And by some miracle, the time ends, and I am officially cleared to resume my duties.
We stand. We shake hands. Dr. Landyn smiles, though I can feel his apprehension at releasing me into the world.
“Good luck, Elise. And come back anytime you need to talk. Anytime at all.”
I thank him and leave.
I walk from his office out to the parking lot next door. He’s in the building next to the police station, and I have my own space there.
I should go home. I should start dinner. I should take a nap. I should do laundry or organize the girls’ closets. I should keep fighting to find my way back to the life that I loved and that I know I still love, to get out of this maze of rabbit holes I’ve taken myself into. I need to call out to that life, through the twisty tunnels, to come and take my hand and lead me there. I want it back. I want the feel of Amy in my arms and the smell of Fran’s strawberry kisses and the comfort as I rest my cheek against my husband’s strong shoulder, to reach beyond the surface and into my heart. I want the joy to return.
Fuck new normal. I want my life back.
Anguish grips my chest as I get to my car. A cry escapes after I close the door. The pain from being numb is indescribable. It’s strange to be numb and still feel pain. To be numb and still cry. But numbness is not a feeling. It’s a wall that holds them at bay. And all walls have their cracks.
I sit for a while, sobbing into my hands until I’ve exhausted myself. I open my eyes and stare at the sign marking my space that says Officer Sutton, and then I notice, on the far right, a flash of blue. It moves past me, then stops parallel to the row of cars in front of mine, facing away, toward the exit.
Something ignites as I turn fully to see it. The flash of blue. A blue pickup truck. I can see through the back window. I make out one figure. It appears to be a man in the driver’s seat.
In the side mirror, I see a face and I swear I know it. I know that face. I’ve been seeing it in my mind for two weeks.
The truck moves toward the exit.
This can’t be happening. But what if it is? What if it’s him?My hot head, the unruly toddler, screams louder,Don’t let himleave!
I wipe the tears from my eyes and back out of the space just as the truck pulls into the flow of traffic on the adjacent street. I swing around, move into drive.
Shit! Where is hegoing?
I step on the gas and follow the blue truck. I stay two cars behind, change lanes twice as we drive away from the station. The street narrows, winds through neighborhoods. The other cars turn off, so I stay as far behind as I can without losing sight of him.
I don’t ask myself what he was doing at the station. I don’t call Rowan or Mitch or anyone. I don’t want them to stop me, and I know they would try.
I follow the tall man until we are miles from the station, on the outskirts of town. My hot head is suddenly cool and focused, holding at bay the instinct to turn around that churns in my gut and the alarm bells that sound in the distance.
Chapter Five
the kill room
When the forensics team first arrives in the late afternoon, they drive an ATV through a clearing to the edge of a makeshift road. It is seven feet wide, give or take, and leads them on a thirty degree incline for a quarter mile until it abruptly stops. From there, they follow a short path through trees and brush to the large shelter where the body has been found.
The team of four travels by foot in their booties and plastic suits so they don’t disrupt any evidence or leave any evidence from their clothing and shoe prints.
One of them notices the absence of any tire tracks beyond their own and the first team of investigators, even though interviews of local hunters revealed the use of the road by those who knew how to find it. Especially when they were bringing supplies for thetwo-weekseason. And, they assume, gasoline for the generator.
The clearing has low brush, packed leaves from last year, and new leaves that have just fallen. Some dirt and rocks. But no felled trees or branches that obstruct passage. There are multiple parallel lines in the dirt, and after further inspection, they determine that the entire road has been raked by something pulled from a vehicle. The lines are even and continuous, which would not be the case if the raking had been done by hand and with a smaller tool.
The game cameras are useless. The memory cards, which were last rotated three months before, have been removed, the cameras turned to face the ground. They do not assume this is connected to the body. Everyone who uses the shelters knows about the cameras—even the local teenagers who want their privacy. Spotting the cameras is no different than finding pieces of broken glass on the floor. Wait until dark and shine a flashlight.
Then, of course, there are chat rooms and social media posts that share information about the backcountry, the location of the shelters, the dates of the hunting season, the informal rules about storing guns and taking shits, and, also, where to find the cameras.
All of this is common knowledge, and it boggles the mind that the state hasn’t bothered to upgrade the equipment or at least move the damn things so people would have a harder time finding them.
So there is no surveillance, and someone has raked away the tire tracks. All they find on the road are the two sets of footprints left by the hunters who discovered the body. They find this interesting and make a plan to investigate who might do this and how and why.
They find more footprints around the perimeter of the shelter, heading in and out of the woods. And inside, as would be expected. The season just ended two weeks ago. The hunters who found the body were technically in violation of the park rules. They shouldn’t have been there. Regardless, all of the footprints are from boots. All of them men’s sizes, from nine to twelve. Nothing distinguishing.
The main shelter has just one window facing the front. It opens with shutters and is wide enough to climb through, if need be, or to let in cool air at night during the summer months. It is shut and locked now.
