Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake)(58)

But then I realize there’s a man sitting almost motionless in the shadows. He’s a young man with a ragged beard in high-quality, dirty camouflage. Probably one of the Belldene clan.

The fact that he’s looking through a rifle scope at me is what I realize next, and I don’t think. I just spin and flatten myself behind the thickest available tree.

And I see Lanny coming out of the underbrush toward me. She’s got a red scratch on her cheek, and a dry leaf caught in her hair, and I let out a wordless yell and tackle her to the leaf litter because if she gets shot because of me . . .

But there’s no shot.

Lanny yelps and beats at me with her fists until I roll away; I fishtail around and crawl to where I can get a look at the nest where the man aiming at me is.

But he’s gone. Just . . . gone. Like he never existed.

Lanny’s furious, but I rush her into the house, grab my handgun, and go out to check the spot, and what I find there proves to me I wasn’t imagining things. It’s a printed picture of me standing on the porch, talking to Gwen. Couldn’t have been taken too long ago, maybe a couple of weeks at most; I can see that dead leaves are piled up near the steps, and I raked those away ten days ago.

The writing on it says SOON.

And there’s a sharp-pointed rifle round sitting on top of the picture, right over my face.





16

GWEN

Jail brings flashbacks of being arrested on the day Melvin was caught. I was held for days before they finally charged me too. Not pleasant memories, and I try to remember that time is over, and this is a different situation. I still have to spend my time behind bars going through all my coping exercises, one after another, to keep myself from feeling the panic that knocks on the door of my head. It almost works.

When they call me out for my hearing, I fight to keep my head above the tide of utter despair that threatens to engulf me, the impulse to panic and fight and run. I think I’m succeeding at that too.

Until I’m not. Because the small courtroom is packed to the gills with reporters. I should have realized that would happen; no doubt they were given the heads-up, and ever since Melvin’s trial my name is instant news catnip. I’m dealing with that, or at least I think I am, until the sight of J. B. Hall’s friendly middle-aged face takes my knees out from under me. Relief hits so hard it feels abusive. I sway, and the deputy puts a hand on my shoulder to steady me. She’s a big woman, and she gives me a concerned look. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I tell her, though it’s true only in the broadest sense. She takes me through the wooden gate to the defendant’s table, where my lawyer is standing up studying a file folder. He’s a round African American man with triple chins and an old suit, and he greets me professionally and seems damn competent. I’ll get through this. I’ve been through this before, charged as Melvin’s accomplice. Charged, and acquitted. I survived that, with a packed courtroom full of shouting, angry people beaming real hate at me. I can certainly do this.

The fact that I want to curl up in a ball and scream uncontrollably that I have to go through this again is beside the point. I put on my game face and nod to my lawyer like I’m a pro, and he shakes my hand. I sit. He does, too, a little abruptly. “This should go fast,” he says. “They’re arraigning you for felony assault. I assume you’re pleading . . .”

“Not guilty.”

“Okay, that keeps it simple. Anything you need to tell me?”

“It’s total bullshit.”

“Good enough.”

I turn to look at J. B. Hall, who’s claimed the seat right behind me. She looks as sharp as I remember: an older pale woman, dressed in an effortlessly intimidating pantsuit. No makeup, a blunt haircut, and everything about her radiates competence and power.

She leans forward. There are journalists on either side of her, but she cheerfully ignores them.

“Hey,” she says. “So. I was hoping this would get dismissed before we got to this point, but the DA is a prick and he wants to coast on your notoriety while he can. You all right?”

I’m not, but I nod. “Thanks for coming,” I say.

“No problem. Soon as this is done, I’ll get you out of here.” We’re talking in low tones; even though the two reporters are leaning in and trying to get a listen—discreetly, of course—the hubbub of the room works in our favor.

“What about Carol? Do they have her in custody?”

“I’m afraid not. They got her statement, and as soon as their backs were turned, she ghosted. The address she gave them is a liquor store, by the way. They know they’ve been had on this one. And forensics is casting serious shade on her entire story.”

“And they’re still doing it?”

She shrugs. “Our fearless DA here is eager to get some press attention before the upcoming election cycle. He’d like to be known as tough on crime, and it helps that your connection with a serial killer always gets attention. It’s just politics. My information is that they’ll drop the charges in twenty-four hours. Quietly. It’ll be buried on the back pages.”

I’d like to reply with what I think of that, but it’s too late. The judge enters, we all rise, and the dry proceedings . . . proceed. My lawyer at least tries to argue the merits for dismissal, but it’s over fast. He knows it’s a political stunt, and in ten minutes we’re done. Bail is set at $50,000; J. B. is already headed for the clerk to pay it when I’m led away again.