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

When I move through the parking lot and back to the car, I don’t see anyone moving in the shadows. Even when I pull back onto the highway, I don’t notice the car following me, and the dog is still riding comfortably.

I continue on my way to Verde Road, having taken the left fork. The road is convoluted. One of those coast-to-canyon minor highways you find nowhere quite as they are in California.

When I come upon three boulders blocking a roadway just as Sara Jane Samaritano predicted, I am so excited I nearly drive off the road. Clearly, I should have listened to her in the first place.

I park in front of one of the boulders and get out of the car and use my smartphone flashlight to illuminate not much of the darkness. When you are trying to find your keyhole in the dark, it seems like a bright light. But here in pitch darkness, it is almost nothing at all. It is only by luck that the light catches a bit of a road sign reflecting out from the dried grass dying at the edges of the boulders. And when I pull the sign out to inspect it, I’m not even surprised when I see that it reads “Verde Lane.” Even in the dark, I can see the white cliffs looming above me and I have no doubt that this is the correct Verde. Too many of the signs are right. And my heart expands slightly to send quick thoughts of thanks to Sara Jane Samaritano and to allow for the idea of magic in the world, at least for a while.

From my position, I have a sense that, if I were to turn my head to the right, in daylight, I would see forever. Mile upon mile of waving wheatgrass and stubby hills in the direction of the sea. But it is dark. The sort of velvety night that envelopes the soul. And I suddenly feel that, from here, it all winds down with the inevitability of a candle burning out. It’s as though there’s only one way it can go.

By bumping through a shallow ditch, I bypass the boulders blocking the road. The dog looks at me quizzically at this suddenly bumpy ride, but he doesn’t comment.

From there, I inch the car ahead slowly, foot upon careful foot. It is so dark that a light up ahead on the slender track I follow seems to glow in the darkness. I stop the car when the road becomes too uneven to continue and get out into fragrant gloom, once again leaving the dog behind. This time, I feel only faintly ridiculous carrying my purse into the velvety night. Into the wilderness. The heft of the Bersa inside the bag restores my confidence. There isn’t much anyone would ever need to face that the Bersa could not help with, that is my thinking.

I pull a hoodie on against the cold and creep into the night. The scent of green oak drifts up to me as leaves crush under my feet. The sound of night birds and brash insects. The harsh hiss of a biting bug in my ear. And always ahead, the light, calling me forward. I push back the excitement I feel. After all, it truly is wilderness. If it is not what I am searching for, what else could it possibly be, here where we are miles from any houses or other signs of civilization?

After a while, I hear a thin cry. Light and feminine. I indulge myself in the sound. Not a woman, I think. A girl. I move more quickly, but keep my wits sharp and on edge. I stay aware of every current of air, every sound. I am close now, I’m sure of it. And a mistake at this stage could be fatal. For her. For me. I’m not sure, but fatality seems a distinct possibility. Its potential is all around me.

Closer still and the object of my search takes a shape. There is a tent tucked into the side of the looming cliff, the forest thick around it. Had it not been for the light, I would have missed it altogether. And it is like a replay of that time, weeks before, when Arden and I crept through the forest not far from here. I can’t help having a sense of déjà vu that I also know is real.

I approach the tent cautiously, the Bersa ready. I don’t know what I’ll find. And I jump, startled, when a branch breaks behind me, then stand still until no other sound follows. Some nocturnal animal, I think, as startled by me as I am by it.

Close to the tent, I can see how it’s made. The structure is a classic shape, maybe Army surplus. Pale, rough canvas. Crude and utilitarian. A center pole. Illuminated from within.

I am so close now, and then the cry again. Soft. Not desperate. Almost an aside. As though maybe hours of more strident sound have led to this pale mewling. An animal sound. And there is nothing of hope in it. It is the sound of a creature beyond hope.

The plaintive sound makes me bold. And it isn’t something I can walk away from, even if I wanted to. And I’ve come so far. And I don’t want to.

The Bersa is in my hand. As I push the tent flap aside with the muzzle of the gun, I don’t think about the unlikelihood of having hunches pay out twice in a row. I don’t think about psychics or odds or lottery tickets or any of the things that would have indicated I would never find this needle in a haystack. All I can think about is the child in front of me inside the tent.

In a heartbeat, I take in the scene. She is exposed to the night air, something horrid in that: her childish body, naked, spread-eagled, and tied on