* * *
Later on, Scotland appears. Shows up in the yard, sweating and out of breath. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks old, squinting in the sunlight. Troubled. His jaw clenching, his angular face, which at this moment looks gaunt, somehow. “Got some bad news,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “Come on over here, Cooper. Have a seat.”
I’ve never seen him disturbed. Ruffled. Sweat beading on his brow and it’s cold out here. “Cooper, it’s bad.” He pulls a newspaper, folded in thirds, from his back pocket. Part of a newspaper. “Look.”
I reach out and take the paper. Open it up, and there, on the front page— No.
It’s a picture of Finch and me, up in the treestand in the King of Trees.
Just below the picture, the headline: a single line, in large, bold, capital lettering.
WHO ARE THEY?
Knees weak, I slump onto the porch. Panic swelling, roaring at my ears: a thunderstorm, a train. Finch darts over, squeezes beneath my arm, reading, too.
Among the 2,381 images found from the missing Casey Winters’ camera, investigators found one to be of particular interest: this photograph of a man and a girl. Winters’ family confirms that they do not recognize either one, and now investigators are doubling down on their efforts and shifting their focus.…
I lean back against the post while Finch finishes the article. Close my eyes because everything is spinning and burning white. The sheriff. If he missed the Bronco—and I’m not sure that he did—he now has a second clue. He’ll almost certainly recall that right around when Casey Winters disappeared, he had a run-in with us at the gas station.
“They’ve called in the FBI,” Scotland says. “Cooper, the technology they have now.” He begins pacing back and forth. “Twenty-four hours. That’s what you have, max. Paper printed this morning. By tomorrow, they’ll know—they’ll know who you are. That you’re here, close. They’ll find you. Cooper, you have to do something, quick. No time to sit around.”
I pull my knees to my chest.
“Facial recognition. They’ll figure it out. You, Finch.”
“What do you want me to say, Scotland?”
“I don’t know. You got some kind of contingency plan?”
“A contingency plan for what? A girl wanders onto our land, takes our picture, then dies. Yes, dies.” We hadn’t seen him or told him yet. “Found her down in the valley. Yesterday. And—” I flash a glance at Finch, then motion for him to follow me to the side of the house. “It wasn’t an accident. Someone did it. Killed her.”
“Does Finch know?”
I nod. “She went down there looking for her.”
He shakes his head. “Is she all right? I mean after seeing that.”
“She’s shook up.”
“You need to talk to her. Help her sort it out.”
“That’s the least of my concerns.” It shouldn’t be, I see that, but for the moment there’s no time. I tell him about the boyfriend, Finch seeing him hurt Casey Winters. “He saw her. Finch. Came after her.” The words are spilling fast.
He shakes his head, takes in a sharp breath. Anger ripples across his face, the scar above his eyebrow glinting. He turns to the woods, looking. “Want me to stay? Help you keep watch here? Whatever you need. Just say the word.”
Overhead, the December sky: an endless, swallowing blue.
Tired, that’s what I am. Wore out. I’ve never wanted to be a person who gives up. A quitter. But there are times when a man has to assess a situation and call it. Fall back. Fold. “Naw. Appreciate the offer, though. And the heads-up.”
“Well, if you’re sure then I’ll head home. Got my CB radio, and I’ll be listening. Watching, too. If anyone’s coming this way, I’ll be here.” He lumbers off across the yard and into the woods.
A twinge of guilt, for suspecting he might’ve been tangled up in Casey Winters’s disappearance, for thinking he might betray us. “Thanks,” I call after him, and he raises a hand.
A plan is swimming to me, piece by piece, and I hate it but once I’ve come to it—looked it in the face—I can see there is no other way. Which allows me some resolve. Some clarity. I’m well aware I’ll need both.
THIRTY-TWO
There is a moment, in parachuting, when you must yield yourself to the pull of the earth. You’re twenty, sometimes thirty thousand feet in the air. You’ve been breathing straight oxygen, trying to get all the nitrogen out of your system. You’ve got your pack and your parachutes; you’ve done everything you can to keep yourself alive. With HALO jumping, you step out of the airplane and you’re sailing through the air, flying, but not really, because flight has a certain element of control. A certain beauty to it. Not so with HALO. You’re dropping. You don’t open the parachute until you’ve gone down thousands of feet and meanwhile you’re going a hundred miles an hour through open sky.