Morgan knew it was a loss before he even reached the trees. The darkness that followed served only as a reminder that he didn’t have the mettle for this. He was a private investigator for a reason; he could never be a hero cop. Hell, he could never even be a cop like Gary. There was a certain amount of courage and toughness required, and no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he just didn’t have it.
The trees reminded him of that, each whipping branch striking his knees as if to say, “you’re just not fast enough.” Each snapping twig beneath his rapid footfalls told him he wasn’t welcome here. Was Erika welcome, he wondered? Did she have a right to be here, or was this simply her dark retreat—the only place she had to run, to escape them once and for all?
Ahead of him, Morgan saw the silhouette of the woman he pursued. She was far out of reach, merely a blur in the distance. In spite of that, he pushed harder, faster than he’d ever run before. Images of Nick Hansen and Arthur St. John blinked through his mind. He pushed them aside, focusing on the job at hand. Focusing on his breath, and how short of it he’d feel if he had to watch Amy Black’s heartbroken face while she learned that her father was gone forever.
No.
He couldn’t allow that.
Morgan ran faster, ignoring the pain. His cheeks were no longer cold, his body now hot with sweat. The speed he ran only helped, luring him into the woods at such a pace that cold air rushed to cool him. Erika was closer now, but as his vision blurred so did her outline. Where was she now? Dead ahead? Swerving and maneuvering between the tress and trying to shake him, as if they were still in some sort of high-speed car chase? Whatever she was doing, it was working. Morgan was losing her, exhaustion and panic finally catching up to him as a catalyst for sheer terror.
Completely out of sight now, Erika had blended with the distance. Morgan slowed to a steady jog, catching his breath while his heart worked overtime, booming in his chest like the beat of some rap song he couldn’t turn down. He came to a stop, spinning on his heel and searching for her. He checked the bare branches in case she’d dared to climb. But the woods were empty. The crows’ songs reminded him of that. A whisper of cold wind crept down his spine like a devious snake, and he knew for certain right there and then.
He’d lost Erika Givens.
And now he’d lost Mason Black.
How would he explain this to Amy? How could he even explain it to Gary? Then there was the question of how he’d let Rachel know he’d failed and that their young son would grow up with a useless father. Morgan took it out on himself so he wouldn’t take it out on anyone else, and it felt right. Nobody else was at fault. Not Gary. Not even Erika—she was nothing but a lunatic who’d stolen a car and done God-knew-what with Mason Black. It’d been down to Morgan to find out what exactly, and he’d failed.
Failed.
It was such a harsh word, but so fitting. Morgan retired his pursuit and trudged back through the trees at a fraction of the speed he’d come through them. With the Black family on the brain, he did all he could to collect his thoughts and steady his breathing. Sure, this was his fault, but he was an adult nonetheless, and adults had to face their problems head-on. That was why he took the time to explain it to himself: what’s done is done.
After minutes of blank, zombie-like walking, Morgan returned to where the Mustang was parked. Gary had pulled over his own car beside it, and he stormed over with a cell phone in his hand. “Are you all right? What happened?”
“I lost her.” Morgan lowered his head. “Sorry.”
“Maybe we can drive around to the other side,” Gary said, hurrying back to the car.
“That’ll take too long.”
“But if we—”
“She’s gone,” Morgan said, stopping him in his tracks. It was a strange feeling—the words were directed at Gary, but it felt as though he was finally explaining it to himself, laying out the bare truth of it all. “She’s gone, and so is Mason. We need to accept that.”
Gary sighed and walked back over, dropping the phone into his jacket pocket. “Right. Well… you gave it your all. I’ve called for assistance from the MPD, so we’ve got some time to figure out what we’re going to do with the Mustang.”
“What will happen to it?”
“It’ll be searched, no doubt.”
“And then?”
“Then it’ll go to—”
A thud startled them. Morgan spun toward the Mustang at the same time as Gary, and now it all came back to him. Before, when he’d been searching the car while Erika headed into the gas station, there’d been a knocking sound identical to this one. The only difference was that now they had the opportunity to investigate.
Gary drew his gun.
“You won’t need it,” Morgan said, because deep down he knew the truth of what was inside. They approached together. Morgan lightly put a hand on Gary’s gun, lowering it. They stepped closer, wet clumps of mud holding their feet in place.
“What is it?” Gary asked.
The thud came again.
Morgan had no need to explain. Sometimes a simple look at something was all that was needed to clear the air. He made that happen by reaching for the trunk, his shaking hand nearly missing the button altogether. When he pushed, it, he took a quick step back in case he was surprised—in case he’d put this together all wrong.
But then the trunk door rose toward the sky, slowly hissing open. A hand appeared, hanging over the lip of the trunk with dirt-covered nails on hairy, sweat-matted knuckles. Time seemed to slow down as Morgan stared at the hand, excitement and fear taking over. There was a shuffle, and then a face appeared. But Morgan only half recognized it; rugged good looks and a tough exterior had been replaced with scruffy facial hair and bloodshot eyes. Those same eyes met his, glanced at Gary, and then returned to look at Morgan, who only now realized he was staring with his mouth wide open.
“Whoever you are,” said Mason Black, emerging from the trunk. He had all the energy of a dying animal, but all the raw, limitless rage of a rabid one. “Stop gawking at me like a couple of idiots, and get me the hell out of here.”