Grief, guilt, twisted logic, and years of trying to keep his sins locked away, of trying to hide his face from the people who loved and trusted him had slowly eaten away at his humanity, at his reason, at the light that separated him from the darkness that waited for him. And here he was, standing in my grandmother’s kitchen, on the spot where she left this life, showing me exactly who he was. It must be a relief. But he didn’t do it for absolution. He didn’t do it to gloat or to explain. He did it because he was going to kill me, if the inky smear clouding the edges of my vision were any indication. And they always were. The lurkers knew his intentions. And they were there, waiting for him to carry them out.
“I knew you were just messing with me all this time. You painted Molly Taggert’s face on the overpass and I knew that somehow, someway, you knew. I knew you must have seen me that night at the Stampede. But you never said anything. You acted like you didn’t know.
“But then I saw the walls, after Kathleen died.” His eyes bounced toward the living room, toward the wall that neither of us could see from where we faced off. “All those pictures on the walls. The girls. You painted the girls! And still . . . you never said anything. I didn’t know what you wanted. I tried to stop. I wanted people to think it was you. But then I saw her. On the fourth, I saw her. The same day Jenny died. And she looked like Jenny. She smiled at me, just like Jenny used to. And she was strung out. Higher than a kite. I followed her home that night. And I took her.”
I didn’t know who he was talking about, but I guessed it was the girl who’d been missing since July, the girl Tag had seen on a flyer at the bar in Nephi.
“Then last night, I’m at the old mill with my nephew, he’s dropping a few things off, I’m waiting in the truck, and I see Georgia Shepherd slink out of there and run like she’s seen something that’s scared her to death. I had Terrence drive by her house and I see her heading to your place, all wrapped around you. Does she know? Have you told her about me?”
I waited, not sure what he wanted, not sure if it mattered. But I wasn’t in the mood for pillow talk.
“And why do girls always want the trash? Jennifer did. Georgia does. I don’t get it.”
I waited again, the irony that a murderer of countless women was calling me trash not entirely lost on me.
“I wanted to see what Georgia was up to. What you both were up to. So I went back to the mill after Terrence dropped me off. I haven’t been inside since it shut down thirty years ago. Never had reason to. Imagine my surprise when I saw your painting on the wall. Molly, Sylvie, Jenny, others too, lots of others. I don’t know how you figured it out, or what you want, but you came back to Levan when I told you to stay away. I gave you every opportunity to just go. And now you’re back here, painting again.” His voice rose on the last note, desperately, as if he truly thought I’d been playing with him all this time, a game of cat and mouse that finally made him break. He thought I’d come back to Levan for him. He thought the painting at the old mill was new, a new attempt to smoke him out. And it had pushed him over the edge.
I wasn’t afraid. It was the strangest thing. My heart pounded and it was hard to breathe, but those were physical responses. In my head, in the part of me that saw things that nobody else did, I was okay. I was calm. People are afraid of the unknown. But it wasn’t unknown to me. Death didn’t scare me. But leaving Georgia at the mercy of Jacob Dawson did. If he thought she knew what he had done, he would kill her.
I might die, but Jacob Dawson had to die too. I couldn’t let him live. Even if Eli saw me kill him.
And Eli would see.
He stood to my left, just beyond the length of my outstretched hand, standing there in his Batman pajamas, complete with hood and cape. He smiled at me a little, that same sad smile that made me wonder how much of the child remained. He didn’t have a body anymore, a body that could grow, a body that indicated the passing of years and the gathering of experience. But he wasn’t a four-year-old little boy waiting for someone to explain to him what was happening. He knew. And he’d been trying to tell me all along.
He’d been lingering to take me home.
Georgia
IT SOUNDED LIKE AN ENGINE back-firing in the distance, muted, unthreatening. But Dale Garrett and I both turned toward it, our ears cocked, brows furrowed.
“That was a gunshot,” he mused, his eyes trained on the back of Kathleen Wright’s home across the field. And I started to run.
“Georgia!” Dale Garrett cried. “Stop! Georgia! Son-of-a-bitch, girl!” I didn’t know if he was behind me or if he was digging out his cell phone, but I hoped it was the latter. He was old and fat, and I didn’t want him killing himself trying to chase me across the field.
I don’t know how long it took me to get through the round corral, across the field, and over the fence into Kathleen’s back yard, but it felt like years. Decades. When I reached the back deck and threw myself at the sliding glass door only to find it locked tight, I screamed in frustration and dread. Moses had been out on that deck for the greater part of the day, but he’d still locked the damn door when he was done. I ran around the house, fear making my thoughts pop like firecrackers, whizzing around uncontrolled in my head.
A white, Chevy Tahoe with Juab County Sheriff’s Department written along the side in gold lettering was parked out front next to Moses’s black pick-up and as I rounded the corner and ran toward the front door, a black Hummer swung in, gravel flying as it lurched to a halt. David ‘Tag’ Taggert shot out of the vehicle with a gun in his hand and murder on his face, and I almost collapsed in relief.
But that was before I heard the second gun shot.
“Stay here!” Tag roared, running for the front door. So I followed him. I had to. And when he burst through the front door without pausing, the first thing I noticed was the smell. But it didn’t smell like paint this time. It didn’t smell like pies either. It smelled like gun powder, and it smelled like blood. And then Tag roared again, and I felt his arm jerk as he fired his gun, and then fired again. Another shot rang out and a bullet hit the dining room window. Glass shattered as Tag stepped over something and then sank to his knees. At first I thought he was hit and I reached for him, my view of the rest of the room blocked by his big back. Then I realized Tag had stepped over Sheriff Dawson who was sprawled, staring up at the ceiling, a huge knife sticking out of his chest, a gunshot wound to his head.