White Lies (19 page)

Katrina understood that what Jack was proposing wasn't the right thing to do, and that he wasn't the perfect man she'd thought him to be. But sometimes the right decision wasn't always the best decision, and perfect or not, she still did have strong feelings for him. And she knew with a growing certainty she wasn't going to be able to sit idly by while another man's life slipped through her fingers. Not when she could do something about it.

Her choice, it seemed then, was inevitable.

“Yes,” she said softly, almost to herself. “I'll do it.”

Zach was pressed against the trunk of a tree, still as a tombstone. Blood was thumping in his ears and his legs felt rubbery, like they might give at any moment. Jack had already returned inside the cabin, but Zach was too terrified to move. When he'd shifted his weight earlier, making noise, he'd been convinced Jack was going to come over to investigate. If that had happened, he'd been ready to run and just keep running. Because Jack had not just killed that old man, he'd demolished him—and he would demolish Zach as well if he knew he'd witnessed the entire murder from start to finish. Nevertheless, he could no longer remain where he was. He had to check on the poor sucker. There was no way he could be alive, no way, not after all those bone-breaking kicks that soon became wet, fleshy kicks. But he had to check, just the same.

He looked around the tree trunk. All clear. He crept over to the bushes where Jack had dragged the body. He took a few steps into the thicket, pushed aside some shrubs, and flinched, even though he had known what to expect. The old man's face was a scarf of blood. His nose was crushed. It almost looked out of place, as if it had moved a few inches to the left. His mouth was open, revealing a black, toothless hole. Maybe he didn't put in his dentures today, but more than likely his teeth were lying in the dirt over where he'd been beaten silly. Cold moonlight reflected in his upward-gazing eyes, which shone like two silver coins—the ferryman's fare for the trip across the river. As horrible as his face was, it was his body that caused true horror in Zach, because it wasn't natural. It looked like a doll's body—something stuffed with beans and as supple as a noodle. It was in the shape of a badly drawn
S
,
scrawny arms at its side, knees together. And the chest—that was the worst part. It looked deflated, empty, like an alien in a horror movie had just burst free from it, leaving a womblike cavity behind.

He was dead. No question.
Demolished
was the word Zach had thought before and the word that came to his mind again. He stumbled away, feeling the first squirming of self-loathing. He'd stood by and watched Jack murder a defenseless old man. He'd remained hiding behind a tree when he could have done something. But what could he have done? It had all happened so fast and unexpectedly. He couldn't have anticipated that first palm strike or whatever the hell it was. Then Jack was kicking the old man as soon as he'd landed on his back. By the time Zach had gotten his wits about him, it was over. Five, maybe six seconds. That's all it took.

Zach's first impulse now was to whip out his cell phone and call the police, or even run down to the dock and tell everyone what Jack had done. But he hesitated. He didn't know all the facts yet. Didn't know why the old man had attacked Jack, or what was going to happen next. Because maybe Jack was going to turn himself in, and Zach wouldn't have to get involved at all. Or, better yet, maybe Katrina would turn Jack in. How sweet that would be. Talk about poetic justice. So, yeah, maybe he would just wait and see how things played out, say in the next ten minutes or so—

The cabin door opened and Jack and Katrina appeared. Zach stiffened, as if he was going to bolt. But he didn't move. They would see him. He might be thirty yards away, but any movement would draw their eyes. They'd know he had seen the body. Jack would come after him and catch him before he could call the police or reach the others. So very slowly and quietly he lowered himself to his chest and crawled deeper into the tangle of bushes, moving away from the old man's body. Then he stopped and remained perfectly still. The rich, earthy smell of the soil filled his nose. He scarcely allowed himself to breathe.

“Where?” he heard Katrina say. She sounded shaky.

“Right there.” Jack. He didn't sound shaky at all.

They pushed into the patch of bush where Zach was hiding.
Shrubs snapped and rustled. They couldn't have been more than ten feet away.

“Oh, Jesus,” Katrina said, barely a whisper.

“Try not to look at it,” Jack said. Not
him
anymore. Just an
it
— a clump of meat and bones that if skinned and hacked to pieces wouldn't look out of place in a butcher's window.

“There's so much blood. Why's there so much blood? You said you only hit him once.”

“I did. Right in the nose. All the blood's from his nose.”

“What's wrong with his body? It looks—floppy.”

“That's because he's dead. Muscles loosen.”

Loosen my ass
, Zach was thinking.
It's because you broke every rib in his chest and probably every bone in his arms as he tried to defend himself
.

“I thought they stiffen,” Katrina said.

“Not for a few hours. Now stand back. I don't want you to get any blood on you.”

There was a much louder crackling of vegetation: Jack dragging the body free, all the way to the pickup truck, which was twenty feet away. Zach pushed himself to his knees so he could see what was happening. Jack lifted the old man effortlessly into the bed of the pickup. He took something from Katrina—a sheet, Zach realized—and flung it over the corpse.

“I really don't feel comfortable with you driving the truck,” Jack said.

“There's nothing to do about it. I can't drive manual.”

“I know. I know.” He handed her the keys. They chimed as they switched hands. “Stay right behind me until I pull over. Then pull over in front of me. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Stay calm. And don't touch anything aside from the steering wheel and the ignition key.”

Katrina climbed in the truck. Jack got in the Porsche. With a roar and a purr, the two vehicles revved to life. The headlights seared holes through the darkness. Dirt crunched beneath the rubber tires as they swung onto the narrow road. Zach ducked as the two sets of headlights swept past him. Then they were gone,
and it was quiet once more. Zach remained right where he was, flabbergasted.

Katrina was helping that jackass
!

A fresh swarm of jealousy buzzed through him, stinging his pride, because he knew she would never risk herself, her freedom, for him. Nevertheless, he stuffed those feelings aside and focused on what was important. The murder. He would have to report it now, wouldn't he? He'd waited to see how it played out, and it had played out horribly. He had no qualms about ratting Jack out. But that meant he'd have to rat Katrina out as well, explain how she'd helped him get rid of the body. Could he do that? Because this wasn't a game anymore. This wasn't busting her for a lie she told. This was busting her over accessory to murder.

But what other option did he have?

He took out his phone and dialed 9-1-1.

Katrina remained a few car lengths behind Jack's Porsche as they made their way west on Highway 2 toward Skykomish. They were passing along the stretch of road where she'd picked Zach up eight days before, and a number of taunting questions popped into her head. What if she'd left Seattle Friday afternoon rather than Friday night? What if she'd taken a different route, following I-90 until Highway 97 and going north to Leavenworth from there? Or what if she'd simply never stopped for Zach? All those parallel-world scenarios inevitably led to the same conclusion: she would not have tipped the first domino. She would not have lied to Zach about where she lived. He would not have mentioned the make-believe cabin in front of everybody at Ducks & Drakes. There would have been no sign-up sheet, and she would not have rented the cabin to justify what never should have had to be justified in the first place. Consequently, Jack would not have been attacked by Charlie, and he would not have done what he had done. In fact, in that rose-colored reality, Katrina would probably be back at her bungalow with Crystal, maybe cooking together, or maybe watching a movie with the lights dimmed and a bowlful of popcorn and talking about sister stuff.

In the distance the lights of a small town came into view. The taillights of the Porsche flashed red. Katrina slowed also. The highway cut straight through the center of the town. They passed kids on their skateboards loitering out front of a convenience store, a family strolling down the sidewalk, and an old man with a long beard sitting on the bench out front of the post office, not doing much of anything. The normalness of it all made Katrina realize
just how nice normal was. In contrast, she was all too aware she was driving a stolen pickup truck with the owner's bloody corpse sprawled out in the flatbed under a sheet. The last time she'd felt this depressed, this lost and confused, had been after the doctors had told her and Shawn that Shawn had less than six months to live.

Death, she realized grimly, made you pay attention to living.

They emerged on the other side of the town and sped up once more. Katrina hardened her resolve. She would get through this. Jack was right. They could make Charlie's death look like a car accident. The police would have no reason to suspect foul play. Car accidents happened all the time. They would wake up tomorrow morning and read about it in the local paper: old man falls asleep behind wheel and dies in fatal crash. The sun would set and rise and life would go on. Come Monday morning she would be back at Cascade High School, plowing through her daily routine.

It would be over.

But then what would happen between her and Jack? Jack was a renegade. On the lam. One of society's ghosts. Could she be with someone like that? Never knowing if his past was going to catch up with him? Always wondering if today was going to be the day he wasn't there when she got home?

Katrina shook her head. She was being a hypocrite.

After all, she was now a felon too.

Roughly twenty minutes later they were approaching the outskirts of Skykomish. Jack swung to the shoulder and watched as Katrina rolled past him, stopping ten feet or so ahead, as they'd discussed. He hopped out of the Porsche and met her as she got out of the truck. Crickets chirruped from the cheatgrass and coyote willow that lined the road, creating a wall of sound. Other than that, the night was silent. “We have to be quick,” he told her, throwing the sheet off Charlie. He lifted the old man out of the flatbed, carried him around to the truck's driver's side door, and shoved him in behind the wheel. He was still flippety-floppety. Rigor wouldn't set in for at least another hour.

“Why are you putting on his seat belt?” Katrina asked.

“Because I don't want him to fly through the windshield.”

“But that would be good, wouldn't it? It would explain the blood on his face.”

“Corpses don't bleed,” he told her. “He would have a bunch of fresh, bloodless cuts all over his face. The coroner would know he'd been dead before the crash. And dead men don't drive trucks.”

Jack noticed Katrina blanch at what he was saying. Likely wondering if she hadn't thought of that, then what else had she failed to think about? He hoped she wasn't going to crack under pressure.

“So how do you explain the blood?” she asked.

“I know what I'm doing here,” he snapped. There was no time for how-to-fake-an-accident 101. Not now. Someone could drive past any minute. “Go wait in the Porsche. I'll be done here in a minute.”

She left, looking relieved to be going. He reached inside the cab and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine turned over. He went to the side of the road and kicked around in the grass until he found a large stone. He returned to the truck, put the transmission in neutral, and set the stone on the gas pedal. The tachometer needle shot up to 4,000 rpms. He counted to three, then shoved the gearstick into drive, jumping clear as the truck lurched forward. The truck roared down the road in a straight line, picking up speed. It angled to the left, crossed the broken yellow line, then reached the far shoulder, where it shot off the road and collided head-on with a black cottonwood tree. The crash sounded oddly quiet.

Jack ran back to the Porsche, got behind the wheel, and tipped Katrina an A-OK nod. He drove to the destroyed truck, careful not to spin his tires and leave any kind of skid marks on the macadam.

“Was it supposed to do that?” she asked. “Go to the left?”

“Doesn't matter. If Charlie had fallen asleep, or swerved to avoid an animal, then he could just as easily have gone either way, left or right.” He stopped parallel to the truck. “I have to check it
out. Keep an eye out for cars. You see any lights coming, you honk the horn.”

Jack waded through the cheatgrass to the truck. One headlight had blown, while the other one shone a beam of light into the forest. The smoking engine was partly obscured by a patch of prickly phlox, but he could see enough of it to know it had taken a good licking. He opened the door and examined the interior of the cab. Charlie's head was slumped limply against his chest. His arms hung at his sides. His wrinkled and bloodied face was turned toward Jack, his mouth open, and he almost appeared to be laughing, as if he'd died while thinking about one last crude joke.

Remembering the old man's foulness eliminated any pity Jack might have felt for him now. He retrieved the rock from the foot well, turned his head away to protect his eyes, then hurled it upward against the windshield, hard, just above the steering wheel. The glass spider-webbed around the point of impact. Satisfied, he lobbed the rock away into the trees. Next he wiped down the steering wheel with his shirt, took Charlie's hands, and pressed them on the wheel at the ten and two positions. He believed what he'd told Katrina when he said the police would have no reason to be suspicious of a car accident. But it was better to be safe than sorry. If an investigator took fingerprints and found none on the steering wheel, he would be scratching his head for a little but would eventually figure it out. Lastly Jack undid Charlie's seat belt and shoved him forward so his head was up between the top of the dashboard and the windshield. He studied his handiwork. An auspicious feeling he'd overlooked something nagged at him. But on the drive here he'd gone over the plan from every angle, and he knew the unease had to be paranoia. Besides, he had to move.