Last Light (45 page)
She figured she’d left the farmhouse going south, so she took the road going to the left, praying it would take her east. But was that right?
Vic was probably beating the pavement to find her . . . intent on killing her to keep her from talking . . .
Slowly, she realized that he must be the one who killed the Abernathys and the Whitsons.
He
was the killer in her neighborhood.
As that thought occurred to her, she realized Larry and Jack, those sleazy lecherous sons of his, were probably his accomplices. Maybe even Mark.
If that was the case, then she had to tell her family. She
had
to get back home before Vic returned.
That meant she couldn’t go east. She had to go west.
What
was
that line from Shakespeare’s play? She tried to think. She had memorized it in school, even embroidered it on a handkerchief.
She’d thought it was burned into her memory. Why couldn’t she remember it now?
Aloud, she tried to pant out the words. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.” Yes, that was it. What did that mean? Was the sun rising or falling in the east? She tried to think of the next line, and had to start over. This time, the line came back to her. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.”
The sun was
rising
in the east!
She looked at the sun. If she rode away from it, that should take her west. But she had to find another road, because backtracking was too dangerous.
She rode with all her might, searching for back roads that would take her back home . . . and away from Vic Green.
Morning sunlight woke Doug from a dead sleep, and he jolted upright. He’d slept too long. What had gotten into him?
If he’d gotten up when he planned, he might have overtaken Vic and Deni while they were stopped for the night. Now they were probably already moving, getting that much farther ahead of him.
He jumped on his bike, and rode until he came to Atlanta, where he got off the freeway at every exit, showing Deni’s picture and describing the wagon. Finally, he ran into someone who had seen them.
“Yeah, I saw them yesterday, long about midafternoon,” the man said. “I saw them pull in down there at the Dairy Queen. I remember because I thought it was real funny, them pulling up in a horse and wagon trying to go through the drive-thru like they were gonna order a Coke.”
Relief burst through him. “Are you sure it was them?”
“Sounds like you described. A wagon with big Goodyear tires, a blue tarp for a roof, four horses pulling. Only one I’ve seen like that.”
Doug’s heart raced as he peered up the street to the Dairy Queen. “Do you know if the people they talked to are there now?”
“Doubtful. There’s not much point in it. It’s not like they can sell anything.”
“Tell me about the girl,” he said. “Could you tell if she looked like she was all right?”
“Looked fine to me.”
Thank You, Lord!
“Which way did you see them go when they left the DQ?”
“Toward town. Little later they came back this way, got on the interstate, and kept trucking east.”
Good. He was still on the right track. He thanked the man, then rode down to the Dairy Queen. Sure enough, it was empty.
As he got back on the eastbound interstate, he felt new energy seeping into his legs. Vic and Deni would have had to stop somewhere for the night, so they couldn’t have made it that much farther than he had. He should catch up to them very soon.
And when he did, Vic Green would wish he’d never been born.
Deni rode with all her might, fighting back the nagging doubts that she was going in the right direction. She pedaled until the muscles in her legs burned and her back and shoulders screamed out for relief.
Help me get home, Lord! Help me get home.
She had nothing to eat, and for miles she had ridden without any water. She needed to stop and rest, but she feared Vic would catch up with her.
She thought of the Joneses’ children, wondered if they’d found their parents yet. When they did, grief like an infection would implant itself in their hearts and fever its way through the rest of their lives.
She never should have insisted on stopping there yesterday. But how could she have known?
She was such a fool, traipsing across that field with her clunky suitcase in one hand and that wedding dress in the other, bringing death to the Joneses’ doorstep.
She hated herself and all the trouble she’d brought on others.
Now, here she was, pedaling for her life, with no food, no water, and no place to get either. She’d left with nothing. Her wedding dress still lay on the floor where she’d dropped it, like a banner proclaiming, “Deni Branning was here.” They would think she’d been part of the killings. And if Vic was caught, he’d make sure they came after her, too.
As the temperature rose and her mouth grew as dry as cotton, helplessness boiled up inside her, growing so intense that she finally stopped, letting her bike fall to the ground under the shade of a huge oak tree. She stood there beside it, staring down at the bike that the police would think she had stolen.
God, please don’t let them think I’m a killer.
If they did, they’d come after her, and she’d be thrown into some dark prison cell.
She sat down on the grass, leaning back against the tree trunk, and began to weep.
Oh, Lord, he’s out there and he’s going to kill somebody else. Anyone who gets in his way or has something he needs is dead. I’ve got to stop him, Lord. Please help me.
She covered her face, wishing with all her heart that her mother and father were here. Or that Craig would come riding up miraculously, her knight in shining armor.
But the only one coming for her was Vic. He was probably hot on her trail, figuring out ways to catch up to her. He’d probably stolen one of the other bikes in the barn. He could be watching her right now.
Or maybe not. He couldn’t have left the wagon there. That would defeat his whole purpose in killing the Joneses. He’d want the loot, and the chickens, which would net a nice profit. He wouldn’t want to leave such a red flag flying, pointing police to him. Maybe he was far behind her. Maybe she’d lost him entirely.
She closed her eyes and tried to pray some more, but she felt like God had turned His face from her. Why wouldn’t He? She’d been rebellious and arrogant. Foolish. Irrational. Shouldn’t He be disgusted with her?
Her father said God would provide. Didn’t He provide for the birds of the field . . . the lilies of the valley? If she needed a fish, would He give her a stone?
Maybe. If a stone was what she deserved.
She tried to pull herself together and get back on the road. But as a breeze whispered behind the trees, she thought she heard the sound of water.
She got up and listened, wondering if she’d conjured the sound in her mind. She heard it again.
Her heart pounded with new vigor as she grabbed her bike up. Rolling it beside her, she pushed through the trees and brush.
And there it was. A babbling brook, twisting through the forest.
Tears stung her eyes again. It was a miracle. A provision from God Himself.
She’d heard somewhere that rushing water, like that in a brook, was clean and safe. Living water, they called it. Just what she needed. But even if that myth was wrong, Deni didn’t care. Getting a parasite and dying was better than dying of thirst.
She dropped the bike again and stumbled to the brook, knelt down and splashed some water onto her face. Cupping it in her hands, she drank it down. As the cool liquid filled her, her heart was overcome with gratitude. But that gratitude was followed by shame. God
was
watching over her, providing, even after she’d kicked dirt in His face.
She drank as much as she could, wishing she had some kind of container that she could take with her. But she had nothing. Maybe God would see fit to provide for her again when she needed it later.
But she couldn’t stay here longer. There was still a lot of daylight left and she needed to move.
Reluctantly she walked her bike back through the trees, pulled onto the road, and continued her desperate journey.
Doug saw the farmhouse across the field from the interstate. Maybe the residents had seen the wagon pass by. He stopped pedaling and tried to decide how to get to the house. Then he saw the road just past their property, hidden behind a grove of trees.
He turned onto the road . . . and caught his breath.
There were tire tracks, laid there after the rain . . .
And horse droppings.
His heart raced as he saw the turnoff to the farmhouse.
Please, God, let me find Deni.
He stopped at the porch steps. The front door was wide open. Abandoning his bike, he trotted up to the steps and knocked on the door casing. No one came, so he called out, “Hello! Anybody home? Hello!”
Nothing. Taking a step inside the house, he called out louder. “Hello!” He went toward the staircase . . . and froze.
A bloody footprint smudged the bottom stair.
Dread overtook him, and his heart began to sprint. He reached for the rifle hanging from its sling, readied it for action.
Sweat dripped in his eyes as he went from room to room, realizing the house had been robbed. The kitchen cabinets were open, and a few boxes of rice and macaroni lay on the floor as if they’d been dropped.
He ran up the stairs, keeping his rifle ready, and stopped cold at the first bedroom when he saw Deni’s suitcase lying on the bed. Joy burst through him . . . followed by stark terror.
“Hello? Deni!” His hands were shaking, and his throat was dry. His head had begun to throb. He took a few steps up the hall, and saw more bloody prints. They led out of the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was partially open, but it looked like it had been kicked in. With his foot, he pushed the splintered door all the way open.
And there they were.
A man and a woman, lying on the floor . . . just like the Abernathys . . . and the Whitsons.
He stumbled back out, but as he did he saw the white dress bag lying on the floor. Forcing himself forward, he picked it up.
Deni’s wedding dress! Had she fled and left it behind? There were small footprints in the blood, leading to the window. She must have climbed out.
He looked back at the broken door. Someone had clearly kicked it in. He imagined his daughter’s terror as she fled, stepping over dead bodies, tracking through blood, jumping out a second-story window.
He turned back and ran down the stairs, his stomach bucking inside of him. Stumbling back outside, he vomited in the grass.
Dead people . . . murdered . . . Deni’s dress . . .
Where was she?
Wiping his mouth, he tried to think. His chest was tight, and he couldn’t breathe.
Think, Branning! Think!
He needed to tell the police. But first he had to find Deni.
Forcing himself to move, Doug ran out into the back pasture. There was no way to tell which way Deni had gone when she climbed out the window.
He scanned the landscape. The only places to hide were a barn and the woods behind it. He ran toward the barn, hope teasing him with feeble logic. He expected to find her there, hunched behind a tractor, alive but shivering in fear.
But his rapid search came up empty.
Two bikes leaned against the wall, and tire tracks on the dirt led out the back door. Had Deni taken one of the bikes?
Maybe she’d gotten away.
But if she had, Vic certainly would have gone after her. Where was his wagon?
Doug ran back to get his own bike, then followed the tracks to the woods. They led him to a small walking track threaded through the trees.