“Chris?”
Jenna’s voice throws me into a jolt. I turn and find her watching me, expression one of profound disquiet. Her attention wanders between the piles of dirt, my son’s belongings scattered between them.
“What are you doing?” she asks. “What is all this?”
“Devon’s stuff that’s been going missing.” I nod at the items. “I found them. It’s been Jake all along. He’s been burying them out here.”
Jenna looks back at me, eyes broadened by worry. I don’t want to scare her, but she already looks deeply troubled, and Jake has just raised the stakes. I can no longer keep my lies going. It’s time to at last come clean, correct my mistake, and let her know that our son is in danger.
“There’s something I have to tell you, honey. I know why Jake’s been burying Devon’s—”
“Chris,” she interrupts, and it’s not just worry I see now. It’s . . .
“What’s wrong?”
She steps closer toward the piles, looks them over, then turns back to me.
“Baby . . . ,” she says, shaking her head, eyes filling with tears, “there’s nothing here.”
66
On my way to work, I’m nervous and tense. No, I’m more than that—I’m rattled to my core. I know what I saw, but Jenna’s reaction tells me I didn’t.
She was lying.
“You shut up about my wife! She’d never do that!”
I don’t know what to think, can’t trust what I see anymore, but I trust Jenna, so she has to be right.
And speaking of trust, as Loveland draws closer, I find my thoughts returning to Adam—or rather, to my extreme anger toward him. No matter what’s happened, I’ve always been there for him. When he and his first wife were going through the divorce—even though I knew he’d created most of their problems—I stood by his side. I was there for him. When he told me in the strictest of confidence that he’d made a bad call with a patient that could have cost him his job, I kept that quiet, consoling him, saying it could have happened to any of us. Now I’ve uncovered a major conspiracy at Loveland, a plot that could ultimately put us and everyone else’s lives in jeopardy, and what does he do? He hesitates. He dismisses me. He doesn’t even listen.
That’s because he’s in on it.
And after I’ve worked so hard to uncover this clandestine, underground operation, instead of trusting me, instead of supporting and praising me for it, Adam further tries to discredit me by pulling out the crazy card.
I’m incensed with Adam. I’m insulted. I’m deeply injured.
Before I can let those feelings simmer, my worries abruptly shift when I again approach the most execrable entity I’ve ever laid eyes on.
The Evil Tree.
The Evil Tree that has turned my life upside down. Ever since I nearly hit the beast, it’s been trying to draw me back to finish the job. And in this moment, I decide that I’ll no longer give it the pleasure or benefit of my attention. I can’t avoid passing it on my drive to and from work, but I can attenuate its powerfully magnetic draw by depriving it of my energy.
At fifteen feet away, I accelerate, keeping my sight focused on a spot far ahead of me.
At ten feet, I’m tempted to take just a quick peek but tell myself that’s all part of its power, that giving in will only cause me more grief.
Five feet, and my forehead sweats. My hands are shaking.
Just as our planes intersect, as if through a volition all its own, my head turns toward the tree, and my eyes lock onto it.
And I know—without any doubt—that the thing owns me now. It has finally won this battle.
I shouldn’t have looked.
67
The parking lot at Loveland is half empty.
Things are moving quickly, my insanity racing up the backside. I have no idea what the disappearances mean yet, but I’m going to figure it out today.
When I get to my office, another surprise awaits me, no less disagreeable. Adam sits behind my desk wearing a mournful look that I can only interpret as a sign of approaching trouble.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, outrage and disgust tainting my words.
He rests his hands on my desk, leans slightly forward, and says, “You refused to hear me out yesterday. Now I’m going to make you listen.”
“It’s not like you’ve given me much of a choice.”
“Chris, knock it off. You’re the closest friend I’ve ever had. I care about you. I’m on your side. And I don’t like what happened between us.”
“I wasn’t exactly loving it myself.”
“It’s just . . . I’m worried about you, man.” He lingers on me for a moment. “Is there something happening I should know about?”
He already knows what’s happening. He’s part of it.
“You already know what’s happening. You just chose not to support me.”
“That isn’t true. You completely misread what I—”
“Misread what?” I step toward him, feel my vocal cords flex with anger, my tenor pulling tighter. “Misread when you treated me like I was crazy?”
You are crazy.
“Or maybe it was the part where you disregarded that I was clearly upset. Or how about when, instead of listening and being a friend, you jumped to the conclusion that this knock to my head has jarred my common sense loose? Which misread are you referring to here, Adam? I’m confused. Help me out.”
Falling silent, holding his unreadable eyes on me, he reaches for the computer screen on my desk. Turns it toward me.
“We’re not doing this again, Adam. We are not. I know what the records say, and I’ve already explained why.”
“Just read it, okay?”
I look at the screen and see an e-mail from our personnel director. I read it.
Dr. Wiley,
Per your request for information re: Melinda Jeffries. Our records indicate nobody by that name has ever been employed by Loveland Hospital or any of its affiliates.