“Be quiet, Lissy. You don’t know anything.”
She laughed, high, vicious, and too loud, right in his ear. Then her voice became a sneer, and he could feel her hot breath against his cheek. All that poor cow Ryan ever did was tell the truth, Victor. You couldn’t stand to hear the truth, could you? It made you feel small, like a worm. But Ryan didn’t hurt you, not like Savich hurt me. He didn’t only hurt me, he killed me.
Ryan saved your butt, made the judge cry for poor little Victor Nesser, bossed around by his sixteen-year-old girlfriend, mashed down under her dainty thumb. Ryan played the judge perfectly, got you declared incompetent to stand trial. I would have sent her a bottle of champagne. Face it, Victor, you killed her because she told the truth and you couldn’t stand it.
I didn’t think that loony bin was so bad. Plus it gave us time to plan our revenge. And you fooled all those stupid shrinks, made them feel sorry for you, made them feel you were recovering. You were smart, Victor. You hid those pills under your tongue and slipped right out of that place in a nurse’s uniform, the guards nodding good night to you on your way out. I was proud of you.
He smiled into the dying embers. “No, the place wasn’t bad.” He paused, then, “Like I said, Lissy, you don’t know everything. In this, you don’t know anything. Shut up now and go to sleep.”
I don’t want to go to sleep! I want my belly to stop hurting. I don’t want all those fricking staples digging into me. I hate it! And here you are, acting all righteous for killing that bitch for some stupid reason you won’t tell me.
I want Savich and Sherlock. They’re the ones who ruined everything. He’s the one who kicked me in my belly, he’s the one who shot me in the chest. You could have gone right after him, but you went after his kid first. And look how that turned out.
She made him so mad he stuttered. “Th-that was all b-bad luck. You know that, Lissy. It wasn’t on me.”
Bad luck or not, trying to take the Savich kid out of his own house was a stretch. Like I told you, you should have gone after Savich or Sherlock.
He rubbed his ankle, remembering how he’d had to shinny down that oak tree outside the kid’s bedroom and jump, hurting the same ankle Sherlock had shot. “That wasn’t my fault! They shouldn’t have heard me, shouldn’t have known until the next morning when the kid was gone. I didn’t make a sound, so how did they know?” He realized he’d nearly screamed the words and went silent, sat very still, listening. Nothing, no one had heard him. And he wondered again how they’d known he was there. It still baffled him.
Don’t give yourself a stroke, Victor. Yeah, okay, maybe it was a good plan, maybe it was bad luck. I know why you went after the kid first. I mean, Savich shot me. And you love me more than anybody in the whole wide world, so you wanted to take away his little boy. It was a good idea. It would have made him real scared, that’s for sure.
She was being nice now, but Victor was still shaking. He took slow, deep breaths. It had been a long day, and his ankle hurt—it always hurt, only much more today.
Your ankle hurts, always makes you grunt and groan and feel sorry for yourself. So why don’t you put the blame where it belongs? That redheaded agent Sherlock was the one who shot you in the ankle to bring you down, not that poor old cow Ryan. Sherlock—what a stupid name that is, but I really liked her hair. I think she lied to me, that red color wasn’t natural, she dyed it red and curled it. I could have done that.
Victor knew Lissy was preening, fluffing her hair. He shook his head. The past and the present, always bumping against each other, mixing things up. He couldn’t let himself forget which was which. Now was now. He had to stay focused. There was so much more to do.
Victor heard something, maybe sneakers walking quiet as a ghost through the leaves. The girl park ranger? Was she tracking him? Had she seen him drive in, followed him? Did she have a gun? He got on his feet, the agent’s Glock in his hand. He racked the slide, and it made him feel less afraid, ready for a fight.
A small burning branch exploded in the fire pit, made him jump. He nearly pulled the trigger, maybe shot himself in the foot. He cursed but didn’t move, stood still as a beam of light and listened.
There, movement, off to his left, a rustling sound. He brought up the Glock and whirled around. He very nearly fired again when he saw the flash of an animal as it ran all-out away from him through the trees. Maybe a fox. He slowly slid the Glock into his waistband and sat back down by his fire pit, forced himself to calm again.
I knew no one was there, Victor. All you had to do was ask me. You got all scared, nearly peed yourself over a little animal. It was afraid of you, but you got all wigged out. For what? Nothing. And the stunt you pulled at the book festival, buying a fricking chocolate bar to help you grab up the Savich kid? How lame was that? If it wasn’t for that kid stampede, you would have been caught.
Victor wanted to slap her, that’d get her attention. He fought for control. She was right, really, a lot of things had gone sideways. And today at the book festival, if only he’d had time to think it through, he could have ironed out the possible wrinkles. He would have realized the bitch agent would be on her guard, ready for him. But he’d had to move fast, too fast. No, it was nothing. Less than nothing. Today was an A+ for him. “Give your mouth a rest, Lissy. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
Victor? I lied. I really didn’t like that crazy ward they put us in. I don’t want to go back. I like being free. Smell the fire, Victor. Feel the warm air on your face. Yes, this is much better. Can you hear the crickets? Noisy little buggers. And there’s an owl hooting. It’s so lovely here and so quiet, no screaming kiddies or arguing parents like at the campground sites. I’m tired, Victor, and my stomach still hurts. I wish I could get the staples out, always itching and tugging, and I can feel my skin pulling. Savich’s fault, all his fault. And Sherlock’s the one who shot your ankle, made you a cripple. Where are your priorities? Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you.
“I’m not a cripple.”
Face it, Victor, you need me. I always know what to do.
He hit his leg with his fist, once, twice, three times. “Look, I got us here to a nice isolated campsite, carried in all the crap we need, and you didn’t hear any whining from me about my ankle.”
Yeah, okay, you’re a real macho.
“And you’re a real pain, Lissy.” Victor watched the small fire slowly die, and brooded. He’d get it all done.
She whispered, I liked our time at Gatewood, Victor. Ghosts live there, you know. I could feel them roaming around, going from room to room. That’s why I wanted to make our room shine and sparkle, let them know we were there and to stay out. I kinda felt sorry for them, but I guess they didn’t have anywhere else to go, nobody to care they’re holed up in that creepy old house. They’re not free like you and me. I’ll be with you forever.
“Yes, you will, and I’m glad, Lissy.”
You know I always wanted to go to Montana. I figure we can leave soon now, as soon as you take care of business. I wish you’d tell me why you bothered to kill that lawyer.
He only shook his head. Victor picked up a s’more from the grate. Perfect. The marshmallows and chocolate were melted, but not too hot, and they stuck to his teeth. He licked and licked, closed his eyes with pleasure. Before he let sleep drag him under, he whispered, “I love you, Lissy. I’m sorry about the staples in your belly.”
It’s okay, Victor. I’ll live.
20
* * *
NORM'S FISH & BAIT
BOWMAN, MARYLAND
SUNDAY MORNING