The Boy from the Woods(95)

Rusty moved close to him, blocking the camera for a moment. He whispered, probably in Dash’s ear, “Don’t scream.”

Then Rusty let Dash go and took a step back. The camera panned down to the tile floor, swung a little to the right, and stopped cold.

There, lying on his back in a pool of blood, eyes open and unblinking, was Christopher Anson. For a few seconds, the camera didn’t move, didn’t jerk, didn’t shake. It was almost as though Dash couldn’t even breathe.

Then Dash said in a hushed, horrified tone, “Oh my God.”

“It was self-defense, Dash.”

“Oh my God.”

“Christopher broke in,” Rusty said. His tone was low and serene in a way that chilled the room more than the scariest of screams. “I had no choice, Dash. Dash? Do you hear me?”

The camera veered away from the dead body and back to Rusty, the fish-eye lens making his face look huge. There was still a hint of a smile, but Rusty’s distorted eyes were black and cold.

“Christopher broke in,” Rusty said again, as though he were explaining the situation to a small child. There was no mania in his tone. No emotion, no panic, no crazy. “I think he was high on drugs, Dash. That’s my guess. He probably bought them after he left the bar. You saw how angry Christopher was, right?”

Dash didn’t or maybe couldn’t answer. Rusty moved closer. When Rusty spoke again, his voice—still calm, still in total control—had just a bit more bite: “You saw that, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I mean, yeah, I did, of course.” Then: “We need to call the police, Rusty.”

“Oh no, that’s not going to happen.”

“What?”

“I killed him.”

“You…you said it was—”

“Self-defense, yes. But who’s going to believe me, Dash—me against the Anson family and their connections?” Rusty’s face grew larger as he moved closer to Dash’s chest. His voice was again a whisper. “No one.”

“But…I mean, we have to call the police.”

“No, we don’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

Rusty stepped back. “Dash, listen to me.”

The camera moved a little to the left. Casually, almost too nonchalantly, Rusty started to raise his right hand. Dash cried out. He startled back, so that everything was a blur. A few seconds later, the lens regained focus.

Now Wilde could see what was in Rusty’s hand.

A knife still wet with blood.

Dash: “Rusty…”

“I need your help, my friend.”

“I…I think I should leave.”

“No, Dash, you can’t do that.”

“Please…”

“You’re my friend.” Rusty smiled again. “You’re the only one I can trust. But if you don’t want to help me”—Rusty turned his gaze to the knife in his hand, not overtly threatening, not even pointing it at Dash—“I don’t know what to do.”

Silence.

Rusty dropped the knife hand to his side. “Dash?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll help me?”

“Yeah,” Dash said. “I’ll help.”

That was where the tape cut out.

For a few moments, Delia and Wilde just stood there and stared at the blank screen. No one moved. In the distance, Wilde heard a clock chime. He looked around at the opulence of the great library, but opulence is a false facade. It doesn’t really protect or even enhance. It just fools you into feeling safe.

Dash had his head in his hands. He rubbed his face.

“So you tell me,” Dash said. “Suppose I said no to him?”

Delia put a shaking hand to her mouth, as though muffling her own scream.

“Delia?”

She shook her head.

“Listen to me, please. You know Rusty. You know what he would have done to me if I had tried to walk away.”

Delia closed her eyes, wishing it all away.

“So what did you do?” Wilde asked.

Dash turned his gaze toward Wilde. “I had a car. Rusty didn’t. That’s why he chose me, I guess. We moved Christopher’s body into my trunk and dumped him in that alley. Then Rusty wiped his fingerprints off the knife and threw it in the dumpster. We figured the police would think it was a drug deal or robbery gone wrong. I hoped maybe later, I don’t know, I would feel safe and then maybe I could send the tape in to the police. But of course, my voice is also on it. And when you watch it, Rusty didn’t really threaten me, did he?”

Delia finally found her voice. “Rusty chose you,” she said, “because you’re weak.”

Dash blinked, his eyes wet.

Delia looked down at him. “So you just kept the tape?”

“Yes.”

“And at some point, you told Rusty you had it?”

Dash nodded. “As an insurance policy. I was the only one who knew what he’d done. But I made it clear if something happened to me—”

“The tape would come out.”

“Yes. It bonded us in an odd way.”

“And you never told me,” Delia said. “All these years together. All that we shared, and you never told me.”