Redemption (44 page)

Jane perched her cigarette in the corner of her mouth and pressed her foot on the pedal. She wasn’t about to be this close to Lou and lose him. Charging forward, she came within a comfortable distance of the baby blue motorcycle. Lou accelerated onto Highway 41 heading north. Jane pursued him, making sure to hang back far enough. Thankfully, the rain abated. They traveled at sixty miles per hour for another five miles before Jane caught Clinton’s SUV in her rearview mirror. The guy with the camera held the lens tightly on Jane’s Mustang, obviously enjoying the chase. They were out in the open now with little traffic impeding them. There was no way Jane was going to allow Clinton to make any connection with Lou Peters. Eight miles later, she noted
a stream of orange traffic cones in the right-hand land about a half-mile up. Several heavy equipment trucks moaned under the weight of the fallen rock and thick mud they had retrieved from a fallen hillside. Cars and trucks quickly started to slow to accommodate a single lane ahead. Due to the distance Jane had allowed between Lou and the Mustang, three cars pressed between them, blocking her clear view of the motorcycle. “Shit!” Jane said. She attempted to repeat the risky maneuver she had successfully performed on the main drag, but the opposing traffic never allowed leeway for the bold move. Clinton hung tight to her rear bumper as though he were attached by an invisible chain.

They approached the rock slide as traffic compacted into the single lane. Jane lowered her window to tip the ash from her cigarette. She could hear the rumble of Lou’s motorcycle and leaned her head outside in an attempt to get a visual of Lou, but the traffic prevented a clear view. Lou revved the motorcycle’s engine again, this time with more determination. Jane’s impatience grew with every passing second. Suddenly, up ahead, she spotted Lou bolting into an empty patch of oncoming traffic, easily moving around the slowed cars and trucks and circling around the mudslide. His adept circumventing allowed him to easily surface on the other side of the mudslide and speed north. Traffic finally eased around the slide. Once Jane cleared the area and two lanes opened up again, she gunned the Mustang in an attempt to catch Lou. Clinton barreled down the highway behind Jane. But Lou was nowhere to be seen. If he turned on one of the many side dirt roads, there was no way to find him. Jane’s only solace from this aborted pursuit was that Lou was indeed still in town and that, for whatever reason, he had reason to head north on Highway 41.

Jane checked her rearview mirror. Clinton still hung close. Checking the right shoulder of the highway, Jane noticed obscure side roads. There was only one way to ditch Clinton. Jane continued north on Highway 41 for another few miles, deftly zooming in and out of traffic. Her driving skill allowed greater distance between her and Clinton. Once Jane managed a quarter mile of
space between the Mustang and the SUV, she looked for a large truck traveling in the right-hand lane. As she wound around the next corner, she found one. Speeding forward, Jane buzzed past the truck before carefully shifting the Mustang in front of it. The truck’s size was the perfect cover Jane needed as she located the nearest side road. Winding around another bend in the road, Jane quickly spied a sheltered dirt road 100 feet ahead. She slowed enough to make the tight turn, spraying a cloud of dust and debris as she screeched onto the road and descended down a shallow embankment shadowed by pine trees. Jane waited, her eyes locked on the highway. In less than a minute, Clinton’s SUV sped north, unaware of Jane’s stealth tactic.

Jane shifted into first gear and ripped the Mustang up the embankment. Back on Highway 41 heading south, she took a muchneeded drag on her cigarette. After traveling ten miles, she was certain she successfully ditched Clinton. Jane let out a welcome exhalation and was just starting to calm down when she spotted Shane Golden’s Firebird hidden under a stand of trees on the left side of the road, near the infamous mile-marker forty-four. Jane quickly made an illegal turn across two lanes and parked the Mustang under an adjoining group of trees. Jane got out of the car, securing the Glock under her jacket. She cautiously approached Shane’s Firebird and peered into the car. Empty. The heat from the engine could be felt from a couple feet away, indicating to Jane that the Firebird had been parked for less than fifteen minutes.

Jane turned and scanned the dense forest for any sign of Shane. A sense of déjà vu came over her. She moved into the conclave of trees, her boots sucking against the muddy ground. Fifty feet in, Jane entered a small clearing. She turned back toward the highway, noting that the trees acted as a buffer against the sound of traffic. She once again scanned the immediate area for any sign of the boy, but she couldn’t detect a footprint. Suddenly, Jane heard the roar of an engine. An image flashed before her eyes; a split-second visual from her violent dream. Jane spun around to source the persistent motor. Seconds later, a passenger jet flew
high overhead, heading north. She let out an edgy sigh. Taking a step forward, she felt the crunch of an aluminum can under her boot. Kicking the can over, Jane identified a cheap brand of beer; the kind teenagers drink. She walked another thirty feet and found a matching empty can of beer. Peering closer into the leaf-strewn ground, Jane made out the distinct sole prints of what looked like a man’s work boots.

Ten steps farther, Jane located another empty beer can and footprints leading deeper into the densely wooded area. An ominous perception pressed against her chest. Her breathing became rapid, as if she’d run a marathon. Jane unbuttoned her jacket, unsnapping her holster. With one hand on her Glock, she quietly followed the path of prints as they led around a thick stand of scrub oak and juniper. For a moment, she felt as if she were walking in a fog and unable to decipher anything in front of her. But with the bend of a large branch, she entered a small clearing.

At first, she didn’t see him because he was on bended knees and turned away from her. But the image quickly registered when she saw the glint of steel from the .38’s barrel inserted in his mouth. She drew her Glock and pointed it at the boy. “Shane!”

Shane turned toward Jane. His face was pale and ghostlike, his cheeks ruddy. He appeared to be discombobulated at first, a possible side effect of the alcohol. But when he caught sight of Jane, he staggered onto his feet and pointed his .38 at her. “Get away from me!” he screamed, his voice breaking in a high squeak.

“Put down the gun, Shane!” Jane moved several steps closer, Glock outstretched.

“What the fuck—” Shane kept his .38 trained on Jane. “I’ll shoot you! Get away!”

“I can’t do that, Shane.” Jane stood still, never taking her eyes off the boy.

Shane’s hand shook violently. He grasped the .38 with both hands, keeping a steadier bead on Jane. “Goddammit! Did my dad send you?”

“No! I don’t know your dad!”

“
Everybody
knows my dad!” Shane’s voice turned bitter.

“I know who he is but he doesn’t know me.”

“And who is that?”

“Jane Perry. I’m a detective. A private investigator. I work in Colorado. I’m out here to find Charlotte.”

Shane’s face screwed into a confused glare. “Why would you come all the way out here to find her?”

“It’s a long story. Put the gun down, Shane.”

“You’re gonna play me!”

“No, I won’t! I just work better when I don’t have a gun pointed at me.” It took the boy several minutes before he reluctantly laid down the .38 on the wet earth. “Kick it toward me, Shane.” He did as Jane asked. Jane holstered her Glock and retrieved the .38. Keeping one eye on Shane, she unloaded the revolver. The impact of the scene overwhelmed Shane and he broke down, heaving hard sobs. “You don’t get it!” Shane whined through his grief. He held up his hands in an act of surrender. “I’ve got blood on my hands, lady!”

Jane slid the ammo and .38 into her jacket pocket as Shane’s words echoed eerily in her head. “Why?”

“It’s all my fault. If I had....” Shane’s mind drifted. “But I couldn’t, you see? They would have called me a fucking pervert!”

“Tell me what you should have done and maybe I can fix it.”

Shane shook his head. “No, it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late.”

“She’s dead!”
Shane screamed, his cheeks flushing bright red. “That Trace Fagin guy is innocent. And if I tell my dad the truth, I’m fucked. The town will lose respect for him because of me, my dad will hate me, and I’ll lose my scholarship and the future that he’s so jacked up about. The truth would destroy everything.”

“And killing yourself is
not
gonna destroy your family?”

“It’s the lesser of two evils.”

“No, Shane. It’s the evil of two lesser plans.” Jane pulled her pack of American Spirits out of her jacket pocket, knocking out a
cigarette. She walked calmly toward the boy, extending the cigarette to him. “Here.”

Shane looked at Jane with a nervous glance. “I don’t smoke.”

Jane flashed on the boy sitting in his Firebird on Charlotte’s street sucking the life out of a cigarette. “Yeah, I don’t either. I just like to keep my fingers occupied while I think. Go on.” Jane jerked the pack toward Shane. Shane pulled the cigarette out of the pack. Jane withdrew her lighter from her pants pocket and lit his cigarette before lighting her own. The boy took a long drag which seemed to calm him down. “I’m intrigued,” Jane said, crossing over to a stone outcropping and sitting down. “When suicide is a better option than the truth, the truth must be loaded.” Shane remained silent, taking two more quick drags on the cigarette. “There are only a few things that people decide they can’t reveal because of society’s judgment—things they’ve done that they think would ruin them if anyone found out. One is committing a crime. Embezzlement. Rape. Murder. Another is sexual orientation.” Jane’s manner was matter-of-fact. “Small towns don’t embrace homosexuals, especially the sons of law enforcement officers. There’s also sexual perversions. You get off on bestiality...or tying up your partners, or
you
like to be tied up and—”

“It’s none of that!” Shane’s expression was pained.

Jane took a drag. “You’re eighteen. Charlotte’s twelve. A sixyear age difference is no big deal when you’re in your twenties or older—”

“Jesus Christ! I didn’t know she was twelve!” Shane sucked hard on his cigarette, pacing in circles. “I met her at the mall. She told me she was fifteen, almost sixteen. I thought she looked younger, but I figured some girls just naturally look like that—”

“And you liked her,” Jane stated.

Shane nodded, his face softening. “Yeah. I did. She had a lot of personality. She was fun to be around. I felt really....” Shane searched for the right word, “content around her. She made me forget all my problems when we were together. No one else could
do that for me. But I told her we had to keep our relationship quiet.”

“If you thought she was almost sixteen, what was the problem?”

“A lot’s expected of me. Always has been. Anything that might
distract
me is no good. I’m the first one in my family to go to a university. I got a scholarship. I’m expected to be more than I want to be. But I just want to have a life. I never felt carefree, you know? But I did when I was with Charlotte. She’s a free spirit.”

Jane recalled Kit using the same term to describe Ashlee. “So you want to live someone else’s dream the rest of your life?”

“It takes guts to stand up to my dad and walk away from the scholarship. That’s my problem. I don’t have any guts. I just do what I’m told.” Shane looked resigned to his fate. “If I had guts....” The emotion caught in his throat. “Charlotte wouldn’t be dead. I would have said ‘fuck it’ and told them everything, and then they wouldn’t be fucking around with false leads—”

“So, what happened?” Jane’s tone was direct.

Shane sucked another long drag on the cigarette and stared at the wet earth. “I wanted to hang out with Charlotte, but we had to do it secretively. She was cool with it. Hell, she
liked
sneaking around. We arranged to meet at mile-marker forty-four each time. She’d take the bus out of town. There’s a stop a few hundred feet from here. She’d wait for me by the road. Sometimes she had to wait longer because the old man would corral me into doing something at the last minute. But she’d always be here when I showed up and she was never pissed that I was late.”

“What would you do together?”

“Sometimes we’d hang here or go for a drive. We
never
had sex. I swear to God! We messed around a little....” Shane winced. “Jesus, I messed around with a twelve-year-old. Fuck, I’m going to hell.”

“Chill out, Shane. Tell me some of the stuff you’d do together.”

Shane took a drag. “We talked a lot. She actually listened to me. Imagine that! Somebody
listening
to
me
instead of lecturing
me.” Shane smiled at a good memory. “I had to go down to L.A. for an interview at USC. I was able to steal away for an hour on my own and I found this bracelet that had her named spelled out on the charms.”

“
You
gave her that bracelet?”

“Yeah. I know it was cheesy. But she really loved it—”

“Didn’t her mother notice the bracelet and ask where she got it?”

“It wasn’t unusual. Charlotte’s got the kind of personality that makes people want to give her stuff. She’s got this magnetic quality.”

Magnetic. Free spirit.
Jane figured Ashlee and Charlotte were cut from the same fabric. “How’d the bracelet get dropped here?”

“She lost it on Thanksgiving weekend. It fell off her wrist. We arranged to meet the day after Thanksgiving in the morning. My folks were out of town visiting family.”

“Why didn’t you go with them? It was Thanksgiving weekend—”

“I had midterms coming up,” Shane’s voice spiked with anger, “and my dad wasn’t satisfied that I was prepared enough. So I had to stay home alone and study.”

“But you decided you had better things to do.”