Endings Linda Richards (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖

dog can’t come. There’s not much fight left in the child. I note this with sadness. I suspect she’d given what fight she had up in the forest. She holds my hand passively as we walk to the reception desk at the emergency entrance.

“Hello,” I say when it is our turn. “This child is Emma Schwartz. Does that name mean anything to you?”

The woman at the desk looks back at me openmouthed. She nods but doesn’t say anything. I don’t mind because, really, there’s nothing I need her to say.

“Good. Then you know she needs an examination on every level. I … I have to go.”

“But you can’t—” In her world, my entire speech has been outlandish. So outlandish, she doesn’t know how to process it. She is sputtering. I feel a little sorry for her. What’s happening here is unprecedented, and stopping to explain will endanger me. I know it’s only a matter of time before she thinks to call the authorities. And then where will I be? “There’s the paperwork,” she says, indicating a clipboard. “The necessary forms …”

I ignore her. Drop down to Emma’s level.

“I’m sorry to leave you, but I have to go …”

“But the paperwork.” This from the desk above us. I ignore it further. Emma just looks at me with her large, pale eyes. She doesn’t say anything, but I see she has calmed considerably since I found her. It seems to me there is a chance she’ll be all right. But what do I know?

“They are going to take super good care of you, Emma. And your parents will be here soon.” I think I can see a gleam of life ignite in her when I say this. I hope so. There are a lot of things to hope for this little girl. The child is breathing. She appears unscathed. I have reason to think that hope is not misplaced.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

AFTER I LEAVE Emma at the hospital, I drive pointlessly for a while. It’s like I have a decision to make but, in truth, I’ve already decided.

I want to head my car east; head my car home. I’m really tired. I want to go back to my forest. I am longing for it now. I want my peace and maybe some lamb stew.

But it isn’t what I must do. That is just as clear.

I’m passing a strip mall and I pull in, park the car. Slump in my seat. Rub my head with my hands.

I’m tired. Just so tired. It’s all beginning to take on the shades of a nightmare that won’t end. The kind where you wake up thankfully, glad it’s over; then fall back to sleep and it’s all still there.

As I sit there, I think the last few hours over. Did I hit him? I felt sure I had. And then, seconds later, I feel equally sure I did not. Whatever the case, I have to calculate my next move carefully. I need to find him. I need to hunt him down. And I need him to know he is hunted. I reason that if he knows he is hunted, he won’t feel comfortable enough to hurt anyone else. That is my hope.

What else to hope? Is he lying there in the forest? Has he bled to death? Has he gotten away? Do I go back there and scour the forest in the vicinity? And, if I do that, might he be speeding on his way? All of these things roiling around and I suddenly feel incapable of making a coherent decision; organizing my next strong move. I am overwrought. Jangly. And I can’t remember the last time I ate. There is a Starbucks across the parking lot, open, even though it’s late.

Inside I choose a cheese Danish and a latte, figuring that the milk will counteract the caffeine. I’m not worried about it keeping me up, anyway. When am I planning to sleep?

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” The voice jolts me. I squint at the speaker. He’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses and his hair is tousled, like a wind is blowing it even though we’re inside and so there is no wind.

“Curtis, right?”

“Yeah. And you’re the writer lady with the weird party habits.”

I feel myself color slightly at the memory of running into him at Walmart, but I don’t actually feel offended. His tone is genuine and warm and, certainly, the combination of things I was buying was weird. I don’t tell him that though.

“Weird is a bit of a judgment, wouldn’t you say?”

He laughs and you can tell that comes easily for him: laughter. Warmth. For a second. I envy him that. What must that feel like? The ability to put back your head and just laugh.

“Okay. Fair enough. Weird is a bit strong. Someday you’ll have to tell me, though.”

And I nod, because that’s polite. But I can’t imagine the future that has me telling him that.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Getting coffee,” he says, deadpan.

“Shaddup. You know what I mean. I would have thought you’d be back in L.A. by now.”

“I am,” he says. “I mean, I was. I’ve just flown in. Meeting my crew here. We got a tip. He’s at Morning Bay.”

A beat. And then, “He’s not,” I say with confidence.

“He’s not?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“If I tell you, is there some kind of ethical rule that keeps you from telling people how you found out?”

He regards me evenly before he answers. I can see him wondering what the author lady might be sitting on. But then the weird stuff at Walmart. He’s not quite sure what he’s dealing with.

“Sure. If you tell me stuff no one knows that can lead to a story, you’re a source. You can tell me anything and I won’t tell.”

“Like with a doctor?”

He grins his deeply charming crooked grin.

“Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”

I look him over. Up and down. Is there any chance in hell he’s going to believe me? And, really, what part