Lisa Gardner - Say Goodbye

It was past seven-thirty now. She was not far from civilization, but the trees formed an effective buffer, and standing in this spot, she couldn’t hear the sound of passing cars or make out the distant lights of a bustling community. With the new moon floating dark and hidden overhead, the only illumination came from her vehicle’s twin headlights. It was quiet, still.

In spite of herself, she shivered.

Tommy Mark Evans, it said down the cross. Then, along the arms: Beloved son.

Kimberly looked around: at the thick cluster of rhododendrons, nearly higher than her head; the thin, scratchy outline of straggly pine trees, clutching at the night sky. She felt the deep ruts of the dirt road beneath her feet. Used her flashlight to illuminate the grooves of tire marks tracking in and out.

She could picture a young man joyriding down this lane, pedal to the metal, shrieking each time his monster tires hit a rut and sent him airborne. She could picture a young man and a female friend tucked alongside the road, necking hard and heavy, steaming up the windshield.

She could not picture a college kid coming out here alone, pulling over for no reason, and winding up shot two times to the forehead.

Tommy Mark Evans knew his attacker. She had no doubt in her mind.

An owl hooted. A squirrel burst out, making a mad dash across the lane. Kimberly watched the grass rustle on the other side of the road long after the squirrel disappeared into the brush, and the owl swooped by overhead.

She felt a fluttering kick in her side, her own child waking up. She pressed her hand against her lower abdomen, and for a moment, the powerful feeling of life while standing before a scene of such tragedy left her unutterably sad. She wondered how Tommy’s parents had made it through the holidays. Did they surround themselves with photos of their son? Or did they find it easiest to pretend his life had never happened?

How had Kimberly’s father done it? Looking at all those photos, visiting all those crime scenes of young girls and boys so viciously murdered, then coming home to his own family each night? How did you comfort your child’s tears over a scratched knee when you could picture another child missing all of her fingers? How could you tell your child there was no such thing as monsters when you witnessed their handiwork each and every day?

And how had he borne it, when the call finally came in the middle of the night: Sir, we regret to inform you about your daughter…

Kimberly herself rarely thought about her sister. Her mother, yes. But Mandy…That loss was more insidious in ways she couldn’t explain. A child expected to one day lose her parents. Her sibling, on the other hand…A sister was a companion, a peer. They were supposed to grow old together, standing up at each other’s weddings, swapping advice on child-rearing, while one day trying to determine how to best take care of Dad.

Once, Kimberly had been the younger half of a paired set. Now she was an only child.

You’d think she’d get used to it, but she didn’t.

Kimberly turned, started for her car, arms wrapped around her torso for warmth.

She had only taken two steps before her cell rang.

It was too dark, she thought. She was too alone, her mind filled with too many unsettling thoughts. Veronica Jones’s last desperate screams. Her sister, head wrapped in white gauze on the hospital bed as the doctor flipped the proverbial switch and they stood together, she and her parents, to watch Mandy die. And then, just a year later, the House of Horrors that became her mother’s last stand.

Mandy had been lucky. She had not lived long enough to know that, with her death, she had sealed their mother’s fate. Had Veronica Jones understood? Had she truly realized what her anguished confession would mean for her daughter?

Her phone rang again. Kimberly wanted to walk away. But she was her father’s daughter, helpless to say no, even when she of all people knew better.

“Special Agent Quincy,” she answered.

Nothing.

She waited for someone to tell her hush, for another macabre scene to start playing out in the background. But second passed into second. She heard nothing at all.

She checked signal strength, tried again. “Special Agent Quincy.”

Still no words, but now, as she concentrated, she thought she caught the sound of breathing, low and even. She let the silence roll out again. The strategy didn’t work.

“I would like to help you,” she said presently. “It’s okay if you need to talk.”

Nothing.

“Is someone there? Are you afraid of being overheard? Just make a sound, like you’re clearing your throat. I’ll take that as an affirmative.”

But the caller remained silent.

She started to feel frustrated now, walking in a small circle.

“Are you in danger?”

Nothing.

“If you talk to me, provide information, I may be able to offer protection. You can’t just dial my number, however. You have to be willing to talk.”

Then, finally, that small voice again, high-strung, but hushed, like a child’s: “Shhhh.”

“Please, I want to help…”

“He knows what you’re doing.”

“Who knows-”

“He knows everything.”

“Can you give me a name?”

“It’s only a matter of time.”

“Listen to me-”

“You will be the next specimen in the collection.”

“Can you meet? Name the time and place, I’ll be there.”

“Shhh. Remember to look up.”

The call disconnected. Kimberly stood there a moment longer, clutching her phone, totally bewildered. And then, mostly because she could not help herself, she glanced up.

The night sky yawned above her. A pinprick of stars. The more distant glow of the city. She forced herself to take in the shadowed outline of the trees, the bushes, the distant horizon. Nothing loomed in the dark unknown. No boogeyman leapt out to get her.

Then, to her right, a tree limb cracked. She forgot about decorum and bolted for her car. Running hard, fumbling with the key. She yanked open the heavy door and leapt inside. Door shut, locks engaged, engine cranked.

At the last minute, she caught herself before she tore down the dirt road like the half-dressed heroine of a teen slasher film. She was a professional, for God’s sake. And heavily armed.

She got her breathing to steady, and safe inside the confines of her automobile, took final inventory. Nothing moved in the woods around her. No headless horseman came careening her way.

Just a solitary white cross, picked up in the crosshairs of her headlights.

She drove home slowly, trying to make sense of the caller’s latest warning and wishing that everything about this case didn’t fill her with dread.

Mac was home when she arrived. She pulled in next to his truck, shutting off the engine. She pasted a smile on her face, then braved the house.

Hallway light was on. Kitchen, too. She tossed down her shoulder bag, shrugged out of her jacket, wandering down the hall. No sign of Mac. She tried the family room with the large-screen TV and Mac’s favorite black leather recliner. Still no husband.

She returned to the kitchen, looking for a note and starting to feel herself panicking again for no good reason. He could be in the shower, or out back, or have gone next door. There were a million logical explanations.

Except now she was wondering. The caller had her cell phone number. How much else did he know about her?

“Kimberly.”

She jumped and twirled, her hand automatically going to her chest. Mac stood in the doorway of the kitchen, leather bomber jacket on, dark hair windblown, as if just returning from a walk.

“Heavens, you scared me,” she said, hand coming down, feeling foolish.