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

The puppy would have been alone a lot. I’ve saved him from that.

I’ve saved him.

I lock him in the car, though I leave the windows and the sunroof open a crack. Whatever his history, he is mine now. No one can take him.

He is mine.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

IN THE DINER, I open my electronic pin-filled map realizing only as I renew its acquaintance that I’d never planned on having a reason to open it again. I am sorry beyond thought that I was wrong and that I am forced in there again now.

My educated guess and a bit of luck over dinner in San Pasado had paid out so well that first time. I tell myself that there is no reason I can’t do so well again. And though I know that, strictly speaking, it is foolish to think so, I feel that right is on my side. Wonder Woman with a gun.

Here’s the thing, though: experience has taught me that right doesn’t really have a side. If it did? The world would look quite different. The world wouldn’t look the same as it does now. At all.

Looking at my map, one of the things I think about is that a rational person would not go to any of these places, alone or otherwise. They would be hiding from police and others. They would be a fugitive and putting energy into not being found. But this is William Atwater who I have researched extensively. I know about him. And one of the things I know is that he is not a rational person. That opens the door, in a way. It seems to me it makes the unthinkable and the impossible possible.

So then, a new challenge. What would an irrational person do? Is there anything that can be counted on? I lack the experience to know. Which makes me think of something. Somewhere there has to be someone—or even a whole group of people—who might know, based on behaviors and archetypes. People who might be able to make an educated guess, better than my possible shot in the dark. It is a big county and, hell, Atwater might not even be here. Though it would be out of character, he might have left the area in order to go to ground somewhere. But maybe I don’t have to guess. Maybe there are people out there who can offer some sort of insight.

For lack of any better ideas, I turn to Google. Someone has the answer I need. I apply myself to finding it.

On the Internet, I locate a doctor who specializes in serial killers. He does lectures, has written a book. There is a phone number on his website. I dial the number from my phone, right there at the table. To my surprise, the phone is answered. It is him, the author doctor himself. It catches me off guard. I’d planned on leaving some imprecise message. Something, perhaps, about my own book. But now I’ve got him in person and I had nothing prepared. I hesitate. And then I begin.

“It seems to me that the past history of a serial killer might help determine a present location,” I say without much preamble. I have introduced myself. Not much more.

I hear nothing and then a deep chuckle. The sound is warm and present. It gives me hope.

“You’re looking for William Atwater.” It’s not a question.

“I am.” I cover my surprise, though I don’t know why I bother. Clearly, the guy knows his stuff.

“Don’t think I’m magic. It isn’t rocket science.”

“An educated guess?”

“Right. Because you’re not the only one. There is a whole platoon of others. What gives you special insight? What makes you think you can succeed where so many others have failed?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“I don’t think I understand,” he says. “You’ve done what before?”

“Found William Atwater.”

Silence. And then, “And what was the outcome?”

I think about how to answer before I say anything. What can I tell him without giving too much away? “It’s complicated,” I say at length.

“Is it?”

“It is.”

“I’m sorry, miss.” I hear an impatience in his voice I hadn’t detected before. “Whatever delusions you have, I can’t aid you. You are right to seek professional help, but there’s no help I can think to offer. Perhaps talk to your physician for the recommendation of a doctor who can help you.” There isn’t even a click, just a sudden deepening of the silence that tells me he’s gone.

I had hoped for help, but I am alone.

I choke back the sudden flood of tears that threaten to overtake me. I find them in my chest, my throat, but I push them back. There will be time for that at some point, but it isn’t now.

What had I imagined, in any case? Of course what I’d asked him sounds insane. I can’t even believe it myself. And briefly even I wonder at my own sanity. It’s not the first time. Delusional, he said. I hold my hand in front of my face, turn it around. It looks real enough. I catch the waitress looking at me. I scowl at her and she scurries away.

I put her out of my mind and study the lines of my hand. I study my palm, my knuckles. I pluck at the skin near my wrist, watch the color drain and then return. Yes. It all seems real enough to me.

Pick yourself up and go on.

It’s all I really know how to do.

Unbreakable.

I consider everything I know and the steps I’ve taken. I try to think if there’s something I’ve overlooked. I mentally retrace my steps, not stopping until I come to my meeting with the reporter. I struggle for less time than one would have thought, then come up with his name: Curtis Diamond. He had told me something ridiculous; something I’d discounted at the time. I struggle briefly, then it comes to me: a psychic is what he’d said. Someone with sight who had gone to the police in San Pasado with