get to it in a hurry. The only problem is that I’m a righty and that hand is out of commission for the moment.
Patience, Theo. Patience.
My heart stops beating so fast and the blood isn’t running down my fingertips anymore. When I release the vein, there’s still a trickle, but something I can manage with a tight dressing.
Just to be sure, I need to have a two-handed physician examine the cut, in order to make sure I don’t have to stitch it up.
Forty minutes later I’m sitting in the emergency room of Fairfax Hospital waiting for them to call my name. The fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell are strangely soothing to me. It’s the only relaxing thing in my world right now.
My bandage is bright red, and the blood has started to flow back down my arm. I want to say something to the receptionist, but I’m sure I have another few pints to go before I’m really critical.
The numb arm isn’t what disturbs me the most. It’s the confirmation of what I suspected.
As I sit here, bleeding out, I use my left hand to operate my phone and search through all the records I could find about missing persons around Cougar Creek.
Six of the cars I found in the woods are the same make, model, and color of cars belonging to missing persons.
It’s him.
It’s really him.
I compose a text message to the police in Red Hook and cc Dr. Mead. I provide the Lanes’ address, a list of the cars, and their connection to Sarah and the murders.
With this information, they can get the names of who was living there and get his name.
I hit “Send” and feel a wave of relief that could also be the disembodied euphoria of passing out.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
ALIBI
The Poitier County sheriff substation in Red Hook is a small building attached to the post office. The walls are filled with brochures and notices. Two desks sit in back of a small counter, and the rest of the station is behind a secure metal door where I assume they have a holding cell or a safe.
Sergeant Graham, a female officer who wears a serious expression over an otherwise friendly face, is making notes as I tell her how I came to the Lane house and discovered the cars.
I’ve had to change the story a little, or rather redact some of the details, because I was clearly trespassing.
“When I knocked on the door, there was no answer. So I went around back to see if she was there.”
“Did you have permission to do this?”
“I’d spoken with her on the phone. She told me I could stop by.” This part is true, until she told me to go to hell.
Graham writes this down in tiny, very concise script. “And that’s when you discovered the cars?”
“I saw the woods and decided to take a closer look.”
“Why?”
“I’m a biologist. You don’t see as many fir trees at this altitude around here.”
She taps her pen on the edge of her chin. “Huh. I never thought about that.”
I get the impression that she thinks deeply about a lot of things and make a mental note to try not to be too clever.
“I think it has to do with the soil. This is all glacial flood plain. The top layer is good for farming, but more than a few feet it’s too rocky.”
“And that’s when you saw the cars?”