I&#39ll Be There (18 page)

But they hadn’t taught her this.

There was no piece of paper that had the ten steps for her to memorise that would make it go away. None of the stories she’d heard about other people’s losses gave her insight.

Emily rolled over onto her side and felt her eyes blur with liquid.

There was no manual to consult. This was just life.

When Bobby got to his parents’ building, his mother was with a new client in the small conference room at the end of the hall. Nice. Bobby went into her office and shut
the door. His mother’s email account was open. The best way, he’d learned, to get answers when it was important was to simply impersonate her.

So Bobby Ellis pressed
Compose
and wrote a short note to Detective Sanderson.

Bobby then sat back and waited. Several moments later, an email appeared in the inbox.

Bobby stared at the computer screen.

This was not good news. He was hoping no one ever heard another word from these people again. Bobby pressed
Delete
and got to his feet. The last person he’d share this with was
Emily Bell. He had to convince her that
the Enemy
would never return. But in a kind way.

He had to be her shoulder to cry on.

The gravel road was impassable for half the year.

Originally built for logging, it was one of the mazes of Forest-Service-only tracks that were maintained now purely for seasonal fire use. Dirty patches of snow still dotted the wet ground.

Clarence had no idea where he was or where he was going, but he kept his foot on the gas, chugging in low gear higher up to nowhere.

The rust-coloured rock of the jagged mountains had given way to scrub pine, which had turned into taller, towering trees. The road now clung to the side of an imposing peak. Uphill was more rock
and trees; down below was a sheer drop.

After they’d been at it for almost three hours, Clarence rounded a bend to see that the chunky gravel had completely washed away and a heavy stream of runoff flowed straight across the
road, dumping down the mountainside in an icy waterfall.

Clarence threw the truck into park and got out. The boys wordlessly exchanged looks. They were still in the back seat and, as they both had to pee, they opened the doors.

It was cold outside. Much colder than in the truck. Sam tried to shake it off but then turned around to get his coat. And then he remembered. What coat? Almost all of their stuff had been left
in the motel room.

Riddle swung his feet down and as they landed on the lumpy rocks he took a breath. The cold air was actually easier for him to inhale. He put his hands on his cheeks and held his head as he
sucked in the chill.

There had been so many times when it had been awful. So many times when he’d felt like he was in a box and someone had closed the lid and wouldn’t let him out.

But this day, even by those standards, was bad.

Riddle took his hands away from his face and realised that Sam had come around to his side. He was holding out an old sweater that he’d found in the way back of the truck. He motioned for
Riddle to put it on, and he did.

While Clarence continued to stare at the stream as if a defiant glare were going to cause the water to change directions, the boys moved together to the edge of the road to take a leak.

Sam looked down. Way below, through the dense pine trees and sharp rock, he could hear the wild rushing water of what sounded like a real river. But he couldn’t see it. He and Riddle
finished up and turned back to the truck.

Sam could feel his stomach rumble. He’d been nauseous since they’d left the motel hours ago, but now that was wearing off and his body was asking to be fed.

Clarence suddenly reeled around, his face twisted in anger. ‘So what do you boys think we should do?’

Sam and Riddle were both silent.

Clarence was louder now. ‘I asked you a question.’

Sam didn’t look at him but finally said, ‘There’s no room to turn around, so I guess we have to back up down the hill . . .’

Clarence’s tone changed to a small whisper. ‘So that’s what you’d do? That’s how you’d handle this?’

Sam only nodded.

Clarence then exploded. ‘I’m not backing down. I don’t back down. Anywhere. Any time. Any way!’

Clarence turned around and climbed into the front seat and slammed the door. He then threw the truck into drive and in a fury stepped on the gas.

The truck lurched forward straight into the stream. It was deeper than it looked, but Clarence was right. The old truck was going to make it across.

But then the front right tyre suddenly dropped into what was an unseen hole. The left side of the truck pulled up out of the water while the back tyres kept spinning, spitting rocks and water in
all directions.

And then the front axle snapped.

The sound echoed through the forest like a gunshot.

They’d had different trucks in the last dozen years, but this one, this beast, had been with them since outside Tucson. And now it was immobile, stuck in the middle of a
stream in the middle of a steep incline in the middle of nowhere.

Clarence stayed behind the steering wheel and didn’t get out. Sam motioned to Riddle, and they walked to a fallen tree on the uphill side of the road and took a seat to wait for the next
episode of Life with Father.

It was so quiet.

Sam heard only the sound of the wind in the tops of the pine trees, which made the most gentle swishing.

And then gradually he could hear the other sounds. Birds and chipmunks. The stream rushing by. The louder, distant river far below.

He was turning it all into music in his head. Everything became an instrument. Add in the strings. It was a symphony. He shut his eyes and imagined how he would play the piece. A stirring melody
over a pulsing beat that was angry and constant. His fingers were gliding now over his old guitar. Riddle coughed, and Sam included the sound as a set of cymbals.

He was in the forest above the high desert, but he was transported. Gone. Safe. But for how long? He didn’t know. That’s what happened when he played guitar, and now that’s
what happened as he sat on the side of the mountain with his little brother.

And then the music abruptly stopped as the truck door opened. Sam’s eyes snapped wide and his body tensed in anticipation. He looked over and saw Clarence getting out of the stranded
vehicle. He was carrying his shotgun. Riddle’s eyes darted to Sam. What now? Sam gave him the look to say
We’re good
when of course they weren’t.

Then the lanky teenage boy simply got to his feet, and as the music in his head returned to full volume, he walked straight towards his father.

Clarence had only one thought and it kept hitting him from all directions. The road. The truck. The dead tree he could see in the distance. The voices in his head were talking
now,
All things must end. Yes. All things must end.

He wouldn’t get anywhere if he had to keep the two boys. Not happening.

He’d tried his best. No, he’d tried harder than his best. And they’d let him down. Like so many before them.

Once they’d crossed that line, there was no turning back. He should have figured that out earlier. But this was an opportunity. Yes. It was clear to him now.

He’d put the boys out of their misery. The youngest one was a lemon. That was obvious. He couldn’t even breathe right. And the oldest one was his faithful protector. The only
question was which one to take down first?

Once he got it over with, then he’d disappear. He’d head up into the mountains. He had survival skills. Hell, he’d spent all those years in Alaska. He’d hunt and fish and
ride out the storm. When he’d walk out of the wilderness in a few months, he’d start over again. He’d head north.

All things must end.

Yes.

All things must end.

Clarence took the shotgun and checked to make sure it was loaded. He opened the door and then stepped out into the icy water to see Sam get up from the log where he and Riddle
had been waiting for forty minutes.

Clarence took two leaps forward out of the cold stream and then lifted his gun. He aimed at Sam, but the boy kept right on walking straight at him.

This surprised Clarence.

He thought the kid would turn and run. He wanted to shoot them both in the back. That had been the plan. But now that wasn’t going to be possible. He checked his finger on the trigger, and
Sam, still moving towards him, said, ‘It’s over.’

Clarence didn’t answer. He kept the shotgun pointed right at Sam, and then behind Sam he heard Riddle yell. Riddle never, ever yelled. It took too much lung power. But he was yelling,
‘NOOOOOooooooo!’

Clarence shifted the barrel from Sam to Riddle and shouted, ‘Shut up!’

Sam jumped at him just as Clarence pulled the trigger and the gun fired. The shot went wide, missing Riddle, who was now on his feet, not running away but running for Sam and Clarence, who had
both fallen to the ground.

The shotgun hit the gravel just after they did, and another shell exploded. This time the backlash from the rifle hit Clarence in the chest and propelled him, with a thump, right over the
edge.

But when he fell, he reached out, grabbed hold of Sam’s arm, and took the teenage boy with him.

Riddle, still screaming, ran to the edge and watched as Clarence and Sam, now separated, tumbled down, down, down like two rag dolls, over rocks, into trees, finally disappearing from view.

Riddle opened his mouth and screamed, ‘Sam!’

Suddenly the wind seemed to abruptly die down. The pine treetops stopped swaying.

And then Riddle threw himself over the cliff after them.

Emily had given the photo of Sam from the PennySaver to the police. But in the chaos surrounding Sam’s leaving, she had never thought that the haircut place might also
have taken a picture of Riddle.

But then Nora, of all people, said something when they were at school. She asked if Emily still had the PennySaver ad with the name of the hair salon, because she was thinking of having Rory get
his hair cut at that same place for prom. Didn’t Emily think that was a good idea?

‘The before and after shots of Sam were pretty amazing. And Rory has been thinking of just buzzing his head, and I’d die if he did that. I mean, the shape of his head is just plain
weird, don’t you think?’

Nora was massively insensitive at times.

Emily shut her locker and walked straight out the front doors of Churchill High. She had never left school in the middle of the day without a written excuse, and she was surprised that she
didn’t feel guilty.

Six blocks away, she caught a blue city bus across town and, sitting in the back, she thought of Sam and Riddle. Maybe they’d ridden on this bus when they’d come to see her family.
Maybe one day they would ride on it again. But she was good at math, and she knew the difference between the probable and the possible.

When Emily showed up at Superior Cuts, Rayford was sitting by the door wondering why short-short hair couldn’t sweep the country so he could afford to take a trip to Hawaii. If only some
actress or model or singer would burst onto the world stage with hair three inches long in a cut that required heavy maintenance and was highly open to imitation.

This was his wish. This is what gave him hope.

Rayford smiled at Emily as she stood on the sidewalk in front of the shop. She didn’t smile back. She was very pretty, but she looked incredibly serious for someone her age. And she looked
sad. It was the perfect combination for a makeover. He pushed the door open wider and asked what he could do to help.

It didn’t take long to find the picture of Riddle, because the file had been transferred on the same day with Sam’s photo. And Sam’s photo had been accessed
often. It was now used in all of the store’s publicity. Sam was on the new Superior Cuts business cards and on the half-price Monday coupons.

Emily stared at the computer screen while Rayford electronically sent her the image. Riddle looked odder than she’d come to think of him. His eyes were squinted, and he looked smaller and
like more of an outcast. Rayford saw the confusion on her face and said, ‘Isn’t that who you’re looking for?’

Emily nodded, still staring.

Across the room, Crystal finished applying chunky, blond highlights to a woman who was in denial about her current age. She pulled off her smelly purple gloves, dropped them into the deep sink,
and came over to join the discussion.

‘So they’re both in trouble? I mean, I can see the little one crossing the line, but not the older guy . . . I mean, he was —’

Emily interrupted. ‘They didn’t do anything wrong. They’re victims.’

Neither Rayford nor Crystal knew what that was supposed to mean. But Crystal nodded to be supportive. And then, not knowing what else to say, she added, ‘I’d be happy to do your hair
– you know – if you wanted to try a new style or something.’

Emily looked at Crystal. This young woman had cut Sam’s and Riddle’s hair. For Emily, that was enough of a connection.

‘I don’t have enough money. I just came about the pictures and —’

Crystal reached over and grabbed a pink smock. ‘On me. If, you know, I can take a before and after shot to use for publicity.’

Emily asked if she could donate her hair to one of those charities that made wigs for kids with cancer, and they said it could be done. So they put Emily’s hair into one
long brown braid and then, after a single snip with oversize shears, Rayford took it away.

Emily had heard that when a woman’s heart was broken, she cut off her hair. Her heart did, in fact, feel as if it had been punctured. She closed her eyes for the whole haircut. She’d
always, even as a toddler, had a sheet of brown hair that looked in pictures like a velvet curtain.