River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(31)

“No!” John had screamed, unsure if he’d said the word out loud, or if he’d only hollered it inside the dream that had turned into a nightmare.

Still, he felt rested. And now that he was awake, his mind focused, he thought about Becca, seeing her at her father’s house the day before. He would have to decide how to handle her if he needed to, how her father had handled her the first time.



John remained staring at the blank screen on the television, deep inside his thoughts. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, but long enough for his joints to stiffen. He ran his hand across his forehead. There was no mistaking Becca might’ve seen something. But how much had she seen? How much did she know about what had happened? And how was he going to find out?

He turned his head toward the sliding glass door that led to the back porch and the view of the barn, the woods, and the mountain. He heard what sounded like dogs barking. He stood from the couch, went to look outside.

He saw movement behind the barn, flashes of orange and black. A herd of men, voices muffled, following the dogs’ cries, moving as a unit between the trees and brush. He counted at least a dozen of them and who knew how many dogs.

A sinking feeling almost dropped him to the floor. This wasn’t good. No, this wasn’t good at all. They were search dogs, and damned if it wasn’t the state police.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Becca knocked on her father’s door before stepping into the room carrying a tray. She set it on the nightstand. Jackie had given her instructions on what her father might eat—soup, Jell-O, pudding.

“I’ll be surprised if you can get him to take even one bite,” Jackie had said. “But you’re welcome to try.”

“He needs to eat. Otherwise, he’s going to starve.”

“It’s not unusual for him to stop at this point.”

Becca had shaken her head. “I’ll get him to eat something. You should get out while you can.” She’d insisted Jackie take a few hours off and get out of the house, reenter the world of the living for a while. She’d even gone as far as suggesting Jackie meet a friend or get her hair done or go for a walk in town. Becca hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of being alone with her father, but it was only right for her to help out when she could. “If I’m going to be here, you might as well let me feel useful,” she’d said. After much hesitation, Jackie had finally agreed.

“And his meds,” Jackie had said, flustered. “I’ve given him a healthy dose for the pain. He shouldn’t give you much trouble.” She’d grabbed a notepad and written down his medication and dosage, and then they’d exchanged cell phone numbers. “Text me if anything happens, you know, if . . .”

“I will. Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere while you’re gone.”

Jackie had surprised Becca by pulling her into a tight embrace. “Thank you,” she’d said. “For coming. For being here for him.” She’d pulled back to look in Becca’s eyes. “And for being here for me.”

Becca hadn’t known what to say. Her reasons for coming home had not been as altruistic as Jackie believed.

She forced herself to look at him now. She worked hard at keeping her face neutral as she gave him a quick once-over, tried to ascertain his mood. He’d slept much of the morning and afternoon.

He was sitting up in bed. He seemed to fluctuate from good to bad to worse and back to good again. Romy lay in the hall outside the bedroom door.

“I brought you some dinner,” Becca said.

He coughed the hacking cough.

“You have to eat,” she said in a tone she might’ve used on a child. “Jackie went out for a while, so I’m going to help you.”

He looked upset.

“She’ll be back soon.” She paused. “Give her a break. She deserves one.”

She turned on the news. Then she pulled up a chair and dipped the spoon into the split pea soup, one of her father’s favorites, held it to his lips. He wouldn’t open his mouth.

“Come on,” she coaxed.

He stared at the TV.

“Please, Dad. You have to eat, even if you don’t want to.”

He continued ignoring her.

“Please. If you won’t do it for you, then do it for me.”

She held the spoon to his mouth a second time. After a long hesitation, he opened up. He was like a little bird, stretching his lips like a beak, taking tiny slurps. She caught a drip on his bottom lip with the spoon, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. He watched her, his eyes never leaving her face. She continued to feed him through the local sports and weather, although most of the soup never made it down his throat. She wiped the green drops from his face. He pressed his cheek into her hand, his skin thin and dry. Dad. She yearned to tell him all the things she’d never been able to say to him, but she couldn’t find the words, not the right ones or even the wrong ones.

Breaking News flashed across the screen, and the moment for her to speak up was lost. The same female reporter who had broken the story about the body that had been found in the river was once again standing near the pedestrian bridge. The police had identified the victim, released a photo. It must’ve been taken by a family member or friend at some kind of outdoor gathering. The guy was sitting on top of a picnic table holding a beer. He looked to be in his early twenties. His head was shaved, his left eyebrow pierced. There was a barbed wire tattoo around his right bicep. A picnic basket sat on the bench by his feet.