Stella was smiling. “Yes, there is. A very secluded, beautiful little place.”
“Auntie Jo used to tell me my mother wanted to live near the water,” I said.
“Whidbey Island is in Puget Sound, off the mainland, not far from Seattle,” Stella said. “The south end is only accessible by ferry or boat. There’s a bridge at the north end. I believe it’s called Deception Pass. The island is largely undeveloped—mountains, lakes, thick forests…so many places to hide.”
“Deception Pass,” I muttered, thinking that fit my father perfectly.
“Jack, we can be there in twelve hours. We’ll need to take I-5 again. Back roads would take too long, but we can be there in twelve hours, if we hurry.”
Stella looked hopeful. I didn’t want to take that from her, but this seemed like such a long shot. “He left that book twenty years ago. Do you really think he’d still be there? They would have found him by now.”
“We have nowhere else to go.”
She was right, of course. We were driving around California aimlessly in a car borrowed from someone who would eventually miss said car and most likely report it to someone not fond of the recently growing “borrowed car” movement.
I looked into the rearview mirror. Hobson’s blank stare looked back at me. “What do you think, Dewey?”
He licked his lips, then turned to the window.
“Clearly, he would like to go,” Stella said.
“Clearly. Can I eat my sandwich first?”
She handed one to me and handed another to Dewey.
He took the sandwich from her but simply held it, more of a reflex than a thoughtful action.
“You should eat, Dewey. You’ll need your strength to kill Cammie.”
“Okay.” He peeled back the plastic and began to eat.
“Christ, this is weird.” I started the car and made a right back onto US-101 in search of signs for I-5.
I had been worried about Stella’s condition when we left Manchester, California. By the time we crossed the border into Oregon at a little after four in the afternoon, I was downright frightened.
Her skin looked paper white and her lips had taken on a purplish hue. Her hair grew damp with sweat and hung limply around her face. She’d slept for the better part of two hours, and I was thankful for that because before she finally drifted off, she had been doing her best to pretend everything was okay andIhad been doing my best to agree with her.
Everything wasn’t okay, though. Things were far from okay.
Yesterday, prior to the lake, she became nearly delirious in her sleep. More of a fevered state than actual rest, and I knew she was closing back in on that again. At one point, I asked her if I should find another lake and she told me that wouldn’t work again, just keep driving. Then I remembered what she said back in Manchester—
We’ll have to take I-5 again. Back roads would take too long.
I had no idea what she meant by that. Even if by some miracle we managed to find my father, what did she expect him to do? I seriously doubted he had been standing by for twenty years, holding some miracle cure for a girl his son would bring by two decades later. We were rushing into a giant nothingness, a void. A fool’s errand.
I’m not going to lie. I considered finding someone she could take. Some lowlife. I saw two hitchhikers outside Medford, and I slowed down. God help me, I nearly stopped. I didn’t, though, and two hours later when she began groaning in her sleep, I cursed myself for not stopping, for not picking one of them up. Every truck stop. Every rest area. I slowed, then talked myself out of it. I knew if I actually did it, there would be no coming back. I’d officially be a cold-blooded killer. Killing in self-defense was one thing, but killing an innocent—regardless of how unsavory or easily forgotten they might be—was not something you returned from.
I couldn’t lose her.
I wouldn’t lose her.
Near Eugene, I started glancing back at Hobson, at the bullet wound in his shoulder. Part of me hoping it would reopen, grow infected, give me a reason… That didn’t happen, though. His shoulder remained free of new blood. He hadn’t even acknowledged the wound. Hobson spent the entire drive in complete silence, lost somewhere in his own head. If he slept, I didn’t see it.
Every hour I didn’t see Hobson sleep, I grew more tired.
I finally pulled over at a deserted scenic rest stop near Longview, Washington, at a little after midnight. I drove to the far end of the parking lot and shut off the engine.
I only meant to sleep for thirty minutes or so, long enough to catch my third wind.
