The Escape (9 page)

They never did.

Avery was sure she was going to be sick.

“We’re bringing in a guy who says he remembers seeing Adam and Fletcher at the trailhead. We’re following up on a lead about a makeshift dwelling about two miles from where the boys were—a couple of people mentioned that someone is living out there. Sounds like the same guy who freaked out a couple of college kids in town about a month ago.

“We’re going to find the person that did this, Avery. I promise.”

Avery and Fletcher were sitting at a corner table in the coffee shop, books spread out in front of them, the remains of a plate of french fries between them. Fletcher didn’t need to study, but when Avery suggested they hang out, he agreed, not wanting to spend any more time at home. His mother had gone from fawning over him to constantly watching him.

When she wasn’t, she was on the phone—with his father, Fletcher guessed—murmuring, then falling silent whenever Fletcher walked in the room. Sometimes he heard her talking to Susan, his sister, and guilt pulsed through him. The conversations with Susan never lasted long because if he was there, his mother always hung up the phone.

The press conference and the release of Jimmy Jerold did little to bolster the town’s morale. The community outrage and camaraderie that Adam’s murder and Fletcher’s escape had inspired were waning as suspicion and fear took hold.

Two old women walked by their table, engrossed in conversation, their eyes darting around as they took in the other patrons.

“I don’t know what this town is coming to,” Avery heard one old lady say. “Just yesterday I heard the Morgans’ car was burgled. I’ve lived here twenty years and nothing like that ever happened before.”

“That’s because crimes against cars aren’t burglaries,” Avery huffed under her breath.

Fletcher looked up from his biology book. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Avery waved at the air. “It’s just that it’s not burglary if it has to do with a car. Burglary is breaking into a dwelling; larceny is for a car.”

Fletcher smiled. “You sure know a lot.”

Avery felt her cheeks warm and her stomach flutter. “Sorry. It comes from being the daughter of a cop.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s kind of cool. What else do you know about?”

“It’s illegal to plow your field with an elephant in North Carolina, and the only two things you can legally throw out of your car here are water and chicken feathers.”

Fletcher nodded, impressed. “Helpful tidbits for North Carolina farmers or Californian chicken carpools.”

“I also know that crime isn’t really going up around here. Everyone is just talking about it more since…” Her eyes flicked to Fletcher’s, then returned to her notebook. “Well, you know.”

Fletcher’s fingers went to his forehead. He didn’t have to wear the bandage anymore, but he still found himself absently touching the scar on his forehead.

“Yeah, well, I wish people would stop talking about it.” He glanced around the café. “I wish people would stop talking about everything.”

Avery reached out and touched his hand, her fingers gentle. She squeezed gingerly. “My dad is going to figure out who did this and stop him.”

Fletcher pulled his hand away, not meaning for it to seem as jerky as it did. “It would be a whole lot easier if I could just remember what the hell happened.”

Avery tapped her fingers against the table. “It’ll come back, you know.”

“What will?”

“The memories.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Avery held his gaze, biting her lower lip. She sighed, then edged a textbook out from the stack in front of her and flipped to a page tipped with a bright-pink Post-it note. “This is all about how the brain can shut out memories that the mind might not be ready to deal with. You know, traumatic stuff.”

Fletcher glowered. “I’m not crazy.”

Avery flushed again. “That’s not what I’m saying. It’s not about being crazy. It’s about the brain wanting to protect itself. Fletch, what happened in the woods must have been horrifying.”

“Yeah,” Fletcher said, teeth clenched. “But I survived.” Guilt infected every inch of him. He felt certain the universe would right itself. Adam was the golden child. Adam should have been the one to escape, not him. “Barely.”

Fletcher looked away, not wanting to see the earnestness in Avery’s clear blue eyes. She pushed the book toward him, completely undeterred.

“This says memories of trauma may come all at once or little by little, but the memories will come back.”

Fletcher’s mouth went dry although he had been sipping a Coke. He didn’t want the memories to come back—not little by little, or all at once. As much as he wanted Adam’s killer caught, he didn’t want to relive any more of what had happened that day. He didn’t think he could take it.

“I…”—he licked his lips nervously—“I don’t know if I want them to.”

Avery’s gaze hardened, then softened. She swallowed. “I guess I never thought about how it would affect you. The memories coming back, I mean.”

“I want to help Adam.”

“I know.”

Fletcher looked at his lap, his eyes moist. “But I feel safer if I don’t remember what happened.”

The bells over the coffeehouse door jingled and a couple walked in, letting in a burst of cold fall air.

“That’s just horrendous,” the woman said.

“I can’t believe someone would do that. Can you imagine how the Marshalls must feel seeing that, after all they’ve been through?”

Both Avery and Fletcher straightened.

“Excuse me,” Avery said, standing. “What about the Marshalls?”

The woman gave Avery the once-over before her lips quirked into a small smile. “Are you the police chief’s daughter?”

Avery nodded. “Yeah—”

The man said, “It’s the memorial for Adam. It was a makeshift memorial but still, someone destroyed it. Horrible.” He clucked his tongue. “Cowardly.”

“What do you mean, destroyed it?” Fletcher asked.

The woman chimed in. “Just tore it apart. Broke votives that had been left with the flowers.”

“Shredded the ribbons. Even tore up the pictures of Adam. Awful.”

Fletcher and Avery exchanged a look and simultaneously began to gather their things.

“We need to check this out,” Avery said to him. Then, to the woman, “Does anyone know who did it? Or when it happened?”

The woman shrugged.

“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “But it must have been sometime late last night or early this morning.”

• • •

Avery flinched against the cold air that slapped her cheeks when she and Fletcher power walked toward Adam’s memorial.

“Oh God.”

The corner that had once been festooned with ribbons, teddy bears, pictures, posters, sport memorabilia, and candles was a disheveled mess. The pictures and notes were torn, crumpled, and scattered over the sidewalk and street. The few bears and stuffed animals that remained were sliced and ruined, tufts of cotton stuffing poking through shredded bear bellies, ears removed, button eyes gouged out.

The candles had all been kicked over, shattered glass showered across the concrete sidewalk.

“Who would do something like this?”

Avery stepped closer, broken glass crunching under her sneakers. One of the candleholders—one with an angel on the front—was split down the middle, a feathered wing on each half. It looked as though someone had tried to piece it together again, but the angel’s face remained downcast, arms outstretched to nothingness.

• • •

Fletcher’s mom was at the door the moment he turned his key in the lock. Her eyes were wide and hugged by bluish bags. She always seemed to be clutching a coffee mug these days and poking her head into Fletcher’s room every hour or so.

“Fletcher, honey, there you are. I was worried about you.”

“Sorry, Mom. I texted you. Didn’t you get it?”

Mrs. Carroll absently patted the sagging pockets on her sweater. “Are you okay?” She stepped toward him, pressing her palm against his face and studying it as though waiting for a story to unfold. He shrugged her off.

“I’m fine, Mom. Can you relax? I’m all right.”

“At the news conference yesterday Chief Templeton said they let that boy go. That Jerold fellow.” She pulled one of the curtains aside, peering out the window as if Jimmy would be out there waiting. “I don’t think you should be out alone anymore, Fletcher. Not right now.”

The anger was starting to pulse along Fletcher’s veins, making his fingers twitch and his jaw clench. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“You need to be okay, hon.”

Fletch whirled, leveling his eyes on his mother. “I’m fine. What happened,
happened
. I can’t go back, I can’t change it, but I’m still the same kid, okay? I’m tired of you treating me like I’m going to fall apart at any minute.”

Mrs. Carroll took two steps back, blinking. “I won’t be sorry for worrying about you, Fletcher. I won’t be sorry for being your mother.”

Fletcher grunted and ran up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him. He paced, kicking the foot of his bed as tears threatened to fall. “What the hell happened, Adam? What the fuck happened out there, man?”

Fletcher didn’t remember falling asleep. His mother must have checked on him and turned out his lights because when he woke, it was pitch-dark. He was still wearing his clothes, and an afghan had been thrown over him. A glass of water and his pill on the nightstand were illuminated by the blue numbers of his alarm clock. Fletcher sat up and cleared his throat. He felt as if he had slept with his mouth wide-open.

He reached for the pill and the water but stopped when he heard the door downstairs. It had a thick brass knob that rattled any time it was turned. It was rattling now. Was someone trying to get into his house?

When he stepped into the hallway, the noise stopped. The only sound was Fletcher’s own breathing.

Then someone tapped on the downstairs window.

He snatched the baseball bat he kept propped against his desk and slung it over his shoulder, stepping quickly but softly, hugging the walls. He passed his mother’s bedroom door and nudged it open with his shoulder. She was cocooned in her blankets, head and shoulders covered like a shroud, taking only a snippet of space in the big bed.

Fletcher struggled to keep his own breath steady.

He picked his way down the stairs toward the scratching sound.

It’s nothing
, a voice inside him said.
I’m making it up.

Then he heard the window slide open on the rail.

Someone was outside his house.

The living room seemed darker than it had ever had been, and Fletcher waited for his eyes to adjust. He didn’t know how long he waited before the glass exploded, shattering all around him and raining down on him.

He felt a piece of glass slice his cheek. He felt hands on him and he swung.

He could feel the bat make contact with something hard and solid. He heard someone groan as a familiar heat blazed up Fletcher’s spine.

Fight, fight, fight.

He swung again, this time missing and spinning in a circle. Glass crunched under his bare feet.

Someone jumped on him.

It’s happening again.

Fletcher began to scream.

The ring of the phone cut through her sleep, and Avery launched out of bed, stumbling across her room. She threw open the bedroom door and saw her father rush by, clipping his gun belt around his waist, cell phone pressed to his ear.

“Forty-two, forty-two Sagebrush Lane,” he was repeating back to the person on the phone. “On my way.”

“Dad—”

He held a hand out to her. “Back to bed, Avy. I gotta go in. Keep all the doors locked.”

Avery’s throat tightened. “Dad, Dad, what’s going on?” She followed behind him, her bare feet slapping the stairs. “What happened?”

The chief turned around and landed a kiss on the side of her forehead. “I don’t know yet, hon. Just go back to bed. Everything will be fine.” He shut the door behind him, the sound of the lock tumbling a stark echo.

Avery stood in the kitchen, the chill from the cold linoleum creeping up her legs. “Forty-two, forty-two Sagebrush Lane,” she mumbled into the darkness. “Fletcher’s house.” She started to tremble.

• • •

Fletcher wished the police would turn off their lights. They splashed overhead, washing the walls with blue and red in a rhythmic pattern that made his headache worse.

He perched at the edge of the living-room sofa, the one reserved for company that never visited them, while the paramedic used extra-long tweezers to pull tiny pieces of glass from his feet. Fletcher didn’t make a sound.

“Did you get a look at him, son?”

Chief Templeton spoke slowly, his head cocked like they actually were father and son and the rest of the scene—a half-dozen cops poking through the wreckage of the broken window, his mother hugging herself and shaking while she cried—wasn’t actually happening. Fletcher wanted to ask the chief where Avery was, if she was alone while whoever broke into Fletcher’s house had disappeared into the night.

Fletcher lost his concentration. “Who?”

The paramedic stopped, a piece of glass pinched between his tweezers, and looked at the chief. The chief looked at Fletcher’s mother. She looked at Fletcher, then squeezed his arm. “The person who tried to break in, honey. Chief Templeton is asking if you saw him.”

Fletcher frowned. He suddenly couldn’t remember if he was dreaming or awake.

His mother squeezed his arm again. “Fletcher?”

The sounds. The broken glass. He shook his head. “No, sir. It was dark. The whole thing happened so fast.”

There were no dark spots in Fletcher’s memory this time. He just wasn’t sure what happened when the window exploded.

“Chief?” An officer Fletcher sort of recognized—they were all starting to look the same—pointed a gloved hand at something cradled in the heavy pile carpet. “Looks like this is what came through the window.”

It was a rock, oblong and gray, completely unspectacular.

The chief nodded. “Thanks, Blount.” He turned back to Fletcher. “So you said someone tried the door and then was able to push the window open—but they still threw a rock.”

Fletcher shrugged and his mother threw her arms around him. He stiffened as she pulled him close. She snuffled a little and Fletcher wished everyone would just leave him alone.

“I don’t really know what happened.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Mrs. Carroll said, suddenly full of angst. “Whoever hurt Adam is coming back for Fletcher. He was going to sneak in, but he probably saw Fletcher around the curtains in the window and got spooked. Maybe he just wanted to do some damage, wanted us to know he was here.” Her eyes swept her ruined living room. “He wants us to know that he’s waiting.” A sob lodged in her throat and tears welled in her eyes. “I want to know what you’re going to do about this, Chief Templeton. What are you doing to protect my son?”

• • •

“Are you going to tell me what happened last night?” Avery stared at her father’s profile as he drove her to school.

He pointed to his eye and said, “I could ask you the same thing.”

Avery glanced at her reflection in the vanity mirror, shrinking back at seeing the stripe of purple underneath her right eye. It was healing from the school incident, albeit slowly. “I told you what happened. And isn’t the reporting party supposed to remain anonymous? How come this chick went after me?”

Her father shrugged. “It’s a small town, Avy. Not only that, but you were one of only two people who could have reported it.”

She gingerly touched the bridge of her nose. “Noted.”

“But don’t let that stop you from reporting all crime you encounter.”

Avery flashed her dad a halfhearted salute. “Thank you for that public service announcement. Next time, remind me to ask for a bodyguard. Now, back to what I was saying—”

“Or back to what I was saying. You should always report a crime when you see one and, in particular, if you’re the chief of police’s daughter, you should try not to be a part of a crime.”

Avery started to protest, but her father continued.

“You broke a citywide curfew that night, Avery. A curfew that was put in place for a very valid reason.”

She took a deep breath and stared out the side window. “I thought that we already—”

Her father pinned her with a glare, and Avery promptly shut her mouth.

“You’re lucky that Jimmy didn’t do more when you ran into him.”

“I know, Dad.”

“Don’t brush this off. This isn’t like you. You know better.”

Avery bit her bottom lip. “I was just trying to be a friend to Fletcher. I didn’t really think beyond that. I’m sorry, Dad. I really am. It won’t happen again.”

“It’d better not. I understand you wanted to be there for Fletcher, and I think that’s really admirable of you. But come on, Avy, be supportive in well-lit, public places during regular business hours.
Capiche
?
”

There was a long silence and Avery wondered if she should push her luck. She decided to try.

“So, what happened at Fletch’s last night?”

The chief cleared his throat, focusing on the road in front of them.

“Please, Dad? Fletcher’s my friend. Adam was my friend.” Avery didn’t mean for her voice to tremble. “Please?”

Chief Templeton didn’t blow out his usual sigh. “It looks like someone tried to break into the Carrolls’ house last night. Fletcher may have interrupted the suspect, because the guy tossed a rock through the window and then went after Fletcher.”

Avery felt her fried egg on toast sitting like a stone in her gut. “Is he okay?”

The chief nodded sharply. “He seems to be.”

“But?” Avery prompted her father.

“But what?”

“You’re doing that thing. You have a suspicion.”

Avery’s father turned to look at her, and she pointed to the road. “What thing are you talking about?”

“You grit your teeth when you’re not telling me stuff.”

“I don’t—”

“Dad!” Avery rolled her eyes and Chief Templeton smiled.

“Very good, grasshopper.”

“So what aren’t you telling me? Did Fletcher get a look at the guy? Do you have a suspect?”

“No. The assailant was gone before my guys were on the scene. No fingerprints were left behind. Nothing. But there was a significant amount of damage.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what kind of monster we’re dealing with, Avy, but I want you to steer clear.”

“Of the ‘monster’ or of Fletcher?”

Chief Templeton didn’t answer.