The Lost Women of Lost Lake (30 page)

Tessa wanted to think. For starters, she was skeptical about the entire concept of redemption. What were the redemptive avenues open to her? She supposed she could live a good life. She'd done that, as much as humanly possible. Her plays always dealt with moral issues, with people who had to make hard ethical choices. She liked to create the characters, put them up on a stage, and watch them behave. That was the fascinating part of writing—never knowing how it would end. Being a playwright, however, wouldn't get her very far up the redemption ladder.

The only other approved redemptive option she could think of was the church. She supposed she could ask God to forgive her. Maybe talk to a priest and receive absolution. The fact that she wasn't a Catholic might mitigate against that one. No, God wasn't the answer, mainly because the sort of God she'd been taught about since birth made no sense to her. She would gladly seek any pardon on offer, and yet it seemed rather devoid of integrity to seek something you didn't actually believe in.

An empty future loomed in front of her, a future that would erase everything that had once been good in her life. How was a sixty-five-year-old woman supposed to support herself? She would have
some
money, so theoretically, she could drive to a town, rent an apartment … and then what? What skills did she have?

She could type. Big deal. She could cook, although standing on her feet all day wouldn't work under the best of conditions because of the arthritis in her knees, hips, shoulders, and hands. That likely meant no well-paid construction jobs in her future. Ha ha. She supposed she could offer herself as a dramaturge at some regional theater. Except that her face was too well-known among theater folk. Scratch that. What was left? She might be able to sell an organ or two. A kidney? Wasn't life a grand adventure?

What if she couldn't find a job? That was certainly a most pressing issue. So was friendship. Did she have the energy to make new ones? A phone call with a throwaway cell phone every now and then wasn't much to hold on to. This time, there would be no angels like Jill to come along and save her.

Dropping her head against her hand, Tessa's thoughts turned to Fontaine. He'd been such a good friend. She wished now that she'd taken him up on his offer. With him along for the ride, she would've had someone to talk to—someone who might have found a job so that they could live a seminormal life. And yet, what made her think that she deserved such a sacrifice? She would be asking Fontaine to give up his life in Lost Lake and devote himself to her. Tessa's reasons for not wanting Jill to come along all revolved around getting caught. The same would be true for Fontaine. How could she even
think
of putting him in that kind of danger? It reminded her again that there was nothing like the self-centeredness of those in pain.

Checking her watch, she saw that she had three hours to spend before her meeting with Jill at Bear Park. Three whole hours. If that small amount of time seemed endless, how was she ever going to figure out what to do with the rest of her life?

Tapping the pockets of her fishing vest—she always wore one when she traveled—looking for some cash, she found an envelope instead. She'd picked it out of the morning mail before she left the cottage and then forgotten about it. It was addressed to Tessa Cornell in a crabbed hand, with no return address. The postmark was Urbana, IL.

Ripping open the top, Tessa lifted out a sheet of typing paper that had been folded into thirds. Inside was a note:

Dear Sabra Briere:

I'll get right to the point. You murdered my dad and my grandfather and you're still walking around a free woman. I want you to know that you're not going to get away with what you did. My dad may have failed in his mission to bring you to justice, but I won't. You might be out for a walk, or maybe on your way to your car some night. You won't see me or hear me. But you'll hear a click and it will be over. I don't care what this costs me, it has to be done. Honestly, I don't understand how you live with yourself. You must be a monster. You deserve so much worse than a quick death. With everything in me, I hate you and pray that God in His wisdom will provide you with the suffering I can't.

Alissa Feigenbaumer

Tessa let go of the note and watched it flutter to the table top. How did it end? How was it ever going to stop?

“With me,” she whispered, sitting back in her chair with a sense of finality. “Right here. Right now.”

33

Jane steered the Mercedes around a bend in the highway, hitting the dirt shoulder and kicking up a cloud of dust.

“Slow down,” called Cordelia, her hands pressed against the dashboard. “I sympathize with Jonah's plight, but I don't want these to be my last moments on earth.”

“No, go faster,” cried Jonah from the backseat. “We're making good time.”

“I feel the need for speed,” said Jane, taking another curve too fast.

“I feel shaken, not stirred,” said Cordelia. “If you put one tiny scratch in this car, you're history.”

Jane dropped the speed to seventy.

“That's better.”

They'd been on the road for exactly forty-one minutes. Jane knew because Jonah kept orally ticking off the time. In Congress, the last stop before Grand Rapids, the man at the Holiday station, where the bus pulled in, said that it had left five minutes ago. “Knowing that we're not more than a few minutes behind,” said Cordelia, brushing her hair back from her face, “I don't understand why we need to pretend we're practicing for the Indy five hundred. I feel like I'm in a wind tunnel. We should have put the top up.”

“Not enough time,” shouted Jonah.

As they came around another bend in the road, a man on a motorcycle zoomed around them.

“No,” cried Jonah, raising his arms.

“That's Kenny, right?” called Jane, the wind battering her ears.

“He's doing the same thing we are. Chasing Emily.”

“Will there be others?” called Cordelia, her voice dripping sarcasm.

The back of the bus suddenly came into view. Kenny swerved into the passing lane and roared up to the front, thrusting his fist in the air and shouting something at the driver.

“He's going to get himself killed,” called Cordelia.

“Couldn't happen to a nicer guy,” yelled Jonah.

*   *   *

Emily had chosen the seat directly behind the bus driver when she got on in Lost Lake. She'd cried all the way to Empire and still felt as if she could burst into tears any second. She had wanted to leave, to make a new life for herself, but never under these conditions. She was running for her life. If she stayed in Lost Lake, she would be arrested for sure. What she needed to do was find somewhere safe, hunker down and disappear. Kenny would be angry when he found out that she'd left without talking to him. She was done arguing with him. She could never care about him the way he wanted. With every passing day he was becoming more possessive, which was why she wasn't sure how much she could trust him. Kenny had promised that he would keep his mouth shut, that if push came to shove he'd take the fall and make sure her name was kept out of it, and yet if she crossed him, if she refused his love, he could easily flip, get angry, and take it out on her. No, the only choice left was to leave quietly and never look back.

Thankfully, no one had taken the seat next to her on the bus, so her meltdown had been more-or-less private. She could see the bus driver's eyes in the mirror above his head. She'd caught him looking at her a couple of times. Not much she could do about that.

She planned to write Jonah and try to explain. Someday. Not anytime soon. Part of the problem was that she didn't entirely understand why she'd done what she'd done herself. She'd given up hope of ever being with him again. Her pregnancy—the test had shown that she was indeed pregnant—was one mistake too many.

“What the hell?” called the bus driver. “Is that guy crazy?”

Emily turned and looked out the window. She sat up straight when she realized the man on the motorcycle riding along next to the bus was Kenny. Lowering the window, she could hear him calling for the bus driver to stop, to pull over.

Emily stuck her head out and yelled, “Go home.”

Kenny looked up, saw her and smiled, calling, “Hey, baby.”

The bus driver shifted the bus into a lower gear.

“Leave me alone,” yelled Emily.

“No can do,” Kenny called back.

“Watch out!” cried the driver. He laid on his horn.

Emily stopped breathing as an SUV hurtled into the passing lane and began to pass the bus. It would have been an easy enough maneuver except that the driver didn't see Kenny. The man hit the breaks too late, colliding with the back of the cycle and sending Kenny up and over the handlebars. The cycle skittered sideways across the road and came to rest on the shoulder.

Emily gulped in air as she saw Kenny's body slam into the pavement. He didn't have on a helmet or a leather jacket. Just jeans, boots, and a white T-shirt. It was so like him—a guy who thought he was going to live forever.

The bus slowed to a crawl and finally pulled off to the side of the highway. Emily leaned halfway out the window to keep Kenny in view. He hadn't budged an inch since he hit the asphalt.

Honking the horn, the bus driver called, “That idiot up there's asleep at the wheel.”

“What idiot?” Emily twisted around. A car approached from the opposite direction, closing fast. “Stop,” she screamed. “Stay back!” She motioned to Kenny with one arm, waving madly at the car with the other.

At the last second, the car swerved, but the back tire clipped Kenny's torso, flipping him onto his back.

“Open the door,” Emily screamed. She rushed down the steps and ran toward him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw others running, too. It took a second before she realized it was Jane, Cordelia, and Jonah.

“Someone call nine-one-one,” shouted Jane, skidding to a stop next to Kenny. “Grand Rapids is probably the closest town with an EMT.” She took off her jacket and laid it over his chest.

Emily knelt down beside him, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. “Kenny, come on. Wake up.”

Jane held two fingers to his neck to see if he had a pulse.

“Is he—”

“He's alive. I don't think we should move him. He could have broken bones, internal injuries.”

Emily nodded, noticing Cordelia pull out her phone and move a few yards away.

“Jonah,” said Jane, “try to keep everyone back. When Cordelia's done, she'll help you.”

“Sure,” he said, his eyes locked on Emily.

Emily didn't know what to say to him, so she returned her attention to Kenny. The right side of his face and his arm were a mass of bloody scrapes, and yet it was the tire track across his white T-shirt that caused her the most concern.

“Come on, Kenny,” said Emily, smoothing back his hair. “Open your eyes. Let us know you're awake.”

His face twitched.

“That's right,” said Emily. “I'm here. You're going to be okay.”

For the next few minutes, cars parked along the sides of the road and a crowd began to gather. Jane did her best to fend off questions. Emily kept her eyes down and refused to talk.

Seeing his face twitch again, Emily leaned over and whispered in his ear. A few seconds later his eyes fluttered and then opened.

“The fuck happened?” he groaned, trying to sit up.

“Best not to move,” said Jane. “You were in an accident. The paramedics will be here any minute.”

“Eee-yah. I'll … stay put.”

“Where does it hurt?” asked Emily.

He tapped his midsection. “Hurts bad.”

“Broken ribs?” said Jane.

“Dunno.” Raising his eyes to Emily, he said, “Hi.”

She felt tears well in her eyes. “You're crazy, you know that?”

“Certifiable.” Fresh blood leaked from his nose.

“Just stay with us,” said Jane.

As they waited for the paramedics to arrive, the conversation around them seemed to grow louder. The SUV was in the ditch about twenty yards away. A bald man in a business suit shouted at the driver, who continued to sit in the front seat. Another small group had gathered around the driver of the car that hit Kenny. A few were on cell phones. Some were crying.

While Emily kept Kenny awake by telling him about a visit she'd made to the hospital in Grand Rapids when she was eleven, Jane did a visual examination of Kenny's body.

“Nothing looks broken. Since he wasn't wearing a helmet, he probably has a concussion. A jacket might have helped. These harness boots are the only thing he has on that makes any sense.”

Examining the boots a bit more closely, Jane did a double take.

Kenny lifted his head to watch her.

Sitting back on her heels, Jane's eyes collided with his. “You were there that night. At the theater. Your right boot. It's missing an O-ring.”

“This is no time for silly questions,” said Emily sharply.

Jane turned to stare at her. “You knew about it? Were you there, too?”

Everything was coming apart. A feeling of panic gripped Emily so hard that it was all she could do not to get up and run. She had to stop Kenny before he spilled everything.

“Guy had it coming,” muttered Kenny.

“Don't say another word,” commanded Emily.

“You shot him?” asked Jane.

“Had to.”

“Kenny, no!”

“Why?”

“Guy was too ugly to live.”

“Kenny, stop,” demanded Emily. “Please. If you love me—”

“I do love you, babe. That's why I've gotta tell what I know. Set things right.”

The look in his eyes silenced her.

“He found out about Fisherman's Cove, didn't he,” said Jane. “About the marijuana, what you and Em—”

“Emily had no part in it. It was just me, got that? Me and nobody else.” This time his words were clearer, with more energy behind them. “I took that guy out. Just him and me in the theater that afternoon.”