The Best of Me (21 page)

He settled in to wait.

Dawson saw the man a third time, this time closer to the road. He sprinted after him, the branches and bushes slapping at him, but couldn’t seem to close the distance. Panting, he gradually began to slow before coming to a stop at the edge of the road.

The man was gone. If, of course, he’d ever been in the woods
at all, and Dawson suddenly wasn’t so sure about that. The prickling sensation of being watched had dissipated, as had the icy fear; all he was left with was a feeling of being hot and tired, with a sense of frustration and foolishness mixed in.

Tuck used to see Clara, and now Dawson was seeing a dark-haired man wearing a windbreaker in the early summer heat. Had Tuck been as crazy as he was? He stood still, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He was sure the man was following him, but if so, who was he? And what did the man want with him?

He didn’t know, but the more he tried to focus on what he’d actually seen, the more it began to slip away. Like dreams only minutes after waking, it faded, until he was no longer sure of anything.

He shook his head, glad he was nearly finished with the Stingray. He wanted to return to the bed-and-breakfast to take a shower and lie down and think about things. The dark-haired man, Amanda… ever since the accident on the rig, his life had been in upheaval. He looked in the direction he’d come, deciding there was no point in traipsing back through the woods. It would be easier to follow the road and just hike up the drive. Stepping onto the macadam, he started walking, only to notice an old truck parked off the road behind a clump of bushes.

He wondered what it was doing out here; there was nothing to be found in this part of the woods except for Tuck’s place. The tires weren’t flat, and though he supposed the truck could have broken down, whoever it was probably would have come up the drive in search of help. Stepping into the underbrush, Dawson noticed that the truck was locked; he reached over and placed his hand on its hood. Warm, but not hot. Probably been there for an hour or two.

Nor did it make sense that it was tucked away, parked behind the bushes. If it needed a tow, it would have been better to keep it near the side of the road. It almost seemed that the driver didn’t want anyone to notice the truck at all.

Like someone meant to keep it hidden?

With that, everything began to fall into place, beginning with the sighting of Abee that morning. This wasn’t Abee’s truck—the one he’d run past that morning—but that didn’t mean anything. Carefully, Dawson traced a path around the far side of the truck, stopping when he noticed some branches twisted to the side.

The entry point.

Someone had come this way, heading toward the house.

Tired of waiting, Ted pulled out a chunk of marlstone, thinking that if he broke a window while Dawson was inside, Dawson might just decide to stay holed up. But a noise was different. When something loud cracked against the side of the house, you went outside to check what happened. He’d probably walk right past the woodpile, just a few feet away. Impossible to miss.

Satisfied, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the first chunks of marlstone. Cautiously, he peeked over the woodpile, seeing no one in the windows. Then, rising quickly, he threw the piece as hard as he could and was already ducking back down as it shattered against the house, the sound loud and sharp.

Behind him, the flock of starlings broke noisily from the trees.

Dawson heard a muted pop, and a cloud of starlings swarmed above him before quickly settling again. The noise hadn’t been gunfire; it was something else. He slowed his approach, moving silently toward Tuck’s house.

Someone was there. He was sure of it. His kin, no doubt.

Ted was on pins and needles, wondering where the hell Dawson was. There was no way he couldn’t have heard the noise, but where was he? Why didn’t he come out?

He pulled another stone from his pocket, this time throwing it as hard as he could.

Dawson froze at the sound of a second, louder report. Gradually, he relaxed and crept closer, pinpointing the source of the noise.

Ted, hiding behind the woodpile. Armed.

His back was to Dawson, and he was peering over the top of the woodpile at the house. Was he waiting for Dawson to emerge from the house? Making noise, hoping to lure him out to investigate?

Dawson suddenly wished he had dug up the shotgun. Or brought a weapon of any sort, for that matter. There were items in the garage, but there was no way he could get to them without Ted spotting him. He debated retreating to the road, but Ted wasn’t likely to go away, unless he had a reason. All the same, he could tell from Ted’s twitchy posture that he was getting antsy, and that was good. Impatience was the hunter’s enemy.

Dawson ducked behind a tree, thinking, hoping for an opportunity to take care of this without getting shot in the process.

Five minutes passed, then ten, while Ted continued to seethe. Nothing, absolutely nothing. No movement out front, or even in the damn windows. But a rental car was parked in the drive—he could see the bumper sticker—and someone had been working in the garage. It sure as hell wasn’t Tuck or Amanda. So if Dawson wasn’t out front and he wasn’t out back, he had to be in the house.

But why hadn’t he come out?

Maybe he was watching television or listening to music… or sleeping or showering or God knows what else. For whatever reason, he must not have heard anything.

Ted crouched there another few minutes, growing even angrier,
before finally deciding he wasn’t going to just wait around. Ducking out from behind the woodpile, he scurried to the side of the house and peeked around to the front. Seeing nothing, he moved again, tiptoeing up to the porch. He pressed himself flat against the wall between the door and window.

He strained to hear the sounds of movement inside without success. No creaking floorboards, no blaring television or thumping music. Once he was certain he hadn’t been spotted, he peered around the frame of the window. He took hold of the doorknob and turned it slowly.

Unlocked. Perfect.

Ted readied the gun.

Dawson watched Ted slowly push the door open. As soon as it closed behind him, Dawson raced for the garage, figuring he had maybe a minute, probably less. He seized the rusted tire iron from the workbench and sprinted silently for the front of the house, figuring that Ted was most likely in the kitchen or the bedroom by now. He prayed that he was right.

He jumped up onto the porch before flattening himself in the same spot where Ted had stood, gripping the tire iron and readying himself. It didn’t take long; inside, he heard Ted cussing as he stomped toward the front door. When it swung open, Dawson flashed on Ted’s panicked expression as he caught sight of Dawson an instant too late.