JON HURRIED FROM his Land Rover into his home, slamming the front door behind him.
He leaned against the door, panting. Thoughts of the dead girl crowded his fevered mind as he rushed into the kitchen to check voice-mail messages.
The same number came up five times. He dialed his voice mail. He could have checked the messages from his office or from his cell phone. But he did not want to leave a number that could be traced back to him. And he needed to delete the caller ID history.
The voice on the first message said: “Like the photo?”
He listened to the others:
“You did this to yourself.”
“You should have saved me.”
“There’s no saving yourself now.”
“Killer.”
Jon erased all the messages and the caller ID history. Trembling like a china cup in an earthquake, he sat on the kitchen floor trying to catch his breath, trying to think. But his mind was a thorny maze of wild thoughts with no escape route. He told himself to concentrate. He knew what needed to be done.
How had the detective known of Randy?
Jon brought up the e-mail on his phone.
Last chance. Meet me. Tonight. Same Place. 7 pm.
Agree to confess.
Or I go to the cops myself.
The time was 6:50 P.M.
The photo. The photo of Jon slipping out behind the Village Fare, date-stamped just minutes before Jessica had been killed. The photo of him heading into the woods.
There was no way out.
Except one.
The sender had to be shut up, for good.
Jon climbed the stairs to the master bedroom three at a time. The house already smelled of place where nobody lived: musty, trapped, dead air. Cobwebs clung to a corner of the ceiling of the bedroom. Jon opened his work desk’s hidden trick panel. Mouse droppings littered the bottom of the drawer. He took the only weapon he had left to stop the sender of the messages.
Jon brought up his e-mail on his phone.
He typed in one sentence.
On my way.
And hit SEND.
OUTSIDE, THE COLD stung him. Winter had forced itself upon the world yet again, and was here to stay. Snow had settled, hiding the hard, sharp edges of the world under its soft whiteness.
The street was quiet. Jon hurried along the sidewalk.
He met no one.
He wanted to see Bethany, needed to explain himself, tell her everything.
He dialed the inn on his phone as he hurried. Nearly out of breath he asked Anna at the reception desk to put him through.
“She’s not there,” Anna said.
“Where is she?” He walked into the Village Fare parking lot and headed toward the back of the place.
“Home,” Anna said.
“She isn’t. I was just there.”
“Home to Connecticut.”
“Her father’s?”
“She just said ‘home to Connecticut.’ She left a message.” Anna paused. “She said she’s not coming back.”
Jon stood in front of the woods behind the Village Fare. He had five minutes to get through them to the other side.
“You OK?” Anna said. “You sound horrible.”
“It’s just sort of hit me, all at once.”
“You can’t keep things at bay forever. Longer you do, worse it is when it catches up to you.”
“I gotta go,” he said.
“Call her, let her know you’re all right.”
“I’m not all right, Anna.”
“You will be.”
“No,” he said, “I won’t.”
He hung up and stared into the dark woods.