How to Save a Life(82)

“Almost where?” I cried. “And who will meet us when we get there? Detective Sams of the Rapid City Police Department?”

Evan scrubbed his hands over his face. “Jesus...”

“Why did you call the police?

“I had to.”

“Why, Evan?”

“I don't know, Jo. It's part of the plan. But I don’t know it until we approach the exit on the highway, or see the roadsign. I don't have the entire plan in front of me. I get in pieces, little flashes of dreams I can hardly remember. Or a feeling, an urge. Stop here. Go there. Make a left. Call this number. To the whale. To Joyland. To Chimney Rock. For you. Everything I've done is for you.”

“But what about you? What about your freedom? What does that mean?”

Evan turned his gaze to the rock, the plateau. The wind whistled and blew his hair, stung his eyes.

“They’ll never let me go, Jo.” His voice sounded strangely hollow. “I could have salvaged something after Woodside, but after prison…” He shook his head. “I can’t live my life looking over my shoulder, or try to build a life with you somewhere and wonder if it’s all going to be ripped away again. I can’t.”

He turned to me, his eyes pleading. “I love you more than anything. More than my own life. No, that’s not true. You are my life. You’re in the marrow of my bones, Jo. In my dreams, my future, every particle of me. Now I’m begging you to hold on a little longer. To see this through. For me. The journey was for you, Jo. To give you your mother back. I see that now. But the destination…that’s for me.”

“I’m scared,” I whispered, my words now torn away by the wind.

“So am I,” Evan said, moving closer. “But we have to finish it.”

“At the Center.”

He nodded.

I looked to Chimney Rock, looming as large and solid and vibrant as the memories of my mother. Evan had given them back to me. This crazy journey guided by intuition or instinct or some other-worldly gift…it had given my mother back to me.

That same guide was waiting to take Evan where he needed to be, to set him free. I was scared for him—for us. Terrified. But how could I stop him?

I took his hands in mine. “Let’s go.”





385 North cut across flat land browned by the relentless sun. At a place called Rapid City, South Dakota, he guided the car onto another stretch of highway called the 90 West, but still it led north. Always north. Snowball wheezed and whined. As we merged onto 85 North, the car’s temperature needle pushed into the red and stayed there. Evan didn’t stop.

Snowball obliged us another six miles, then a terrible grinding sound came from under the hood. Smoke seeped into the car from the air vents and then tapered off as the engine died. We were six miles from the town of Belle Fourche, South Dakota.

We left Snowball on the side of the road and walked on the highway’s shoulder, hand in hand, the sun starting to sink on the western plains.

Belle Fourche was situated on the northern slopes of the Black Hills, between two branches of the Redwater River. We crossed over the southern branch on our way into town, but Evan kept us walking north. Always north. One bag between us, no money and no car.

We walked through the center of town, passed shops and taverns, fast food places and country restaurants. As dusk fell, painting the sky purple and gold, we arrived at the Belle Fourche Visitor’s Center where a commemorative plaque welcomed us. I read the words printed on it with a peculiar sensation that was half dread, half exhilaration.



Welcome to Belle Fourche

The Geographic Center of the United States



The plaque went on to describe how the inclusion of Hawaii and Alaska into the Union had moved the exact geographic center of the United States from Kansas to spot a little north of Belle Fourche.

Evan looked at me and I looked at him.

“Not just a center,” I said, mustering a wan smile. “The center. Of the whole country.”

Evan found a grin. “Go big or go home.”

“I’ll take home.”

“Not yet.”

We went inside the visitor’s center, browsed the maps and models and displays. We learned Belle Fourche had been named by French explorers. “Beautiful Fork” was a trading post for ranchers and farmers settling the valley and miners digging deep in the Black Hills.

One display showed the Redwater River surging by the geographic center marker. The river was a popular kayaking and boating destination, although one section had been closed off. Too many drowning deaths, I read, where the waters turned unpredictable with deep, sucking currents and turbulent rapids.

A security guard had been watching us closely all this time. When he spoke into a walkie-talkie on his shoulder, I knew it was about us. I caught Evan’s eye and he nodded.

We left the visitor center. Outside the wind was howling and the sky threatened a storm. A chill was in the air, and we stopped on a corner so I could put on Evan’s plaid flannel, and he his jacket. A squad car approached the intersection. Anxiety tightened my chest and didn’t let up, even when the cruiser turned and drove in the opposite direction.

We walked north out of town, across fields of dried grasses that grew rockier and greener the closer we came to the river.

Of course, the river. Water beckoned to Evan. He went and I followed.