The Boy from the Woods(94)

“Dash?” she called to him.

He didn’t reply.

“Dash?”

She ran behind him.

“Oh God, what did you do?”

Dash still wouldn’t speak, but tears streamed down his face.

“Dash?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“What did you do, Dash?”

“I didn’t think he was really in danger. I didn’t…”

He broke into a full sprint. Delia called out to him, but he didn’t respond. She continued to give chase. Wilde, his shirt already coated with sweat, followed them as they entered through the side door and up the turret into the library. Dash hurried up the stairs. He moved behind his desk and started typing on the laptop.

“Talk to me,” Delia said.

Dash glanced up. He spotted Wilde and said, “Get out of here.”

“No.”

“I said—”

“I heard you,” Wilde said. “But that’s not going to happen.”

“You’re fired.”

“Cool.”

Wilde didn’t move.

“You have no right to be here.”

“Then throw me out,” Wilde said.

“Dash,” Delia said, “tell me. Please?”

“Not in front of him.”

“Yeah, Dash,” Wilde said, “in front of me. Stop wasting time.”

Delia moved closer to her husband and put her hands on his face. “Baby, look at me,” she said, turning his face to hers. The gesture was surprisingly tender. “Tell me, Dash. Please? Tell me now.”

Dash swallowed, the tears back now. “He did it. He killed him.”

“What are you talking—?”

“Rusty killed Christopher.”

Her hands slid down off his face as she shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“That night,” Dash said. “We’d all been drinking at the Lockwood. Rusty and Christopher, you know how they were. The two of them almost came to blows. I broke it up. Christopher stormed out. Then I got a call at, I don’t know, one in the morning. It was Rusty in a panic. He begged me to come over. I could tell from his voice that it was bad. So I went and, well, you know me.”

Delia’s voice was far away. “You taped it.”

“It’s what I do. You know that.”

“Which camera?”

“Why do you—?”

“Which camera, Dash?”

“The hidden pocket one.”

Delia closed her eyes.

Wilde took out his phone and checked the app. It was all coming together now.

“You were in Philadelphia that night,” Dash said to her, “researching some project for that congressional subcommittee. When I got there…”

He stopped.

“What?” Delia said.

Dash seemed unable to speak now. He flipped the computer screen around so it was facing Delia and Wilde. He pressed the play button and collapsed back.

For a few seconds, the screen remained a grainy black. Then a door flew open, and a young Rusty Eggers was there. Judging by the height, the camera must have been placed somewhere near Dash’s breast pocket. The view was grainy and somewhat distorted, like a fish-eye, like watching the whole thing through a peephole.

Several things struck Wilde all at once. First, the obvious: Rusty looked so damn young. He was probably around twenty years old here, and for some reason, even though he hadn’t aged poorly or anything, the effect of seeing Rusty Eggers at this age was strange, like some kind of “before it all went wrong” picture.

The second thing was, Rusty seemed remarkably calm and controlled. For a moment, his gaze turned directly to the lens, almost as though he knew it was there.

Third: His smile was broad. Too broad.

“Thanks for coming,” Rusty said.

“You said it was urgent?”

The voice of young Dash.

“Yeah, come in.”

Rusty moved to the side, out of sight. The camera took two steps forward as Dash entered. There was the sound of a bolt slide. Wilde figured that Rusty had just locked the door behind them.

“What’s going on?” Dash asked.

Rusty stepped back into view. “I really appreciate you coming.”

“What the…?” Dash suddenly sounded terrified. “Is that blood on your hand?”

With the broad smile still plastered to his face, Rusty reached toward the lens with an open hand covered with blood.

“Rusty?”

The hand moved north of the camera lens, grabbed what must have been Dash’s shoulder, and jerked him forward.

“What the hell, Rusty! Let go of me.”

He didn’t. Rusty dragged Dash forward. The picture on the screen lurched. The breast-pocket viewpoint combined with the fish-eye quality of the lens made it difficult to keep track of what was happening when there was movement. Lots of things were a blur for the next few seconds. Wilde spotted a bookshelf maybe. A rug. Some wall hangings.

The movement slowed down a bit. A tile floor. A stove, fridge.

The kitchen.

Wilde risked a glance at Delia. She stared at the screen transfixed.

Then on the screen, Wilde heard Dash let out a sharp gasp.