“What do you know about my parents?”
“The decisions that they both made. Very brave. Very strong. And knowing what they were saying goodbye to, with a child at home, it must have been so difficult. You can be very proud of them.”
“Damn it, Wyatt, I don’t appreciate you talking about—”
“When you write the story,” Wyatt said, “please make something clear. I didn’t have to die. I could go on as long as I want.”
He hung up. Roy stared at the receiver in astonishment. Disconnected, then dialed the number that had appeared on the caller ID. It went right to voicemail. Roy hung up.
I didn’t have to die.
“Oh, shit,” he said, and then he took his car keys, left his boxes on the desk, and left the building.
4
BLADE RIDGE ROAD LAY in the western reaches of the county, a twenty-minute drive from Whitman, though Roy did it in fifteen as dusk fell over the wooded countryside. It wasn’t so much of a road—just a rutted gravel lane that broke away from County Road 200 in the foothills that had once been home to coal-mining country, making a straight line toward the Marshall River, which marked Sawyer County’s western border. County Road 200 bent sharply to the left at this point, but if you missed that curve and continued straight, you’d end up on Blade Ridge, which would deliver you to the realization that you’d made a mistake and then to a sudden wall of trees.
For some people—Roy’s parents among them—it was a very bad mistake. The narrow, twisting lane was treacherous, particularly in the winter, particularly in the dark. When Roy’s parents died, the county was inspired to replace the original dead-end sign with two larger ones and add a warning that traffic was for residents only. Not that there were many of them. Just a lighthouse, where once a trailer had stood. And, now, a cat zoo.
Thinking about his parents made him tighten his hands on the steering wheel. What had the old boozehound been trying to imply—that they’d driven off into the woods intentionally, a joint suicide?
And knowing what they were saying goodbye to, with a child at home, it must have been so difficult.
“Bullshit,” Roy said aloud, his voice hot with anger. His parents had been dead for forty-six years, but even that wasn’t enough time to provide a buffer against the emotions that swelled at the suggestion that they might have left him on purpose.
They were coming home from my basketball game in Jasper County, and they were looking for a shortcut and took the wrong turn. I’ve known that for decades, Wyatt, you prick. Don’t you dare poison my memories of them, don’t you dare.
Ahead of the spot where the gravel road reached its end, directly across from the fresh fencing and cages that had now been built into the woods to house a rescue center for tigers, cougars, lions, and leopards, there was a track that cut off to the right. This was the driveway to Wyatt French’s lighthouse. It came in from the north side at a harsh angle and began to climb immediately. Roy made the turn, loose gravel sliding under the tires, and heard the pitch of the Pilot’s engine turn harsh as it strained up the incline. It was like driving through a tunnel because the trees hung so dense and so close to the road. Then it broke to a crest and there were a few gaps that allowed you to see between the mountains and out to the Marshall River and an ancient railroad trestle.
A long fence protected the lighthouse property. The gate was padlocked; Wyatt French didn’t care for visitors. Built at the base of the lighthouse was a structure that looked no bigger than a shed. It was there that the old man lived.
“Crazy bastard,” Roy muttered, staring at the lighthouse as he parked the Honda in the weeds beside the fence. He hit the horn, three taps.
Nothing. He gave it a minute and laid on the horn again, longer this time, figuring the blaring noise would raise Wyatt’s ire and call him forth.
It didn’t, though. Roy shut the car off and climbed out into the rain. The fence was there, but fences could be climbed. Wyatt French hadn’t added razor wire and guard towers to the property, though they were probably on his list.
There was not a sound except for the rain, but the light was flashing steadily against the gathering dusk.
I’m getting scared of what I could do in the dark.
“Just go knock on the damn door,” he muttered to himself, and then he went forward. The fence was simple, six-foot chain link, and Roy was still in decent shape, cleared it easily. There was only one door. A piece of paper fluttered on it, secured with two large thumbtacks. Roy used the side of his hand to flatten the paper against the wind so he could read the message, hoping it was instructions for FedEx or a note for a neighbor.