“Wait, wait,” she pauses, “ah—he’s on this list of kids who spent time with Evie the night she disappeared.” There’s another pause, “Bowen…I’m guessing he’s related to Tate Garrison?” she asks with a hint of sarcasm.
“The one and only,” I grumble.
“OK, so that evening, Jay Rhinehardt, Hannah Bailey, Hildy Garrison, and Bowen Garrison saw Evie from about 6:45 to 9:15. Jay and Hildy left Bowen at the skatepark at about nine. Hannah stated she drove Evie to the Circle K on Pinecrest at about 9:15, let her out, and she drove home never to hear from Evie again. Bowen stated he stayed at the park until about 10 with Callen Fisher until they left and went to Callen’s house to play…” she trails off for a moment, “Call of Duty Modern Warfare 3. Something about how it sucked and kept crashing…anyway, Bowen left Callen’s house at about one in the morning, drove home, and went to bed.”
“That’s it?”
“This is it.”
“And there’s nothing about Bowen in my statement?” I snarl. “Then what the hell is in my statement?” She needs to start making some fucking sense before I rip my steering wheel off its column.
“That you spoke to Evie earlier that evening, she told you she was meeting friends at the skatepark, and then you parted ways.”
Son of a bitch.
“So, basically those assholes didn’t take any statement, is that the gist of this?”
“I’m going to be honest,” Moreau says firmly, “there’s a lot missing from this case file, not just from your statement. Nobody bothered to verify any witness statements beyond Callen Fisher and the physical evidence is a mess, so I have to rebuild this case from the ground up.”
“What about Evie’s underwear?” I ask. “I found them in the woods. Is that in someone’s report?”
She hesitates, her silence deafening.
“They were never tested,” I guess, already knowing the answer.
“They were never found,” she corrects me.
My mouth trembles with irritation as I fume. Don’t cuss her out just yet, she’s new here, she’s late to the shit show known as Tate Garrison and his goon squad.
“Small department, small budget, a lot of disorganization…homicides are rare…” Moreau rattles off the usual vague excuses of someone attempting to remain professional, trying to give the benefit of the doubt even though she already knows what kind of bullshit she’s stepped into.
“You say disorganized, I say a cover-up,” I retort, not having any of it.
“Colson,” her voice softens, but still sounds resolute, “this case is solvable. And it should’ve been solved in a matter of weeks, not years. So, give me your statement again, from the beginning.”
So, that’s what I do. Because I’m a patient man. I should be. I’ve had to do a lot of waiting to get what I want, and eventually, I always do.
They say patience is a virtue, but I doubt many people would look at me, watching and lying in wait under the cover of darkness, and consider me virtuous. Maybe if they knew why, they might change their minds.
●●●
The earth always balances itself out. It never forgives, it never forgets, and it has no respect for the wanton destruction inflicted by humans. And neither do I.
Now, I sit far back behind the tree line, watching Brett inside our house through the scope on my rifle and the camera feed on my phone. I’ve been up here for three days, watching her come and go, sit in her office and work, talk on the phone, and live her life. Alex is long gone back down the mountain after mounting the rest of the cameras and making sure I’m otherwise invisible.
It’s almost like it was when I came back to the lower 48 and found her again, except now it’s my house she lives in, my bed she sleeps in, and—just like I said—my baby that grows in her belly. It nearly killed me to leave her this time because I told her I never would again.
But my girl is fucking stubborn as hell. And she knows I love a good hunt.
Brett’s blind now, thanks to Bowen cutting the wire out by the road. But I can still see what’s going on inside the house from the cameras placed throughout the inside and the ones affixed to trees around the property. They’re not on the same connection as the original ones.
But even with the cameras, I couldn’t get a shot off at the front door, just like I couldn’t get a shot off at the bedroom. Bowen’s smart, whether he knows it or not, putting himself right in front of Brett each time he approaches the house. You don’t fire on a target with your woman standing right on the other side of it.
The first time, he only walked into the grove of pines right outside the kitchen before backing off and retreating into the forest. The second time, at night, I stood no more than 50 yards from him in the front yard, watching him creep up the front steps. I waited with him in my sights at the front door, for her to put Sodapop outside because that’s what she does every night. Bowen stood, completely still, holding the doorknob for over 30 minutes as he waited to hear the deadbolt unlock. But it never did.
I waited for the door to move, whether it was from her or him, so I could take my shot and end his pathetic life. But last night, it was just not meant to be. Instead, he slunk back into the trees and chain-smoked the rest of the night. That’s how I usually know he’s nearby, from the sickly stench of Marlboro Lights somewhere in the vicinity.
There’s only room for one irreverent asshole on this mountain.
But this morning is much more exciting. I never need an alarm when I’m sleeping in the woods. The forest wakes you up along with everything else as soon as the sun begins to rise. I stroll back down the mountain with Bowen, only he doesn’t know it since he’s coming from the south and I’m coming from the west. But we arrive at the tree line at about the same time.
He crosses the yard like he lives here and I watch him post up in front of the sliding glass door outside our bedroom, playing statue for two fucking hours. He watches Brett sleep, much like I do from the feed on my phone, while I keep my sights on him.
At one point, she starts jerking around in the bed like she’s having a nightmare and I hope to God she doesn’t jump up and start trying to smash her way out of the room again. She hasn’t had any nightmares for a while, so it would be extremely ill-timed for her brain to freak out now…
Fortunately, Brett calms down and stays asleep for another 10 minutes or so. As soon as she stirs and I see her start to get out of bed, I prepare for a shit show. But, to my utter shock, I don’t hear any screams, shots, or any other noise, for that matter. There’s just silence.
Bowen doesn’t move, still motionless in front of the dark glass. My finger tenses on the trigger when he reaches for the door handle and tries to open it without success. Brett’s going to ream me out for that one. She hates sliding glass doors—because of me—and I’ve been telling her I’ll turn that one into a big picture window instead. But before I could, things…got busy.
I mutter more than a few curses when I see the faint outline of Brett’s body appear in the glass. She stands just on the other side, mere inches from him, staring in silence.
I know what she’s doing.
I could’ve just put a bullet through his head while he skulked around the mountain for the past two days or when he walked through the yard in broad daylight, but that’s not part of the plan. As much as I fucking hate it, I have to wait.
Because there can’t be any shadow of a doubt what he’s here for.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
