All for One (53 page)

*  *  *

Dooley squeezed Joel’s cell phone in an angry grip and said into it, “Just tell him I’ll be there. I’ll be late, but I’ll be there.”

He clicked off and handed it roughly back to Joel.

“Michael Prentiss told you all this?”

Dooley took a curve hard and accelerated on a straightaway through the trees. “Everything I just told you.”

Joel shook his head. “They went to the mat for her.”

“I might have myself,” Dooley admitted, flooring it to pass a logging truck just before a hill.

His palms were cotton dry.

*  *  *

The lunch triangle outside the dining hall was rung by a portly woman wielding a metal spoon.

Mary had tried to compose herself with splashes of water and wet paper towels in the staff restroom. It hardly worked. She stood purposely alone outside the dining hall and searched the approaching wave of hungry children for hers, but could find none. She cautiously stopped a colleague from Greenwood Elementary, afraid that her guilty secrets were somehow now carved upon her face like the brand of some medieval heretic, and asked, “Have you seen any of my kids?”

“Did you look inside?”

“No.” Too many people still. Far too many now. They, too, might see it. Might read it in the way she looked at them. And she wanted no one to know until she told those who needed so desperately to know. To know the truth. “I haven’t yet.”

The woman smiled at Mary. She looked like she might need a friendly smile. “They get impatient sometimes.”

“You’re probably right.” Mary turned toward the doors, bolstered herself for the crowd, stopped, then turned away. “Wait.”
Elena.
“I’ve got a napper. I almost forgot.”

She looked up the trail toward Whitetail 2. There was no sign of her dearest little student. She felt kinship with Elena now. A painful, knowing kinship.

She started that way as more campers started filing in for lunch.

*  *  *

Mary pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and started up the small path from the trail to Whitetail 2. It was only a short walk from the dining hall, but in that meager distance she’d decided she would tell all to Elena first. Tell her everything and beg her forgiveness.

But before she could reach the cabin, Elena Markworth burst out of the rustic structure, fleeing its confines at a dead run, crying hysterically.

“Elena!” Mary started running, rounding the back of the cabin to see Elena sprinting up the trail into the woods. The trail to the gorge. “Elena!”

As Mary chased her, yelling for her to stop, one teacher near the door to the dining hall stepped outside and looked toward Whitetail 1 and 2. She thought she heard something, but after a minute of listening she returned to the hall and made herself a sandwich.

Forty Nine

Elena was running for all she was worth. For more than she was worth. And Mary was pushing as hard as she could to catch her dearest student.

“Elena! Stop!”

Mary ran, ran as fast as she could, and got close enough to see that Elena went left at the fork. Left toward the gorge.

“Elena! Please stop! Please!”

*  *  *

Dooley pulled into the camp and kept driving until he saw some sign of activity. He skidded to a stop outside the dining hall, throwing dust toward the door.

“What the hell?” a woman cursed as she came out. “There are kids around here. You can’t drive like—”

Joel shoved a badge in her face and she shut right up.

“Where is Miss Austin?” Dooley asked. “Where is she? Where are her kids?”

“Mary Austin? I don’t know.”

Dooley looked into the dining hall. Some of her class was there, but not the ones that mattered. His fear was suddenly for them. “Everybody else is here. Where are they? Aren’t they supposed to be here?”

“Yes, but—”

“You haven’t seen them at all?” Joel pressed.

“No, but...”

“What?” Dooley asked severely. “What?”

“A few minutes ago I thought I heard yelling,” the teacher explained.

“Yelling?” Dooley looked around. “Where?”

The teacher pointed up toward Whitetail 1 and 2. “From the trailhead up there.”

Dooley and Joel both sprinted that way with the woman’s wondering look on their backs.

*  *  *

Elena ran hard and fast, her arms swinging, her chest burning. It hurt, and when she tried to make a turn through the trees she fell, and that hurt more. But she got up and ran. Ran faster. Ran faster. Never looking back.

Not far behind, she could hear her name being yelled over and over again. And the woman she’d trusted, the woman she’d loved, yelling something else. Something about being sorry.

It was too late for that, Elena knew, and she ran as hard as she could.

*  *  *

The trail was narrow and meant for footwear with more tread than either Dooley or Joel had, but they pressed their pace, not slipping yet, looking as they ran, looking for anything.

“I see nothing,” Joel said between labored breaths.

Dooley didn’t respond. All his energy was going to his feet.

*  *  *

The trees began to thin, and Elena could hear the water, the crack of liquid thunder pouring down the gorge. The voice behind was getting louder, closer, but Elena ignored it. She stayed focused ahead, running, running as fast as she had ever run before.

She broke through the last thick stand of pine and could see it ahead. Right there. The bridge.

Whitish mist leapt around it from below. The earth was angry and letting it be known.

*  *  *

Both Dooley and Joel slowed when the trail split. Nothing marked either fork as anything in particular, so each simply took the side closest to them, a silent decision reached jointly.

Joel had been on Dooley’s right and raced off toward Buckley Point.

Dooley headed for the gorge.

*  *  *

It was coming up fast. Right ahead. The bridge.

Behind, the voice was getting louder again, still begging forgiveness, still pleading with Elena to stop.

Elena slowed, took a deep breath, pumped her legs back up to speed and made sure she was running straight.

Just short of the bridge she closed her eyes and crossed the unsteady span at a dead run, her feet riding the ripple her stride drove into the mated planks with surprising grace.

Into the clearing now and seeing what she had just seen, Mary slowed.

On the far side of the bridge, as her feet hit solid ground, Elena spun around, gulping air, and fell to her knees. She stared back across the bridge as Mary neared.

“Sweetie, it’s all right,” Mary said calmly, breathily, and put one hand on each wire rail. “It’s going to be all right.” A foot out now.
God, where’s that harness now?
And another. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m sorry for letting this happen.”

Elena shook her head, her stare lancing Mary.

More steps now. The bridge vibrated hard, the bray rising from the gorge shaking it. Hands tight on the rail, holding on, can’t let go. Step. Step. Past the midway point.

Mary began to crouch, and Elena reached her arms out toward her teacher.

“Yes,” Mary said, and let go of the rail to take the wanting hands.

*  *  *

Dooley finally had to pause, easing his run into a slow trot to catch his breath. He looked around, but could see nothing but trees. There was nothing here.

Just that watery roar from somewhere ahead.

That way,
he thought, and pressed on, his side on fire.

*  *  *

Mary reached for the little hands, the innocent little hands, the little hands like hers had been back before her teacher’s desk. Before he’d
done
things to her.

“Yes, Elena,” she said, their hands about to touch, about to...

But the little hands pulled suddenly away and moved to the pins that held the footbridge to the anchors. The bolts were not in them.

Elena put a finger through the open end of each pin and glared at her teacher.

“Elena?” Mary said, not understanding, and then, as the little girl spoke, understanding completely.

“Bryce was one of us,” Elena said, so clearly that it pierced the scream of the earth. “He loved you. Like we all did.”

Behind her, Joey, PJ, and Jeff emerged from the thicket.

“We can’t love you anymore,” Elena said.

Mary looked at her with doe eyes as the little girl pulled the pins.

*  *  *

Dooley made it through the trees and could see the bridge just as the far end of it dropped into the river’s mist. He saw Mary go with it.

“Mary!”

The little eyes on the far side snapped to the detective and watched him run to the bridge. He walked tentatively onto it. A few steps further it he lowered to his knees and crawled to the midpoint.

He looked over the fallen section and saw Mary hanging from its end.

“Hold on!” Dooley inched out, as far as he could, and bent the top half of his body over the drop-off. He reached down with one hand, holding onto the wire hand rail with the other. “Reach up! Reach up!”

She looked at his hand, but it was beyond her reach. She was too far gone. “I’m so sorry!”

“Reach, Mary!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Reach, dammit!”

“I am so sorry!” she said, letting go with one hand. “I didn’t know!”

“Mary!” He stretched, thrusting his hand toward her, fingers trembling. “Mary!”

“I didn’t know!” She began to cry.

“Mary!”

She tried to smile at him, but her mouth twisted to a silent whimper, and she let go with the other hand, falling backward into the mist, the river thundering as it swallowed her.

Dooley reached for her, leaned far over the edge, willing her back. Wanting her back. But it was too late.

She was gone.

When he could he came to his knees and held onto the handrail for support. He looked across the gap to the four little faces.

Joey took the pins from Elena and tossed them into the gorge to join the bolts he’d removed earlier. He looked long at Dooley and said, “We’re just kids.”

When the detective said nothing back, Joey led his friends away from the crossing. There was a road a mile up the gorge. They could make it there long before it got dark.

Even if it did, they would be together.

Dooley watched them weave slowly into the woods, disappearing one by one. Good, perfect little children, who had learned well. Learned just what their teacher had taught them.

How to stick together and take care of their own problems.

Epilogue

Jimmy

Fifty

It was much later than their usual Sunday time, but Dooley made it to Anchor Bay State Prison by nine and was granted this one small favor by the warden.

When they brought Jimmy Vincent into the windowless room, Dooley already had the game set up, red on his side. He was fire. Jimmy always went first.

“Hi, Jimmy.”

“Hi.” The triple murderer rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had been and slouched into the chair across from the man who had put him in prison. “What’s it like outside?”

“Cold.”

“Is it raining?”

“Not tonight.”

Jimmy examined the board. He moved his first piece and asked, “Are you retired yet?”

“I am now.” Dooley moved a red circle.

Jimmy nodded at him and considered the board briefly. He reached for a piece, and when he did Dooley could see his wrists. Smooth pink welts ran over them, older by a week than his own scars, three on each, straight up and down. Jimmy had meant business.

“What are you gonna do?” Another black moved forward.

“Monday through Saturday, I don’t know. I’ve got my Sundays laid out, though.”

Jimmy nodded and jumped a red. “I’m gonna keep beating you.”

“Someday, Jimmy, just you watch...”

He tried hard to think only of Jimmy, and he was failing.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” Jimmy said.

“Have I missed a Sunday yet?”

It was easy to think of Jimmy. Musing on him there was no wonder. No reason, but no wonder as well. Jimmy Vincent was what Dooley wanted him to be. Alive. And with him.

Jimmy shook his head and concentrated on the board. He fought through a spirited defense by red and beat Dooley in short order. He always won. He seemed to like winning.

There was no reason in other things as well, Dooley knew. But there would be wonder. A lasting want of answers. Of closure.

He understood the latter painfully well.

“Another game?” Jimmy asked.

“Sure,” Dooley said, wanting another game. Needing another game.

He watched Jimmy as the boy reset the pieces, his slowly dying eyes fixed on his purpose, red hair slicked back. He knew the face and everything about it. He knew the eyes and some of the things behind them. It was Jimmy’s face.

Jimmy’s face.

Dooley drew a breath and pulled his wallet out. He opened the two halves and flipped through the plastic protectors that held his credit cards, his retired police identification, his driver’s license. Just past the license there was one protector through which only a small rectangle of white showed. Dooley looked at it for a moment before his fingers gingerly removed the photo and turned it around. His son smiled back at him from long ago.

“What’s that?” Jimmy asked. The pieces were set.

Dooley looked up. His eyes danced between Jimmy and the photo a few times before he turned it toward the boy murderer. “That was my son. Joseph.”

Jimmy examined the picture, his expression stone. “Was your son?”

Dooley nodded and turned the picture back so he could see it. He held it near. “He was hit by a car. He died.”

“Oh.” Jimmy looked at the board and made his move. “How old was he?”

“Eleven.” Dooley moved, then looked at Joseph again. It hurt. “He’d be eighteen now.”

Jimmy moved again. “Did you do things with him?”

“Sure.”

“What kind of things?”

Dooley was quiet for a moment, and then he started to tell Jimmy about his son. He talked, and Jimmy listened.

But skittering about below his words were many things that might have been thoughts, pure musings, or questions with some possible answers. But really it didn’t matter what they were, he realized.