The Overnight Guest(46)

Forensics would have to confirm it, but it looked very much like the shotgun found in the cornfield belonged to Ethan Doyle. But where was he now? And what happened to Becky Allen?



24


Present Day

Wylie kept a flashlight focused on the woman and did her best to assess the woman’s injuries as she dozed. One eye was swollen completely shut, her cheek bulged eggplant purple and her lip needed stitches. Her nose was off-center and blisters dotted the tips of her ears. Frostbite. The woman somehow managed to make it to the toolshed and then to the house—that was a good sign, but she needed medical help.

The dark and cold were all-encompassing but the boy wouldn’t leave his mother’s side. He curled up next to her, once in a while murmuring softly in her ear. So the child could talk, Wylie thought. She had done her best to get more information from the boy by peppering him with questions. What’s your mom’s name? What’s your name? Are you running from something?

Wylie aimed the flashlight at her own face. “Look at me,” she ordered. “I mean it, look at me.” The boy reluctantly lifted his eyes toward Wylie. “Have I hurt you?” He didn’t respond. “Even after you pointed a gun at me and hit me with a poker, have I done anything to make you think I was going to hurt you?”

After a moment the boy cautiously shook his head.

“Right,” Wylie said. “And I’m not going to hurt your mother either. I promise you.”

The boy remained tight-lipped and after a while, Wylie gave up and went to the kitchen. It was freezing. She taped over the broken window with cardboard, and gathered the wood that she had dropped outside. She added several pieces to the fireplace until the flames grew. It would take a while before the room grew warm again. Wylie sat down across from the boy.

Wylie tried to ignore the sharp whistle and pop of the old pipes freezing. The wind continued to scream, rattling the windows.

“I really need your help,” Wylie said softly. “You have to tell me who you are, where you’ve come from.”

They sat in silence for a moment, both listening to the woman’s ragged breathing and watching the weak puffs of white air appear then fade from her swollen lips.

“If you’re running from someone, I can help you—I can help protect you, but you have to talk to me,” Wylie begged.

The woman opened her eye. “If you want to talk to someone, talk to me,” she said.

“Good idea,” Wylie said. “Talk.”

The woman stayed silent.

“Fine,” Wylie said throwing up her hands. “Hopefully help will come soon and then you won’t be my problem anymore.”

A ripple of fear crossed the woman’s face. “We don’t need help.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me,” Wylie said.

“Honey,” the woman said to the child. “I’m still cold. Can you go find me another blanket?”

“You know where they are,” Wylie said and the boy grabbed a flashlight and hurried up the stairs.

“Listen,” the woman said when the boy was out of earshot. “We’ll wait out the storm and then be on our way. That’s it, then we’ll be gone. No more questions. Do you understand?”

“Sorry,” Wylie shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t work that way. Besides, the only person I’m concerned about in this scenario is that kid upstairs. And there is no way in hell I’m just going to let you leave here without knowing where you plan on taking him and that he’s going to be okay.”

The woman glared at Wylie, then glanced up at the staircase. “The man who is after us will do anything to get us back.” She sat up a bit straighter and winced at the shift in position. “And I will do anything, and I mean anything,” she said in a low, dangerous whisper, “to make sure that doesn’t happen. Even if I have to cut straight through you to do it.”

A cold current of dread coursed through Wylie and she fingered the gun in her pocket. She believed the woman.

The boy came down the steps, his arms filled with blankets. “Here, Mama,” he said proudly. “I brought you two blankets. Will this be enough?”

“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, still staring at Wylie. “That is just the perfect amount.”



25


August 2000

Margo Allen sat on a chair in her kitchen while her estranged husband, Kevin, paced the floor. The deputy that brought her home had suggested that she call a neighbor to come over and take their younger children while they waited for word. Margo shook her head. There was no way she was going to let her kids out of her sight. Four-year-old Toby was sitting on her lap playing with the silver cross on her necklace while ten-year-old Addie sat across from them, staring intently at her handheld video game.

After seeing the medical examiner pull into the Doyles’ drive, Margo nearly passed out. She had never felt such fear before in her life. It was as if someone had reached right down her throat and snatched her breath away. The sheriff wouldn’t say who was dead, only that it wasn’t Becky. The sheriff murmured a bunch of promises and then handed her off to another deputy, who was little or no help.

When she begged the deputy to take her to Becky, he had to admit that they had no idea where she was, just that everyone was doing everything they could to find her. Margo had lost it then and tried to run into the Doyle house. It took three officers to hold her back. She hadn’t meant to cause a scene; she just wanted to see for herself that Becky wasn’t in the house.