Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

for the police. And then there is what I am doing now. This is the hard way. I am certain of it. But it is also the right way. I am doing what has to be done. There is something good in that. Noble, almost. I have a sense of things coming together in the right order. Contrary to some of the details, there is a rightness in all of this.

When I see the sign for camping at a large state park on the ocean, I pull up. I have arrived at something like a plan. I tell the park ranger at the entrance I am coming back to camp later, but could I please drive up now and pick a spot then pay for it? I am told that will be fine; that there is a map right there showing what spots are available. That she is leaving in the next few minutes, but she tells me the procedure for selecting a spot and leaving my money and the parking spot number I choose in a metal contraption that looks like a mailbox but that she calls the Iron Ranger.

I choose the high camping area, farthest from the ocean, figuring that will be less busy on a weekday in a shoulder season. I drive around until I find a spot that backs onto an area of tall trees and high grass. It is full dark now, but I am imagining a beautiful vista, looking away from the sea. And it is private, making it perfect for what I have in mind. As I figured, the campground is nearly deserted and at the spot I choose there is no one around. It is a state park, but it might as well be the middle of nowhere and I have a strong feeling it will stay that way.

I back the car into the spot. There is no one around and darkness is now complete. I spend the next hour getting William Atwater’s prone form out of the trunk of the car. It is much more difficult on my own than I’d imagined it would be, but there is no alternative. I have to stop several times to catch my breath. By the time I finally manage to pull, push, and leverage him out and into the tall grass at the edge of my camping spot, my clothes stick to me damply and I feel sweat running in smooth rivulets down my forehead and between my breasts. But I am pleased with the results of my labor. Atwater is out of the car; the tall grass and the tree shield him from casual viewing.

I check him over with some distaste. It has been the most difficult part of all of this: the necessity to touch him. His wound has started bleeding again, but not strongly enough that I need to do anything. I figure it will stop on its own after a while. His breathing seems normal and is not ragged. I’m not a nurse, but he looks healthy enough to me. It seems likely he is in pain, but I’m certain none of it will kill him.

He feels warm, slightly feverish, but considering what he’s been through, that seems normal to me, as well.

I do a good job of tying him up. And I gag him so that, if he does wake, no one will hear him hollering. Then I drop the tarp over him and leave him there. I know there is a small chance that someone might find him before I get back, but I have to risk that possibility. A calculated risk. If he is discovered, it won’t be the end of the world, but I’d prefer it not happen. And the park is so quiet, he seems more at risk from a wild animal than unwanted human discovery but, just to be on the safe side, I pay for the spot I’ve taken and the ones on either side, feeling confident that Atwater will be left alone to ferment in his own misery.

I drive back to San Pasado with the aid of the light of a nearly full moon. I drop the keys in the after-hours box as I leave the rental car behind, then take a cab to my hotel where I drop onto the bed fully clothed and sleep for six solid hours. The sleep of the righteous. The sleep of the damned. I’m not sure which, but six solid is a rarity for me so I don’t ask any questions, just sleep until I can’t anymore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

IN THE MORNING, I am more clearheaded than I have been for what feels like weeks. I stand in the shower and let hot water pummel me so hard it is almost painful, but it feels good, too. Painfully good. I know it will help me get through what promises to be a full day.

After the shower, it doesn’t take long for me to get myself together, and I am packed and standing in the hotel lobby ready for my Uber within a half hour of waking.

The address I give the driver is just a few minutes from my hotel and on the main road out of town. After the car drops me off, it feels a little awkward wheeling my suitcase into the sales office at the RV dealership, but at least they can tell I mean business.

“I’m looking for an RV.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” The salesman is my age, even though his hair is retreating from his forehead and the middle of his body shows the signs of decades of riding a desk. When he grins at me, I get a glimpse of an almost imperceptible hole in his smile, at the corner of his mouth, near the back. He points to a sign above his head: “Renfrew RV,” the sign says. “Used. New. In Between. We’ve got what you need.”

“I’m Jack Renfrew,” he says after he follows my glance. “How can