He made a right on Husum Street and shut off the Bronco’s lights as he drove across the concrete bridge. Just off the bridge, he turned right into a dirt lot and drove forward, parking amid the scrub oak, careful not to get too close to the edge that dropped to the river, but hoping to camouflage the car in the trees.
He shut off the engine and took another moment to gather himself. He checked the rearview and side mirrors, took a deep breath, and pushed out of the car. With his hands free, he was able to lower the spare tire and open the tailgate. He gripped the sleeping bag and slid her body toward him. When he got her to the gate, he lifted her again. The snow had melted, and her body didn’t feel as cold. It was easier to carry her this time, not having to stand from a crouch. He was better balanced and could more evenly distribute the weight. He heard the river—not a roar, but a hushing sound like the din of traffic on a freeway. It grew louder as he stepped closer to the edge.
She moved.
He nearly dropped her.
She moved again, twitching.
Then she opened her eyes.
Reynolds’s breath caught in his throat.
She lifted her head and looked up at him. Her lips parted, emitting a long, shallow gasp, like air escaping a tire. With the rush came a whisper. “Help me.”
Ron Reynolds stood paralyzed, not breathing, his legs unable to move.
“Help me,” she said again, her words soft but more distinct. “Please. Help me.”
His breathing came in quick gasps. He took a deep breath and found his voice. “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t.”
And he stepped to the edge and rolled her out of his arms.
Her body struck the water with a splash, submerged for a moment, then bobbed to the surface, her arms flailing before the current pushed Kimi Kanasket quickly downstream.
Eric Reynolds stood in the driveway of his boyhood home. Snow had begun to stick to his hair and clothing, melting and trickling down his face. His father didn’t ask him what he was talking about. He didn’t ask him to come inside. He must have envisioned this moment, though after four decades, maybe his father had come to believe he would never have to experience it.
“I did what I had to do,” he said, unapologetic.
“She was still alive?”
His father did not answer.
“And you knew it. You knew she was still alive.”
“Whether she was or wasn’t is not relevant.”
“Not relevant?” Eric said, disbelieving. “You’ve let me believe all these years that I killed her. You let us all believe we killed her.”
“You did kill her. She would have died.”
“No, Dad. She wouldn’t have died. I just spoke to the police detective. She would have lived.”
“There’s no guarantee.”
“If you had let me call, she could have lived.”
“And then what, Eric?” his father said, still calm. “Then what were you going to tell everyone? That bullshit story about it being an accident?”
“It was an accident. It was a Goddamn accident. We were just kids.”
“You were eighteen. They would have prosecuted you as an adult.”
“You know something? I wish they had. I wish they had because I’ve been punishing myself for the past forty years, and nothing could have been worse than what I’ve been through, what I know Darren and Archie went through, what Hastey continues to go through.”
“Seems to me you’ve done pretty well for yourself.”
“Really? Have I, Dad? Have you even noticed? Do you know why I’m divorced, Dad? You don’t, because you never bothered to ask. I’m divorced, Dad, because I wouldn’t have kids. I had a vasectomy before we were married without telling her, and I let her believe she was the problem. And do you want to know why I did it? I did it so I could be certain I would never have children. Because I was afraid that I’d have a daughter, Dad, a little girl who would grow up to be a teenager someday, and that I wouldn’t be able to look at her without seeing Kimi. And every day she would be a reminder of what I did. What I thought I did. You allowed us to live our lives thinking we killed her, and it killed Darren and it killed Archie and it’s killing Hastey. That’s what you did, Dad. You let us all kill ourselves.”
“I did what I did to protect my son. To protect everything we worked so hard to accomplish. You would have lost everything—your scholarship, college.”
“You traded her life for my scholarship?”
“You would have gone to prison.”
“I wish I had. You have no idea how often I just wish I had. Because then, at least, I could have said that I got what I deserved, and maybe I could have moved on with my life instead of living like this, like a coward.”
“You don’t have children. You don’t know. You would have done the same thing.”
“No,” Eric said. “I wouldn’t have. I would have called if you had let me. I would have called, Dad. I wanted to call. But you wouldn’t let me, because this was never about me. It was always about you, about preserving your legacy. That’s what this stadium is all about. That’s why you let me believe I killed her—because you could keep control over me, let me believe if it wasn’t for you, I would have nothing. That’s why you did what you did. It had nothing to do with me.”
“When I lost your mother, I swore I would never lose anything ever again. I did what I had to do to preserve what was left of this family.”
“She would have been ashamed of me. And she would have been more ashamed of you.”
Ron Reynolds did not immediately respond. They stood in the blanketing silence, the snow falling heavier now. “What’s done is done,” Ron said, sounding resigned. “You can’t change the past. Tomorrow they’ll dedicate the stadium, and our names will be forever etched in history.”
And with that, Ron Reynolds took a step back and slowly shut the door. A moment later the yellow light went out, leaving Eric standing in the dark, the snow cascading around him. He started for his truck, then stopped, wondering. His dad was always so organized, so detailed, and so practical. It’s what had made him such a good football coach. He looked behind him, to the carport. Then he turned and walked alongside the car. It was dark, but he used the flashlight on his cell phone to scan a lifetime of accumulated sporting equipment. Fishing waders hung from nails in studs beside camouflage hunting pants and jackets, a crossbow, tennis rackets, golf clubs in golf bags, baseball bats in a bin, a backpack. Below them he found the blue plastic storage bins marked with a black marker, the words faded but still decipherable.
Eric moved the bins around until he found the one that said “Hunting Equipment.” He snapped off the top and directed the light inside. His father’s hunting boots stood neatly inside, newspaper stuffed into each leg to keep the boots straight.
CHAPTER 34