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

of the story am I going to tell? The least amount possible, I decide. Just enough to get his help for what has to happen next.

I look into his eyes. They are a clear cerulean and I find it is difficult to look at them fully without flinching. I do it anyway. I want to be watching him closely when my news lands.

I lead him away from the center of the room and pitch my voice low. “A little over an hour ago, I shot—or I’m pretty sure I shot—William Atwater. Not dead,” I add when I see his look.

“What?”

“Yuh. He had a little girl with him. I dropped her off at the hospital a little while ago. Now I’m deciding what to do.”

He kind of rocks back a bit on his heels and looks at me, clearly perplexed. I understand this. My little speech would be outlandish to almost anyone. And he looks at me, not as though he doesn’t believe me, but like he can’t quite believe his ears. After a while, he speaks.

“How did you find him?” Coming from him, this is understandable. He and his team have been hunting. It’s what he’s doing back in town.

“It’s a long story. Let’s just say your psychic tip panned out.”

A raised eyebrow. A speculative look.

“Oh-kay.”

“So, yeah. I don’t have anything to show you that will help explain or demonstrate this is true. That said, I think it would be helpful—and what the hell do you have to lose?—for you and your team to follow me to where I last saw him and, I dunno, help me or whatever.”

“Why should we do that?” He doesn’t look like he’s not believing me or challenging me. He looks like he just really wants to know.

“Because I’m tired, Curtis. I’m tired of doing this alone.”

He keeps looking at me for what seems like a long time. I start thinking he’s going to turn me down flat.

“Okay,” he says, after a while. “I mean, what the hell, right? Morning Bay isn’t going anywhere.” And besides, he doesn’t need to add, if what I’ve said is true, he gets a better story than any of his colleagues. He wins. And you can tell just by looking at him that winning is something he likes to do.

He asks how far we are from the spot where I last saw Atwater. I tell him maybe half an hour. He nods. Reflective. I know it’s a half hour to Morning Bay from here, too, but it’s the other direction.

By now, his crew has arrived. They are solid-looking. This is the biggest story in the country at the moment, so we’ve got the first string.

Curtis pulls them aside—two battle-scarred old cats—one bearded and one with what looks like it’s probably a perpetual five-o’clock shadow—and a petite young woman with a fierce stance. I stay where I am, letting him talk his team through it. They either will or they won’t, I figure, and nothing I say is likely to influence it either way.

After a while, Curtis saunters back to me. A crooked grin. “Yuh, we’re in,” he says with a smile. “Like I said, we got nothing else to do.”

And I know what he’s really saying: worst-case scenario, he loses a couple hours. Best case? They have an exclusive story. Odds are probably against the latter, but it’s worth a shot. And so off we go.

I lead the way in my Volvo, dog in the back. The news van follows, but Curtis rides with me.

“You seriously got this tip from the psychic?” Curtis prompts.

“Yeah,” I say, eyes on the road. Not giving anything extra.

“And you said you shot him. Tell me again why you were carrying a gun.”

“I didn’t tell you. Nice try though.”

He lifts his hands in a helpless gesture. And I like him for not reminding me he’s a reporter and it’s his job to ask questions.

And then we’re upon it. The boulders. The reflective signs. The track into the forest. I park where I parked before and the van stops behind me.

“Now what?” Curtis asks.

“Now we hoof it.”

We follow the track in a little mob. We have one of the seasoned old dogs with us and the girl and they’re both lugging gear; just in case. Both of them turn out to be camera people. The guy left behind is some kind of tech, left to operate the space-age gear in the van. They might not think this is going to pan out, but they’re manning their battle stations. It looks like it’s just how they roll.

When we reach the spot where the tent was, we find nothing at all.

“He’s gone,” I say needlessly. And I have to admit, I’m surprised. I had been so sure I’d injured him. Breaking down the tent and getting the gear away so quickly would have taken strength and agility, something an injured man would surely lack.

I feel like an idiot and I avoid Curtis’s eye so if he thinks I’ve made something up, I don’t see it on his face: I’m not looking.

The more bearlike of the team is ahead of us with a bright light. Rocky. I’m glad to see the young woman sticking to his heels. No matter that it seems like Atwater has cleared out, it doesn’t seem to me to be a good idea to be alone out here right now.

Rocky stops suddenly and calls us towards him.

“Look at this,” he says as we approach.

The light clearly reflects the area that held the tent. The earth is bruised in some spots; the sparse brush growing there is pressed down. Branches are broken. All in a pretty obvious tenby-ten-foot square. It is on a slight embankment and the forest falls away quickly behind it.

“This is where the tent was,” I breathe, nearly sagging in relief.

The young woman is holding a flashlight; casting the light all around on the ground; searching. She spies something, walks over, and picks it up. Brings it to us. It is a