“What was his name?” I ask, taking a deeper drag. My hands are shaking hard, the cigarette trembling at my lips.
“Marcus Barnes was his name,” the guy says, “but I only ever heard people call him Scotland.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Finch. I stumble back to the truck, the sun dizzying and my mind trying to sort it all out but maybe it can’t. Because it’s too much, this. If it’s true. If he did. What it means. And at the center of it all: why?
But before any of that, Finch.
Finch and Marie are packing up the cabin or maybe already packed up and on their way to Judge and Mrs. Judge and I will never catch them and then what. I go back to the cabin and live there by myself for the rest of my life? Or steal Finch back? Again?
I shouldn’t have left her. Crying and begging me to stay and then chasing after me. What kind of father does that to his only child, love of his life, center of his world. I should’ve packed up, like Scotland said. Moved. Hid. Gone to the caves, camped until next winter. I shouldn’t have left her and now maybe I’ve lost her forever.
I drive fast, the old Bronco roaring, its engine pushing harder than it should. Hot, the thermostat climbing and it might burn up the engine, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Finch. Past the little houses. I slow at the gas station, the parking lot full. Never noticed on my first pass through. Two white vans with the names of television stations painted on their sides. Three police vehicles. People standing around the parking lot. I try not to look.
I pull onto the dirt road, still miles from home, and slow a bit. The shale loud beneath the tires, dust sailing behind me. Watching for Marie’s car coming toward me. Hoping I’m not too late.
At last I come to the gate. It’s closed. Locked. Which could mean they haven’t left. Slow packing, maybe. Finch pitching a fit or dragging her feet. Both possible. Or it could mean that they scuttled out of there quickly. That they’ve already left and closed the gate behind them and they are long gone. Panic swells, but I force myself to stay focused. Get home. Breathe in, breathe out. I breathe her name. In, out: Finch, Finch.
I round the final bend and the cabin comes into sight and Finch is sitting on the steps of the porch, wrapping twine around the handle of one of her bone knives. When she sees me, she rises, dashing toward the truck. I turn off the ignition and run toward her and lift her and press her tight to my chest.
“You came back,” she says, snuggling close, squeezing hard. A tear spills and twirls its way down her cheek. “I knew you’d come back.” Her lip quivers.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” The words catching. “Something changed.”
She pulls back and tilts her head to the side. “Are you all right?”
Marie runs toward us from the porch. Confused, concerned. “What happened?”
I set Finch down. “I think Scotland told them about the girl. I think he took them to her.”
Finch bites her lip. “Are people still looking for you and me?”
“I don’t know.”
She glances at Marie. “But I thought since the girl took our picture, we weren’t safe. That people would be looking for us.”
How to put it, how to explain. “I think he took care of that, too.”
Finch kicks at a stone. “How?”
I stand up. “It’s a long story, but I think he figured out a way to protect us. To let us be together. Sacrificed himself in the process. Listen, there’s something I need to check on.” I head for the house. If it’s true, what the man said about Scotland bringing in evidence, my dog tags and Finch’s tooth will be missing from the Raisinets tin.
I push open the door, stride to the stove, reach for the tin on the shelf. I pry off the lid, and a folded piece of paper tumbles out onto the floor. I reach down and pick it up. A letter.
Dear Cooper,
If you are reading this, you’ve come back, which means you’ve gone to town to report finding Casey Winters and you’ve learned about my decision to go to the police. I suspect you’re now contemplating whether to come in and set the record straight and rescue me, because, though you can’t seem to see it yourself, you are a good man, deep down, Cooper.
With the campsite and the body, they will sort through what happened to Casey Winters, I’m confident of that. And with my “confession,” combined with the evidence I supplied, they should have sufficient reason to close the books on you and Finch. In other words, no more dashing to the root cellar. No more hiding.