Stranger in the Lake(46)

My body is tight with unreleased fear. Micah knows where Paul went, and he’s worried about him, which means I should be, too.

“Look, I don’t want this getting all over town, but the cops have been to Balsam Bluff.”

I frown. “What’s in Balsam Bluff?”

“Jax has a cabin on the western side.”

This is news to me. Jax has a cabin, and in Balsam Bluff no less. A popular hiking area crisscrossed with trails and picnic spots deep in the Nantahala National Forest, a good thirty minutes by car from here.

But the western side is undisturbed wilderness, an untamed, undeveloped forest where the few humans wandering the hills are either lost or up to no good. How Jax got away with erecting a cabin on government land is anybody’s guess. You can’t stake anything there without an act of Congress.

Chet doesn’t buy it, either. “Dude, that makes zero sense. For one thing, nobody has a cabin in Balsam Bluff. And even if Jax did live there, which he doesn’t, he’s not going to be anywhere near there by the time the cops arrive. You don’t find Jax. Jax finds you.”

“That may be so,” Micah says, “but they found Sienna’s coat in Jax’s cabin. Her scarf is MIA.”

I think of Jax, standing in the glow of the porch lights on the back deck, and something sparks in my chest. “What does the scarf look like?”

“Cashmere. Cream and knitted. With dangly things on the ends.”

“Fringe.” I close my eyes, and I see his neck, wrapped in the creamy material. I remember thinking the scarf was too pretty for his big frame, the pattern too complicated and girlie. I think back to when I saw Sienna in town, the scarf she had double-wrapped around her neck and stuffed into her black wool coat.

But the parts of it I could see were cream.

Jax knew her name. He was wearing her scarf.

I open my eyes, and Micah is watching me. “Jax is dangerous, Charlotte. Volatile and violent and completely unpredictable, and he has been for a while. The cops have evidence he murdered that woman, something I’m guessing Paul at least figured when he took off after him. That’s where Paul is, isn’t it? He went to warn Jax the cops were coming for him.”

I look at Chet, standing stiff like a soldier on the other side of the island.

You can’t tell Micah, Paul said on his way out the door. Promise me you won’t say a word until I get back.

In the end, though, I didn’t make that promise, did I? I was angry about him leaving, angry he might not make it back in time for my doctor’s appointment tomorrow, moved to next week because of the snow. He said he had to go, that we’d talk about everything when he got back.

But when will that be? Paul has been gone for far too long already. What if he’s hurt? What if Jax hurt him?

“There are cops from five counties crawling all over Balsam Bluff, looking for a man who’s considered armed and dangerous.”

There’s so much to latch on to here, but one word is ringing in my ears: armed. Jax owns a gun, which shouldn’t surprise me. This is North Carolina. Everybody owns a gun. But Paul is unarmed and Batty Jax has a gun.

Micah turns the bottle in a hand, scratching absently at the lettering with a thumbnail. “If Paul is there, if the cops see him and think he’s Jax, there’s no telling what will happen.”

Paul’s words echo through my head, just as surprising as when I heard them the first time.

Promise me you won’t tell Micah.

I grab on to Micah’s sleeve, the words tumbling out of me. “You have to find him, Micah. He left with his backpack and three days’ worth of supplies, but he should have been back by now. He—”

“I knew it.” Micah slams the beer bottle to the marble so hard foam shoots out the top. “I knew that idiot would be halfway to Balsam Bluff by the time I came up the hill. You’d think he’d learn, after looking down the end of Jax’s barrel as many times as he has, but Paul has always been such a goddamn martyr. One of these days this bleeding heart of his is going to get him killed.”

Just then, from the depths of the house, a door bangs open. Chet tilts his head, listening for the source of the noise, but I already know. I race to the railing and lean over the stairs to the lower level, right as the alarm pad chimes. A computerized voice fills the air: basement door open. It’s the only way in without a key, but only if you know the code.

There’s movement just out of sight in the downstairs hallway, the thump of something hitting the ground. And then, finally, a familiar slope of shoulder, a patch of filthy brown hair.

“Paul!”



20


June 12, 1999
9:53 p.m.

They decided pretty quickly that Micah, with his eighteen years and stuntman swagger, would be the best bet to win over any liquor store cashier, especially if they could manage to find one who was female. The first three, flashy package stores that catered to the tourists on the outskirts of town, were staffed by men who knew too damn well who Micah was, and what his dad would do to their permits if he found out they’d sold his underage son alcohol. At each one, he came out empty-handed.

In a fit of frustration, they drove all the way to Sylva, to a seedy shack run by locals who knocked back as much as they sold. They watched through the window as Micah flirted with the cashier, a permed blonde in jeans too tight, her smile too big, too desperate. But Micah leaned on her counter and turned up the charm, reemerging moments later with two bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, one clutched in each fist. He held them high above his head, like trophies.