twenty-four

I head into the mine tunnel, moving as fast as I can without breaking into a panicked run. Every few yards, I make myself stop so I can listen and peer back down the tunnel. There’s no sign that the dogs’ killer is coming after me. No sign that he’s even climbed down that rope. I keep going, though. It’s all I can do.

The shaft has been painstakingly blasted and carved into the mountain rock. Wooden support beams are supposed to keep stray chunks from breaking loose and bringing the whole thing down, but one look at those flimsy boards and I know they won’t stop a cave-in.

The mine has a smell all its own. There’s the usual odor of a cave—rock and dirt and moisture—but there’s a lingering chemical odor too, from those old explosives. If I had a more creative bent, I’d say I smelled the sweat of those old miners, the stink of hard work and constant wariness, endless listening for that creak or groan that meant trouble. I’d say I smelled blood, too. The blood of those who died in cave-ins. Who fell into pits. Who weren’t quite far enough away when the dynamite ignited.

I haven’t gone more than fifty paces when I trip and catch a support beam. Dirt from the ceiling showers down as the beam creaks. As I scramble out of the way, my knee hits a rotted support. It creaks and dirt rains down, but that seems to be it, and I stand stock-still, listening and watching and barely daring to breathe, as if that will set off a cave-in.

Then I take a step and…

There’s a tremendous crack as a support snaps. I dive aside just in time. Rocks pelt down and a cloud of dirt envelops me as I hit the floor. I lie there, hacking, my eyes streaming.

“Winter!”

My name echoes down the tunnel.

“Winter!”

The voice is sharp, a little annoyed, as if I’m playing a game of hide-and-seek and breaking the rules. I recognize it and go completely still as dread congeals in my gut.

Jude.

I lie there, heart pounding. I remember Lennon ducking my questions about his brother. I hear that wistful note for a boy he’d once known. A boy who’d changed.

I knew something was wrong with Jude. He looks so different from the boy in those old photos. His behavior was odd. Even his flat affect and empty expression seemed wrong. I remember what I saw behind the emptiness in that final photo. Rage.

As Jude calls my name, I understand why Lennon insisted I not go to the police. Why he kept saying he’d fix this.

Because he knew who was responsible.

“Winter?” Jude shouts. A thump, reverberating through the tunnel as if he’s jumped the last few feet down the hole. “Damn it, Winter. If you’re down here…”

If I’m down here.

Is that really how he’s going to play this? Like he just happened to find me in a mining tunnel, ten minutes after two dogs were killed?

Is he crazy?

Yes. I suspect he is.

He expects me to run out and thank him for coming to my rescue because he’s not thinking clearly. He can’t think clearly.

What has he done to his brother? To Edie?

I won’t go there. Not yet. I still hope…

When I strain to listen, I hear him cursing under his breath. Then there’s a crack, as he breaks the board covering the hole into the tunnel.

“Winter?” he calls. A moment later, his dark figure appears against the pale light filtering through that hole. He lifts his cell phone, shining it my way, and ducks his head, as if trying to make out my shape in the distance.

I’m trapped. He’s standing between me and the exit.

No, not standing. He’s walking toward me. Fifty feet away and then forty and then thirty. There’s something dark in his hand.

A gun? I can’t fight him if…

“Winter? That’s you, right?”

“It is.” I have to speak. It might be my only chance to trick him, to escape.

“I heard what sounded like a collapse down here. And there’s blood at the bottom of that hole.”

“Is there.” I say it deadpan, no inflection, and he stops, maybe twenty feet away, lifting his phone to shine it better on my face. I see his, then, and this time there’s an expression on it. Several expressions—concern and confusion mingled.

“Are you okay?” he says. “Did you hit your head?”

“Put down the…” I start to say “gun,” but my gaze drops to what he’s holding and it’s the sneaker I lost outside.

Whatever’s wrong with Jude doesn’t affect his intelligence. He found my shoe and now he’s bringing that as his excuse. Like asking me if I hit my head.

“How’d you find me?” I ask.

“I heard the dogs, and I figured you were down here hiding from them, but you’re acting—”

“What are you doing in the forest, Jude?”

He walks closer. I say, “Stop. I asked what you’re doing here, Jude.”

“Looking for you. We need to talk.”

“About your brother.”

He tilts his head, face scrunching up. “Are you okay, Winter? You’re acting—”

“How’d you find me? Start from the beginning.”

He peers at me, sees I’m dead serious, and says, “Fine. Let’s see, step one: go to your cabin. Step two: realize it’s locked.” He looks over. “Can I fast-forward?”

“No.”

He doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t even roll his eyes.

“I heard the dogs and a girl’s voice. I ran to help. I found a shoe I recognized as yours. I could hear a dog yipping weirdly, like it was hurt. I followed the sound. It went quiet. Then I heard a crash underground.” He pauses. “Good enough?”

“Keep going.”

Now I get the sigh, his usual one, not dramatic, not even meant to be heard—just that soft sigh of exasperation for a child who is really terribly difficult.

“Hear the crash. Find a hole with a rope. Climb down. There’s blood at the bottom. Rip off the board. Crawl through. Get treated to a third-degree interrogation for my trouble.” He pauses. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what? Does it look like I’m trapped down here?”

“No, but you might need medical attention. You’re acting like you’ve hit your head—”

“My head is fine. So you climbed down that hole and found blood.”

“Pretty sure that’s what it was. It was soaked into the dirt, but it seemed wet.” He shines his light at the walls. “Maybe it’s iron in the soil?”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” I say.

He gives me that tilted-head frown again. “I’m just saying I shouldn’t jump to the conclusion it was blood.”

“And the body?”

“Body?”

“Of the dog you landed on when you climbed down.”

He peers at me again. “There is no dog, Winter.”

“There was a dead dog in that hole. And a collar from a second one. Two dogs that were killed—”

“Whoa. You think I—? No. There’s—” He glances toward the hole. “There’s no dead dog. You can check. And I certainly didn’t kill—”

“Step back,” I say.

He obeys, and I walk until I can bend and look through that opening.

Flea is gone. So is Alanna’s collar.

“Show me your hands,” I say.

He holds them palms out. I see faint red smears on one thumb and forefinger, as if he rubbed blood-soaked dirt between them, but there’s no other sign of blood. I make him turn, hands over his head, as I inspect his clothing. There’s mud on his knees where he crawled through the hole. Otherwise, nothing. Definitely no blood spatter.

“You’re going to wait down here,” I say.

“No, Winter,” he says calmly. “I’ve been a good sport about this. I came because I thought you were in trouble. I answered all your questions. You’ve practically accused me of killing two dogs, and I didn’t take offense. I let you check me over, presumably for evidence. You obviously didn’t find any. I’m clear.”

“I’ll decide that. I want to see what’s up top first.”

He purses his lips. “Good thinking. It was only about ten minutes between me last hearing the dogs and me getting here. I could have cleared the scene or I could have changed my clothing. Not both. So if I killed those dogs, you’ll find them topside, and there’s no way I could have missed them, which would prove I’m guilty.”

I struggle not to gape at him. It’s as if I’m accusing someone else and he’s just helping with the investigation.

He continues. “How about this. You go up. I’ll wait at the bottom. I want your knife, though, so you can’t cut the rope. As soon as you’re clear of the hole, I’ll come up. Reasonable?”

Frighteningly reasonable. Of course, I don’t mention I have both my switchblade and hunting knife.

“Stand over there,” I say, pointing.

He walks ten feet. I climb the rope. Once I’m partway up, I send my hunting knife tumbling down to him.

“Thank you,” he says, without a hint of sarcasm.

I shake my head and continue climbing.