Beyond (17 page)

Dad stretches with a groan. “Nothing like waking up to an interrogation. We don’t know if there’s a connection. He was missing for three years before his body turned up. Buried in the forest.”

“But it says here he was found way over in Tumbler Ridge. That’s a long way from Edgewood.”

“Two hundred and twenty miles.”

“So is there anything that links the two deaths?”

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “Not yet. But the profiler experts see a possible pattern. The victimology is too similar to ignore.”

“What’s that mean?”

He reaches over and takes the file from me, slipping it back in the envelope. “You don’t need to hear any of this.”

“Sure I do. I was there when you found the kid’s bones. Really, I need to know.”

Dad scratches his fingers through his gray hair. “Well, the profiles of the victims are very close. Both were twelve or thirteen, white, taken from rural towns along the coast and found buried in heavily wooded areas. And the autopsies show the probable cause of death is the same: fractured skull.”

“So what are you saying? You’re looking for some kind of serial killer?”

“Who knows? It’s a possibility. A theory. But two hundred or so miles is a lot of geography between the burial sites. Serials usually like to cluster them closer together.”

“Why do they do that?” I ask.

“So they can go back and … visit them. Relive it all.”

Dad starts stacking the files. I notice a large yellow envelope with MCD in big black letters.

I point it out. “What’s in that one? MCD?”

“Those are bulletins from the Missing Children’s Database. Open cases of missing kids from across the province who fit the same basic profile.”

“More victims?”

“No. Hope not. Most missing kids turn up as runaways or parental abductions. Leave this stuff to me, Boo. It’s my job.”

Dad heads for the kitchen, and I follow. There’s a note stuck to the handle of the fridge door.

“ ‘Make sure she takes her pills’,” he reads.

“I know. I know.”

“Hey, don’t let your mother know we’ve been talking about this stuff. You’re supposed to be resting. No stress. No drama.”

Right. Talk to my ghost.

I try to catch my breath. I’ve been talking nonstop for the past ten minutes, telling Lexi everything about last night on the cliff. Pacing around her room, ranting and raving till I run out of air.

I sit down on the desk chair, breathless but feeling a little better. Now that I’ve shared the madness, I don’t seem so alone in it.

“Wow,” Lexi says. “Haunted from the start. You never had a chance.”

I just shake my head. Damn, is that really the story of my life?

Above her desk, I see she’s been expanding her “wall of death.” Besides the afterlife images with the otherworldly light, spirits and souls in flight, the rest of the space is dedicated to my ghost. A collage of pictures and articles, from Leo Gage’s original MISSING poster to the old newspaper stories to the flood of new coverage.

The initial searches led nowhere. They dredged nearby ponds, scoured the coastline, ran down hundreds of tips.

But it was like he just stepped out of the world that day. Into nothing.

“The way he talked about how we met. You know, how our souls were both lost in the dark? It sounded a lot like the Divide.”

That place of never-ending night separating the living world from the light.

I’ve checked out all the websites about near-death experiences, with stories brought back by Second Chancers like me. I’ve been trying to figure out why some souls get trapped in that void and become Grim Enders. Why won’t they go to the light?

I found out that the light
feels
different to some people. For most, like me, it was this perfect healing sunshine, taking away all my pain and fears, giving me a deep sense of peace.

But for some it burns. In these rare cases the light hurts so much they pull back from it. Those who have experienced this pain describe it as feeling like their soul was set on fire.

Why does it burn them? They say the light makes you truly see yourself. Makes you face all your fears, your guilt and shame, the bad you’ve done, and the damage that’s been done to you. The light brings out your deepest darkness. Then burns it away in a flash.

But when the dark goes so deep in you that’s it’s taken over—if you can’t let go or can’t face it—then the moment of pain from the fire doesn’t end. And your soul is left in agony.

Those who can’t give up their darkness are doomed. Scared of the light, they lose themselves in the Divide.

“So Leo tried to kill you,” Lexi says. “To take you back. All because he thinks you belong together? Belong to him? That’s a twisted kind of love.”

“It was never about love.” I pick at the bandage on my wrist. “He wants to
own
me. I’m all he’s got, and he won’t share.”

“We have to do something to keep you safe till surgery.” Lexi leans on the desk next to me. “There’s no way you’re sleeping alone anymore. I’m going to crash at your place till your operation.”

“Be my bodyguard?”

“Hell, yeah. You need guarding.”

What would I do without my Creep Sister?

“Then you’re hired. I’ll pay you in pizza.” Trying out a small smile, I glance at the ghost wall beside us. “All this work. You’ve been busy.”

“You know me. Maniac insomniac. Which makes me a perfect night watchman.” Lexi grabs her mug off the desk. “I need caffeine to keep up with this weirdness. You want some coffee?”

“Sure. But decaf.”

While she heads downstairs, I let my eyes wander over the wall. Leo’s MISSING poster shows him smiling. What changed him? Was he warped by the Divide, the total isolation and loneliness? Or was it what happened to him in that house of horrors he drew for me?

Lexi’s been emailing me these bits and pieces. When I see it all together, there are so many details that I can’t
tell what might be important and what’s nothing. It’s been barely two weeks since the landslide uncovered those bones. But it feels way longer, like it’s been January forever.

I spot that famous photo of me on the wall, the awful image taken after the landslide unearthed the skull. I’m standing behind Dad. The skull seems to glow in the glare of the flashlight.

Near that picture are the drawings I made under my shadow’s influence. Those half-torn pages showing the bird and the house stained with my blood.

Leaning back in the chair, I try to force all this info into meaning something. Give me some answers. But the wall keeps its secrets.

One photo catches my eye. Dad’s in it. The shot was taken at the press conference to announce the task force assigned to the case, with a row of law enforcement officials standing behind Constable Granger at the podium. They’ve brought in the top federal cops, police from neighboring counties, the coast guard, profilers and all kinds of forensics experts.

Dad’s gray hair looks snowier than usual. When did he get so old? How much of that is because of me?

There are other news photos of the crime lab team searching for evidence in the landslide.

The forest trails near the burial site were blocked off. They fall within the boundaries of Raincoast National Park. A picture shows some official in a green uniform setting up a wooden barrier that says
TRAIL CLOSED NO ENTRY ALLOWED
.

He seems familiar somehow, the man in green. Have I seen him in town?

Getting up, I lean over the desk for a closer look.

It’s bugging me. Where do I know him from?

Something about him gives me the creeps. He’s tall, really skinny and bald.

Then an image flashes behind my eyes.

For a split second it’s like I’m somewhere else, seeing another place as clearly as the room around me. I see—

A bald, spidery thin man, standing by a pond in the woods. Grinning, with cold dark eyes. There’s a black bird riding on his shoulder, a crow. The man reaches out a bony hand. And I know his touch will mean something worse than death.

Snapping back to Lexi’s room, I feel like the breath’s been sucked out of me.

No way! That can’t be him—the bald man from my vision. The one who got Leo.

I rip the picture off the wall, searching the caption. He’s identified as Park Ranger Garrett Starks.

I can’t believe it. But there he is.

I jump when the door creaks open behind me, and Lexi walks in holding two mugs. She stops when she sees the shock on my face.

“What’s wrong?”

I remember to breathe again.

“Look at this.” I hold up the picture. “It’s him. Right there.”

She comes over. “Who’s that?”

“He’s the killer.”

“This is a bad idea,” Lexi tells me.

“Maybe. But I have to see it with my own eyes. See
him
. So I can be sure.”

It’s late afternoon on this misty Saturday, a couple of hours after I discovered that photo of the ranger. We’re sitting in her car, just outside of town, in the parking lot of the Raincoast National Park ranger station.

“Okay,” she says. “Just as long as he doesn’t see
you
.”

We checked the place out online. Besides overseeing park service operations, they sell camping and fishing permits, and there’s a gift shop with tourist stuff.

“That’s why I’m undercover.” I try and joke, but my heart’s going a mile a minute, and I can feel cold sweat running down my back.

My undercover look has me wearing a pair of sunglasses and a black slicker, with my hair pulled back in a ponytail, hidden beneath a baseball cap.

Lexi’s shaking her head. “He’s probably following the media coverage of the case. What if he’s seen that photo with you and your dad at the landslide?”

“Don’t worry. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me in this getup.”

“You sure about this?”

“Positive.”

“Okay.” She slips on her own shades. “It looks like a bunch of tourists are in there now. Let’s do this while there’s a crowd. And make it quick. In and out.”

We cross the parking lot.

The station is a log-built lodge next to the entrance road to the park. Inside we find the gift shop and pretend to check out the postcards. Sitting behind the register, a nerdy guy is playing a game on his phone.

Lexi nods toward a hallway that leads deeper into the lodge. We follow it to the main area.

I spot a woman in a green ranger uniform handing out brochures to an old couple. There’s a TV playing a fishing program. And behind a long counter another ranger is unfolding a large map for a group of tourists.

I stop dead in my tracks. It’s
him
.

Garrett Starks. Tall and gaunt, his bald head pale. Laying down the map, he points something out with a bony finger.

I flash back to my vision of that same spidery hand reaching for Leo, to take him away.

Something touches my elbow, making me flinch.

“Let’s go,” Lexi whispers in my ear. “Now.”

Turning to leave, I catch him looking my way. But it’s just a quick glance, not stopping on me.

Then I’m rushing down the hall, out into the parking
lot. Desperate to get away and escape the reach of those hands.

Me and Lexi start our own task force, headquartered in my bedroom. She’s sleeping over, and brought her laptop with all the news files and photos she’s collected about the case.

I’m still shaken up after seeing him in the flesh. It was bad enough having that image of him in my head from the borrowed memory of my ghost. Spotting him in the real world, with my own eyes, was terrifying. But I had to be sure.

While Lexi works at my desk, I sit on my bed with my computer, searching for info on Garrett Starks.

So far what we’ve got on Starks is sketchy. The National Parks Service site gave a basic bio. He’s thirty-eight years old, been a ranger for eighteen. Grew up down the coast in Long Beach—just outside Ferny, Leo’s hometown. Starks would have been twenty when Leo Gage went missing. There’s a picture showing the man in his green uniform, standing in front of the Raincoast National Park ranger station. He’s grinning, but it’s a cold smile that doesn’t reach the eyes.

Lexi dug up a few minor mentions of him in the local papers. Official stuff, like giving out Parks Service warnings during forest fire season, reporting bear and wolf sightings, talking about vanishing frog populations and the decreasing salmon runs.