eighteen

If it wasn’t for the physical resemblance, I’d find it hard to believe the guy standing before me is the one Lennon talked about, the brother who doesn’t like to call attention to himself, the classic-literature-loving, piano-playing virtuoso who counsels Lennon not to judge others too harshly.

I look at Jude again. Yeah, really not seeing it.

But what I do see is a guy who is insanely worried about his brother, and that does fit the picture Lennon painted. He said his brother would come tracking him down the moment he heard his voice, knowing he was in trouble. Which is exactly what he’s done. While I’m not cutting Jude any slack, he’s proven he’s not making idle threats. I need to get this over with.

I start my story with finding Lennon’s shoe and end at this morning, when I discovered he’d left. After I finish, Jude just stands there, like I’m still talking. Or like I haven’t even started.

Finally he says, “Feral dogs.”

“Yes, there’s a roving pack—”

“Seriously? You can’t do better than ‘feral dogs’?”

My face heats, temper surging again. “I—”

“Oh, right. Sorry. I’m just some dumb city boy who thinks your forests are filled with grizzlies and moonshiners and crazy hillbillies with sawed-off shotguns. Of course I’m going to believe feral dogs.”

“There are a lot of dogs around here,” I say as calmly as I can. “People don’t get them spayed or neutered because—”

“—they can’t afford to. And if those dogs go feral, you’ve got hundreds of miles of forest for them to live in. I know feral dogs exist. The part I’m questioning is where you singlehandedly fought off a pack to save my brother.”

“Because I’m a girl, right?”

“No, because you can’t hold on to a switchblade. Can’t fight properly, either. If you took on one of those mutts, you’d be feral dog chow.”

“No, I can’t fend off a pack of dogs. I can escape them, though, and I can wait them out. I might suck with a knife but pass me that”—I motion to my bow—“and I’ll show you how well I can use a weapon.”

“So you escape the dogs and then get my brother to this shack, despite the fact he has a good fifty pounds on you.”

“I fashioned a makeshift stretcher.”

“Of course you did. You know how to do that, and yet you couldn’t get him to a doctor.”

“Lennon didn’t want one. The local physician is out of town, but I work for him and plan to go to med school, so I know how to treat—”

He laughs. It’s not just a snort, it’s an actual burst of laughter, and my temper flares. I say, “Your brother is missing. He left a note—”

“Show me.”

“It’s back at my trailer.”

“Lennon called to tell me he was in trouble. His bloodstained jacket is here. And you, apparently, are the only person who saw him.”

“Mrs. Reid—the lady you met—”

“Sorry, let me rephrase. You’re the only person who can confirm this story about my brother being badly beaten and set on by wild dogs after escaping a psycho who butchered one of those dogs—and then conveniently hid all the evidence. Which all began because Lennon came to help a girl who seems to have been taken captive by this same guy. Yet you’ve told none of this to the local police, despite my brother disappearing while going after the madman, which, by the way, is mad, so please come up with a better story. Or we’re going to be here a very long time.”

For an hour I tell my story, and for an hour Jude eviscerates it. I fight back, but eventually even I realize how preposterous it sounds. I have no evidence besides a note penned in block letters, which could have come from anyone. I can’t even say where Lennon pulled off the road to look for Edie—I didn’t ask for the exact location because he planned to show me.

I finally say, “But the question remains: What exactly do you think I’ve done?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that my brother was seen with you last night, his bloodied jacket is here—with you—and he’s not. Also, your story stinks like horseshit.”

“But what exactly—”

“Do you know who we are?”

“What?”

“Lennon and me. Do you know who our father is?”

“I know your family is wealthy. Old money, Lennon said. Beyond that—”

His snort cuts me off. “Yeah, beyond that. If you don’t know who we are, then whoever set this up isn’t telling you shit. And apparently, neither was Lennon, which means you didn’t get to know him nearly as well as you claim.”

“Okay, who is your father?”

“If you don’t know, I’m sure as hell not telling you. Let’s just say that there are people who’d kidnap my brother to get at our father. That’s not paranoia. Sometimes, growing up, we’d need to take a different car to school—one with bulletproof windows. Occasionally that car came with a bodyguard, who’d walk us to class. Once, we weren’t even allowed to go to school—we were on lockdown for a week.”

I stare at him. This isn’t LA or New York. I can’t imagine whose kids here would warrant that kind of protection. I can’t imagine Lennon being one of those kids. And I can’t imagine it of this guy, who honestly wouldn’t look out of place at my school, in worn sneakers and a faded sweatshirt and frayed jeans.

“I didn’t help kidnap your brother,” I say, “since that seems to be what you’re implying. I don’t know how I can prove that to you….”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I already did.”

“Then I guess we’re going to spend a very long night together.”

“You can’t—”

“I can and I will, as I’ve already proven.”

“Someone’s out there. Someone who killed a dog—”

“Show me one shred of proof.”

“He cleaned up the evidence.”

“Of course he did.”

“I can show you fibers in the tree, where he cushioned the rope so it wouldn’t cut in. I can show you more in the dirt, where he used a ground sheet.”

“Fibers? Seriously? You’re going to show me fibers?”

“That’s all I—”

“Then get comfortable. We’re going to be here awhile.”

When I stop talking, he doesn’t threaten me. Doesn’t get angry or frustrated and demand answers. Nor does he calm down and acknowledge that holding me hostage is ridiculous. He can’t “calm down” when he isn’t worked up. He’s just determined—determined to wait me out, presuming that I’ll get cold or hungry or tired or just plain bored. Eventually I’ll crack.

I don’t.

Neither does he.

So I wait. About an hour passes. Then the room darkens. It’s only late afternoon, but the sun has gone behind clouds, and it’s as gray as twilight. That’s exactly what I need. Jude’s been up half the night. He’s exhausted and his eyelids flicker and then they close. He’s probably telling himself he can close his eyes for a second, just one second.

Ten minutes later, his head nods as he falls asleep.

I force myself to wait twenty minutes more, to be sure he won’t jerk awake. His breathing deepens. I inch past, grab my bow and hunting knife, and then I’m out the door.