CHAPTER EIGHTY
Colson
Present
Brett will tell you she looks rough, that the morning sickness drained the life from her and she struggles for the energy she used to have. And maybe she does feel rough, but it won’t last.
She looks even better, if that’s possible. I don’t know what she’s complaining about. It’s like every curve she had before she got pregnant got more pronounced and any extra weight she gains goes straight to her tits and ass. It takes all I have not to tell her to shut the hell up, but I won’t minimize her feelings, because I’m the one she confides in, and it’s going to stay that way.
She’s changed a lot over the last year, like how she doesn’t avoid her problems anymore. Part of it came from spending two hours a week in a therapist’s office, but I think the other part came from becoming a mom. There’s also the fact that she can’t avoid me anymore, either.
I’ve changed, too. It’s hard not to when I’ve also had to spend two hours a week with a shrink. It wasn’t voluntary, at least in the traditional sense. It was a promise I made to Barrett, of all people—under duress.
“As soon as you get to Colorado, you have to go see him. Promise me, Colson.”
I don’t forget when people come through for me, and Barrett’s one of those people. She could’ve turned her back and chosen not to get involved with Bowen’s shit show, especially after he turned Brett against her, but she didn’t. She put herself in harm’s way and confronted his ire without a second thought. And she has no problem confronting me in the same way.
“If you don’t deal with your past, you’re going to hurt her again. You may not beat her up in your sleep like last time, but it’ll be just as bad. ”
Barrett also knows what the hell she’s talking about.
So, for her and Brett, I’ll sit on a couch and tell a stranger about all the fucked-up shit in my life and listen to him pick apart my issues. She went to all the trouble after all, and from all the way across the country.
But Mark Holloway’s not a bad guy. I don’t know what kind of shit he’s heard before, but he doesn’t seem fazed by my depraved mind. That, or he has a really good poker face. When I tell him my thoughts on the human condition and what I’m willing to do to people who brutalize others, especially mine, the look in his eyes tells me that he’s been through some shit, too.
I don’t forgive, and I don’t forget. Humans are no different from wild animals aside from our propensity to derive pleasure from the senseless pain of others. So, it’s not so much that I’ve changed as it is that Holloway provides me with the insight as to why I do what I do. Not that I need any reasons, but with insight comes enlightenment, and with enlightenment comes innovation. And innovation comes in handy when plans need to change.
My original plan went out the window as soon as I saw Brett bust out that window and barrel-roll out onto Bowen’s front lawn. No matter how meticulously planned, it didn’t matter anymore. Variables have a way of doing that. After that, all that mattered was getting Brett as far away from Bowen as possible.
I started building this house before I uttered one word to Brett in Wolfsson’s parking lot. By then, it was nearly half finished and all I needed to do was remind her where she belonged. And, slowly but surely, she was remembering. But, again, variables…
Fortunately, I’m a patient man.
I’ve spent years living in and out of the wilderness and weeks living in the Arctic in below zero temps, staring across vast spans of white snow and ice watching for an apex predator designed and evolved to blend in with said environment. So, waiting in the forest, watching Bowen Garrison slink around my property at night really takes me back to the good old days. It’s like a fucking hit of cocaine, and the euphoria will hit as soon as my bullet explodes through his skull.
Ultimately, he’s just another nuisance predator to dispatch, like a cougar or coyote who gets too close to the chickens. And, just like them, he can’t be allowed to leave this property alive.
But it takes patience; to draw him out, to get him here in front of me, and to wait for the right shot. Just like it took eight years of patience to get a phone call from someone who introduced herself as Agent Tammy Moreau from the FBI.
●● ●
I was on my way home after work, driving up the snowy mountain, when she informed me that she’d been reassigned to Evie’s cold case.
Cold case. Bullshit.
Our parents contacted the FBI a couple of years after there hadn’t been any movement by local law enforcement—big surprise. Still, even with them calling regularly for updates and then me calling to bother them, things seemed to be at a stand-still.
I contacted them again after Bowen’s hissy fit last summer, this time even doing some of their job for them and sending them a few gifts, compliments of me, Brett…and Dallas.
And now Tammy Moreau sounds interested, which is a night and day difference from how it’s been up until now.
“I just went through the whole file,” she exhales a long, weary breath, “and, frankly, I’m trying to wrap my mind around all of it. I just reviewed the video statement from Brett Sorensen, the letter from Emily Fox, the texts on Brett’s phone, and the…” there’s an awkward pause, “other video you sent the field office.”
Yeah, I still had Bowen’s in-house sex tape. I only watched it once, on the night Bowen sent it. Otherwise, it’s been sitting in the cloud for close to a decade. It would’ve died with me, but Brett convinced me I had to turn it over to them along with everything else, decency be damned. It’s the only proof that exists where Bowen acknowledges Evie as his girlfriend…or whatever.
“I have to give it to you, though,” Moreau’s voice rises, “the lengths you went to preserve that strand of hair was impressive.”
Oh yeah, Evie’s hacked-off hair that was twisted in Brett’s pants. I grit my teeth; for some reason that part is just as bad as the moment I found Evie inside that galvanized pipe.
I push it out of my head for now and move on, “Have you spoken to Tate Garrison?”
“Yes,” her voice goes flat.
“How far’d that get you?” I scoff, knowing exactly how far it got her.
“About as far as dialing his number.”
Typical.
“So,” she takes a breath, “where does Bowen Garrison come into all of this?”
“What?” I deadpan.
There’s a long pause before she responds, “There’s no Bowen anywhere in your statement.”
“Are you—” I purse my lips and jerk the wheel of my truck in frustration, the tires pulling at the sharp curve, “are you kidding me? My entire statement was about Bowen. ”
“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.