14. Carsyn
FOURTEEN
CARSYN
“Three goddamn weeks!” I shout, pulling at the ends of my hair the same way a cartoon character does when they’re spinning out. That’s what I’ve been gaslit and reduced to—a crazy caricature, a fucking joke. “What the fuck are we going to do?”
Nash tracks me as I pace the length of the kitchen, wearing down the already worn hardwood. He looks like shit; his facial hair untrimmed since he’s been here, hair long and tousled, likely uncombed, his clothes wrinkled, deep pockets of darkness beneath his eyes.
It’s clear that Nash has been my brother’s friend and companion the last ten years, because the last few weeks have been tearing him apart as much as they have me.
“I don’t know,” he sighs, closing his eyes as he leans into the old wooden chair, bringing his second cup of coffee to his lips. “I think we call the police again.”
My feet stop, and my hands come to my hips as I stare out the window over the kitchen sink. Autumn is ending as winter creeps in, blades of grass in the pasture a bit more rigid, the tips icy. The morning sun is sheltered behind a wall of gauzy clouds, and the sky bears a gray tone that makes my eyes sting with unshed tears. A bird lands on the feeder on the porch, only to steal a single peck of feed and fly away.
“Okay,” I agree, because I don’t know what else to do.
The morning Colton left, we knew this was a possibility. We knew something bad could happen. Colton and I decided that if we were right, whatever happened between the Conways and the Becketts, it would be handled by us, and it would come with risk. Risk we accepted.
But as the two-week mark bleeds into three, I wonder if we made a mistake. I went ten years without my brother, the difference being I knew he was alive and well. Now his absence roils my insides, makes me sick and unable to rest. I’ve been pacing for weeks.
When evening rolled around that first day, we phoned the Buffalo Trails sheriff’s department. They told us they couldn’t do anything until forty-eight hours had passed. And though I made sure they knew the hypocrisy of not searching for the first forty-eight hours when statistics had proven that the first forty-eight hours are indeed the most crucial, the sheriff’s deputy didn’t give a good god damn.
We called the very next day, and the day after that, and every goddamn day that has passed where the sun has risen and set, only to be told the same thing: “Colton Beckett? Wasn’t he the boy who ran off years ago? Probably what he did– ran off again.”
I screamed at the ridiculousness of what they were saying—that because Colton left at age seventeen, he’d somehow forever be a man who runs away from shit? It made no sense. After all, he’d come back to Buffalo Trails to help me.
The extent of Forrest Conway’s dirty influence spans far beyond what I could have ever realized. There’s a difference between being the dirty loan shark rancher and being a man who holds something so critical and powerful over an entire police department to the point that they no longer protect our town, but rather the man that pays them off.
I managed to stay relatively calm the first couple weeks, telling myself he wasn’t dead. I think both Nash and I were convinced, in fact, that Colton was alive. Potentially being held, even. But now, as week three approaches, my calm is dissipating, leaving behind the fear I’ve been hiding.
Three weeks without so much as a peep.
His horse, Murphy, hasn’t been seen, either.
Nash and I rode around the Conway property at least twenty times in the dead of night, listening, watching, just… looking. We’ve never seen anyone but Forrest Conway leave that house. If my brother is in there, I hate to think what’s keeping him quiet.
I glance over at Nash who has the phone to his ear, the line ringing between us in the silent house.
A man’s voice sounds off on the other line, and Nash waits respectfully for his turn before saying, “It’s Nash Huxley calling regarding Colton Beckett’s disappearance.”
I tap my foot, pulse racing, heart thumping wildly behind my ribs, my body no longer able to hold on. On to what? Reality? Patience? I don’t know. But if I have to go another day looking for my brother without any help from this godforsaken town, I’m going to snap.
Suddenly Nash is on his feet, coffee sloshing out of his cup onto the table as he hastily puts it down. “Yes, yes, I’m here,” he says, crossing the kitchen to be at my side.
He lowers the phone and taps the speaker button, a man’s voice coming through muffled and quiet, but there.
“I’m gonna meet you at the horse barn on the northeast corner of the Beckett property in two hours. Can you both be out there? Carsyn, too?”
“Yes, we will be there,” Nash agrees without conditions, and I would’ve too. He pauses, casting me a glance, concern heavy in his tired eyes.
The call ends, and neither of us know what to say. We stare at each other, searching for words, both of us likely running down the list of possibilities in our minds.
This could be a setup. After all, if Forrest has Buffalo Trails’s sheriffs in his pocket, and my brother discovered something he shouldn’t have at the estate, maybe we’re a secondary cleanup effort.
I don’t know.
“Do you think…” I start, trailing off, because the idea is somehow so ridiculous to say aloud, but also, so very possible, too.
“I don’t know,” he says, still staring at the dead phone as if it may produce answers.
His dark eyes come to mine, full of hope and fear. I’m probably mirroring the same expression.
“But we have to go. We have to try to get him back and if…” He pauses, clearly trying to avoid saying if we survive this. “If this isn’t successful, we go to the FBI.”
I think about what Nash said as I’m in my bedroom, braiding my hair to get it out of my face. I don’t know why I didn’t think of contacting the FBI before now. How does one even do that, I wonder, as I slide my mother’s wedding ring onto my finger. I always wear her ring when I need good luck, and if there’s ever a time, today’s it.
After I slip into my favorite ostrich and cowhide boots and put on my warmest coat, I slip out of the house, through the mudroom and wraparound porch, and into the cool, damp pasture. The grass swishes at my ankles, darkening my boots with its dew. Nash is near the feed barn, where my father always kept his weapons. I told Colton this before he left, and he’d procured a few weapons before he headed to Forrest’s.
“What are you good with?” I ask Nash as I fumble with the key to unlock the barn.
He adjusts his hat on his head, reaching out with his gloved hand to hold the padlock steady.
“I can shoot anything with a trigger,” he says flatly, no bravado or brag, only fact.
“I’ve got some choices,” I tell him as the wooden door swings open.
We step inside and Nash quickly closes and latches the door behind us, sealing us in. Our breaths puff out unsteadily, hanging between us, heavy with the words we’re too scared to admit.
After a moment, he crosses the small space and begins to uncover the wooden box of artillery, hidden right where I’d told Colton three weeks ago.
“I can’t believe it’s been three weeks,” I say aloud, surprising us both. I’m good at keeping my emotional reactions tamped down, at hiding my soft side. Raised by two men, that’ll happen to you.
Nash, with a furniture blanket balled up on one hand and a handgun in his other, twists his head, blinking at me. “We’ll get him back,” he says, the words meant to assure me, but the fact that unease is scattered along his features has me unconvinced.
But I nod, and climb onto the bale of hay next to him, and join in the hunt to find a few concealable pieces for our venture.
After we each have a gun at our ankle and tailbone, Nash having one in his pocket, too, we lock up the barn and begin our quiet walk across the property, to the horse barn.
The last three weeks have been spent analyzing and strategizing. We’ve been through every single piece of paperwork my father ever received–twice. We even called a local lawyer to come help us make sense of some of the papers bearing both Forrest’s and my father Levi’s signature on them.
We learned a lot. Most of it bad. And had we learned these things beforehand, I’m not so sure Colton would’ve rode over there like some sort of heroic Carmen Sandiego.
In that time, though, I never did ask Nash too much about himself, apart from where he’s from (Texas) and what he likes (beer).
I place my hat on my head as we dig into the stretch of land before us, slowly nearing the horse barn.
“You and Colton lived together, hmm?” I ask, recalling what Colton had said before.
I can’t much picture Colton and Nash sharing an apartment, but that’s only because the only future I ever saw for my older brother included Kinleigh Conway, the girl he’s loved for as long as I can remember.
She broke his heart, that’s why he left here. He couldn’t stand to live where their happiness died. I get that now, but as a girl, I didn’t. I hated him and Kinleigh both, and pretty much everyone for the year that came after his departure.
“Yeah,” Nash says, a little out of breath from the long walk through the wet field. “We ranched cattle on a commercial farm together,” he says, a puff of white jutting out in front of him. “Ten years.”
I nod, grateful we’re getting closer.
“I know he’s your actual brother, but he’s my brother, too,” Nash says out of the blue as we approach the back of the barn.
There’s a horse there, and the door is cracked.
“Just one?” he questions quietly as we pass just the one horse.
I suppose the horse could have two riders, but even then, it seems like both of us expected more. Nash rests his hand on his gun, and steps inside, with me hot on his heels. Nerves attempt to strangle my ability to speak, but I fight them, knowing that this moment will be tenfold worse if I panic.
A young man stands there, his hands already in the air, his stance vulnerable. He’s dressed head to toe in the Buffalo Trails Sheriff’s Department uniform, and on his rectangular breastplate is “L. DAVIS.”
“I’m Liam Davis, I am employed by Buffalo Trails Sheriff’s Department. I’m a deputy. I spoke with you on the phone. I want to help.”
My nostrils flare as I step next to Nash, whose gun is raised, sights set on Officer Davis.
“It’s funny that while wearing that uniform you still have to come in here and explain yourself,” Nash says, nodding the gun at the officer’s pocket. “Says a lot about your organization, hm? Get your ID out. Now.”
Officer Davis reaches into his back pocket slowly, retrieving his wallet. He tosses it to me. I flip it open and find his state of Wyoming driver’s license. LIAM DAVIS. The tiny photo in the corner indeed matches the cold, somewhat frightened man in front of us.
I nod to Nash, who lowers his gun, but not quickly.
The officer looks between us. “You’re both his siblings?”
I shake my head. “I’m his sister,” I say while slipping my hand into his. We shake, and I like that his grip is firm and his eyes hold mine. He gives me hope. “This is my brother’s friend.”
Nash shakes Liam’s hand, and then, he gets into it, wasting no time.
“You weren’t wrong, you know, what you just said,” Liam starts, his eyes veering between the two of us, unsure of where to settle his focus. “The sheriff's office is dirty, and has been for a long while.”
Nash runs his tongue over his teeth. “Clearly.”
“And you’re the one good guy? Huh? We’re supposed to believe that?” My eyes narrow as I search his.
I’m usually a great truth detector. His expressive blue eyes fill with discontent, panic even.
“What— How do you think—” His brow furrows but he takes another stab. “You think I’m lying?”
I shrug. “Maybe. You could be their mole. Gonna report back.”
Liam blinks a few times, looking to Nash who provides nothing with his stony exterior.
With his attention back on me, he speaks slowly, his tone quiet, non-threatening. “There’s nothing to report back. The sheriff’s department cannot help you. They cannot and will not. It doesn’t matter what I’d learn here. They don’t care. They can’t.”
“I don’t understand,” I reply, until I look at Nash and find the answer written all over his face. “They’re never gonna help us?”
Nash reaches out, gripping my shoulder affectionately. “Carsyn, it’s been three weeks.”
What he means is, nothing’s changed. Help was never going to come. I suppose knowing it in stone makes it harder to digest.
Liam speaks again.“I’ll help you find Colton. But you have to know, the rest of the force is a no-fly zone. They’re in his pocket.”
The way he keeps his voice low, the way his eyes scan the barn, despite the fact we’re out in the middle of the pasture around no one but God makes me nervous.
“ Whose pocket?” Nash asks, despite us both knowing that answer.
Liam gives him a look like he’s just said he’s never seen a rainbow or tasted chocolate. “Forrest Conway.”