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

I’m saddened beyond words to report that, under duress, he confessed to me that he created what he described as a garden composed of the corpses of many of the children he has abducted. Sorry because I would have liked it to be better news. The garden is at Hoyo Lago in the north part of the county. This is based only on what he told me. I don’t know for certain it is true.

A young woman named Arden will have contacted you with the coordinates of this garden, as this is where we found her daughter, Ashley (alive!), along with Atwater and his van, which you probably already have by now.

My identity is unimportant but I’m happy to have been able to help in delivering him to you. I don’t need to tell you to handle him with care. He should never be put in a position where he is a danger to society again.

I look at the letter for a long time before sending. It sounds a little trite to me, but there’s no help for it: it is my truth and also my shield. In reality, the police could have an awful lot on me if they manage to put it all together. I hope I’ve been careful enough to avoid that happening, but this moment was what it was all about: delivering Atwater to police alive so he could be made to spill whatever additional things he knew. There are parents out there who will be able to sleep for the first time in years with this knowledge. Parents who can finally begin to grieve. Their possible final relief was the only thing that had kept him alive. With Atwater in custody and details on the whereabouts of his garden, the police will be able to pull further needed details out of him. And as long as he is in custody, he won’t be able to hurt anyone again, and I can’t imagine a world where anyone would release him.

I sit in the restaurant and consider the unsent note on my laptop. Consider the end of one of my fries. Consider the gentle froth at the top of my beer. The cold, amber liquid in the glass.

I consider.

I could go back. Right now, I could go back and finish him off. My whole body craves that solution. The only thing that holds me back is the thought of the parents. If I leave him alive—bring the law to him and allow justice to take its course—there is the chance that some of these parents will be able to rest. Finally. They will get to watch the course of justice. I am imagining clenched hands held in courtrooms. Reassuring grips on perspiring arms. Long-held breaths releasing. There is a chance that can happen for those parents. Completion. I don’t want to be what takes away that possibility.

The story, as written, is as close to a happy ending as it can be under the circumstances. I read my note back one last time before I hit Send. It will do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I CONSIDER THE personal implications of what I’ve done. It is the closest I’ve ever come to breaking cover, and yet I think I am safe. I’ve been careful. Even though people have seen me, and I’ve interacted with them, I am so very average. I can’t imagine anyone connecting me to my actual identity. And if they do? It would not be the end of the world. Some things are larger than we are, as individuals. Sometimes you just have to jump in and see which way the wind pushes you. Me? I hope somewhere in there to find flight.

I sent the message using my DeepNet mail program. It is untraceable. Now that it has been sent, I can feel the fullness of my actions and I know there is no going back. What’s done is done. I lean into this feeling. Savor it while I can.

Just as I leave the restaurant, a couple park their Chevy Silverado in the deep shadows right next to the green minivan. The truck would not have been my first choice, but a combination of factors make it the obvious candidate for my next ride. It is easy. It is invisible in this area of many trucks. It is one of the easiest cars to steal. And it is right there.

Once on the road, the big truck swallows the miles. I get to the Embarcadero at two in the afternoon and park the truck at a meter, plugging it dutifully so that it will be a few hours before it is ticketed. Then I jump on the BART train and head for the airport.

While I sit on the train, I locate the next available flight back to my own rural airport. It is not a direct flight from San Francisco, but everything meshes well enough that I don’t expect it will be a difficult trip.

And my assumptions prove to be correct. From the time I book the flight until the time I touch down near my home, I go into a kind of autopilot fugue state. I am dog tired. I am emotionally dead. All I want is to drop into my own little bed and sleep.

And sleep.

And even more sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

THERE ARE NO immediate expectations of me. There is nowhere I need to be. As a result of this, once I get home, I am able to sleep for three solid days. I get up only occasionally to deal with the functions of my body. There is a vague recollection of occasional food and hits of cool water from a vacuum flask at my bedside.

On the fourth day, I stir myself and look around. I don’t feel better, but I feel as though I’ve accomplished something. Like I’ve gotten something right. I have not yet confirmed that Atwater is in custody, but considering the way things were set up, I don’t even consider any other